Boom

Macho Cheese

This entry is the result of an odd mix of events: I've been reading a sweet memoir about birding, the printed blog of Mimi Smartypants, a centuries-old Italian advice book called The Book of the Courtier and a lot of online stuff about Latin American culture. I also just spent four days sharing an apartment with two other hetero couples (they didn't overlap, so it was actually two days with each couple). The night before we left on our Seafair Avoidance Weekend, I had a houseful of geek boys, drinking beer and playing Dungeons and Dragons, which morphed into drinking beer and talking about The Future.

The result of all this has mainly been thinking about the boys I know, and trying to put them in some kind of historical context. Before the industrial revolution, men were pretty femmy; the upperclasses were fully expected to write poetry, sing insanely tragic romantic songs to their beloved, dress in bright colors, wear perfume and behave under tight societal restrictions when it came to basic manners and daily habits. Poor men, while expected to perform the lowerclass/manly stuff like gutting fish and trapping bunnies and ploughing land, were fussy about the wine they drank, hugged frequently, sang and danced with each other on all social occasions and put tremendous amounts of effort into beautifying public spaces. Then everything got all industrialized and personal value was tied to net income, which led to unpleasant sexism and a multigenerational trend for men to be really boring and repressed.

Now, the guys I know have become post-industrial. I can have conversations with them about fashion and literature that are awfully similar to the ones I have with girls. They care about style, and they hug and sing, and dear lord, might even write poetry although I hope the vast majority never share it with me. Most of them are reasonably happy with their jobs, but net income is by no means their primary method for determining happiness. Granted, most of them would sell out to the highest bidder in a heartbeat, but they're quite aware that selling out is exactly what they'd be doing and don't feel the need to gloss it over. Sweetie does seem to be the only one who genuinely knows his way around a tool box, but since I fix everything with just a hammer and a roll of duct tape, maybe in my own ignorance I underestimate the skills of the non-Sweeties.

I'm not talking about the word "metrosexual", because that word is basically the modern term for "dandy" or--even better--"macaroni" (yes, as in "stuck a feather in his cap and called it macaroni"). Metrosexual is, from what I've read, about fashion sense. Fancy shoes and styley shirts aside, I think what I see is more a result of this slow, painful shift to a post-industrial world. I think it's neat that the fellows I know are so vastly different from the men I read about as literary characters from the 20s to the 80s. They seem to have changed less on the way from boyhood to manhood than the two previous generations, without being immature jerks (even if I have seen one use pretend anti-girl-germ spray recently). Maybe the boring suit-n-tie-short-back-and-sides guy was really the result of Henry Ford's assembly line, and now that those lines are gone (at least in the US), that guy will fade away, too.

I kind of expect a lot of comments on this that include fart jokes and sugartits remarks. Maybe instead of that you should go buy a pair of shoes and sip a mocha frappacino. If you write a poem, keep it to yourself.

Oo-ooh, That Smell

Since Saturday afternoon, whenever a breeze wafts up the hill from downtown, it brings a stink. It's a distinctly methane-sewer sort of stink. I have googled every which way I can think of to learn the source of said stink, and what might be happening to remove it, and have only learned that sometimes, for unclear reasons, Seattle manhole covers will release the smell of untreated sewage. And once, a couple of years ago, a stink removal unit up in Lake City stopped functioning. It's not just around our building, as a few people have mentioned noticing it at work or other downtown spots. Dear City: Please fix the stink.

Through some unrelated reading this week (oh hurrah for life's little coincidences), I learned about London's Great Stink of 1858. I'm sure today's news would name such an occurence "the stink of the century" or "stinkgate" or some other dumb, overused headline. I much prefer the simple elegance of The Great Stink.

Good / Bad

I'm sure GM is happy about all the press they're getting today. On one hand, they've announced a gas subsidy for a few models of SUV sold in CA and FL. (the math sample uses an illustration of driving 1k miles/month. Good heavens, people. Stop.) On the slightly better hand, GM also announced improvements on 2007 models that will help mileage (in exchange for having an engine that makes little cartoon putt-putt noises).

In other news, our oh-so-brilliant house of representatives has voted once again to open drilling in the ANWR. Estimates on the total amount of available oil range from 3 billion barrels to 11 billion gallons. The US currently uses slightly over 20 million barrels per day. Part of that is apparently your fault, you 1k mile/month driver, you. Start here.Smart Cars are adorable, and Sweetie and I have seen them all over the place in hipper-than-Seattle neighbor, Vancouver BC, so by driving one you too can be hipper than Seattle. Or whatever: get a biodiesel. Or grow wings. With wings, you can fly directly to my balcony, where I will stuff you full of high-sugar fuel for your flapping engine.

Anyway, I am looking forward to the day when gas hits $10/gallon and our complacent little world implodes. I'm sure there'll be gas riots, much like the bread and tea riots (add beer, brothel, potatoes, vagrant children, poor working conditions, trade imbalances and the ever-popular race as additional fun riot causes). Riots are scary, but they do have a way of getting things to change.

Not Very Many Points of Light

1. Contrary to all my blathering about the exact opposite belief in the past, making cookies with salted butter is a good idea, especially if they are chocolate chip cookies. Salt + chocolate = tasty.

2. Along with tornadoes, lightning storms and floods, the South should be worried about earthquakes. Great. It's not so much the apocalypse as it is time to secede; apparently the one in Missouri in 1811 destroyed multiple towns, changed the course of the Mississippi and shot lava into the air. They should change the standard school history curriculum to focus on weather instead of war.

3. Although vanilla beans were used as tributes to the Aztec kings and gods, jesus wants you to have some at a special bargain price. I just ordered a half gallon of my favorite Mexican vanilla and got an easter (who was, of course, a pre-christian fertility/dawn Saxon goddess) deal for 15% by caving in to entering "eastsun06" at checkout. I feel 100% multicultural, just by making an internet purchase.

4. I just read that is not officially clear whether Elvis drank beer or not. He may have been a rum-n-coke man, or he may have been (weirdly) a nice Baptist who didn't hold with drinkin', or he may have started drinking beer during his time in the military. If you would like to tell me what you know, thanks to your vast knowledge of Elvis's life, please do so.

5. I get crazy ideas sometimes, and one that pops up frequently is the idea that since my back already hurts, whatever I do can't make it hurt worse. (I'm not alone in this, see examples like "already full, might as well have dessert", or "already in debt, might as well go shopping" or "Bush is already president, might as well reelect him" or "already live in a flood plain, might as well put in a basement".) I once again proved that this crazy idea is particularly dumb as I spent chunks of the last two days ripping out tile in the shower while standing on something not meant to be used as a stepladder. I even made a point of taking frequent breaks and paying attention to posture while doing this, like somehow it's possible to not tweak your baby-kitten back while prying firmly glued bits of ceramics off the part of the wall next to the ceiling. So I hurt and I don't deserve your sympathy. But the tile's gone, so I'm done. (A justification like "but I like chocolate cake" or "I need cute new shoes for a job interview" or "I trust him on homeland security" or "I need a safe place to put my stuff".)

Sharks and Nuggets

I was looking for a photo of the robotic carp and--along with that fine photo in the link--learned about a newly "discovered" shark species. Note the dapper white-tipped fins. Considering it took me more than a year to positively identify the species and gender of two common hummingbirds I saw multiple times a day on every day, I'm horrendously impressed by people who identify a new species, whether it's a grilled-n-skewered Laotian rock rat or that pack of slime-mold beetles that were just named after Bushie, Cheney and Rummy. I doubt I would be able to positively identify that robot fish as a robot, if I happened to see it tootling around in the ocean. Note the giant robot eyes, and the fake robot scales, and how carp don't actually live around here! Looks like a regular fish to me!

The man known as the inventor of the chicken nugget has died. It seems disingenuous to call someone the inventor of something that--with slight variations--has been around for centuries: batter-coated patties of "delicate" meats (chicken, veal and pork) aren't new, and they have always been tiny, tender and tasty, although not always served with four kinds of sauce to use especially for dippin'. I expect it says something about our weirdo modern world that a man who invents a method for mass-producing miniature ground-up chicken patties gets more (and, sadly, deserves more) credit for affecting lives than the fellows identifying new species or making robot fish.

In other news, June of 2006 is supposedly the 250th anniversary of the invention of mayonnaise--not the Hellman's you know, but the tasty stuff made with raw egg yolks and good oil. (skip the sugar; use at least half olive oil and dare to use rice vinegar instead of fresh lemon juice only if you want me to come hunt you down and kick you.) Did the credited chef just leave out garlic from aioli and claim credit, or was aioli actually eggless in 1756? Do you know? Where is my time machine? (My researching experience is that when everyone claims a particular foodstuff was invented by a particular person more than about 50 years ago, everyone is wrong, but it's not worth it to me at the moment to spend an hour or two poking around my books. So whatever: happy 250th, mayonnaise. Perhaps I will know differently by June, but we can pretend for now.)

Democracy Rocks

What happens in South Africa stays in South Africa. Please note "When we got democracy people realised this is what they want to do," referring to explosive growth in strip clubs and gambling.

What happens with the Palestinians is highly unlikely to stay in any one place, what with pretty much any country that matters weighing in with variations of "we'll work with any government other than the one y'all just elected". Sometimes governments created by former terrorists turn out to be pretty good things (the good ol' USA, for example, was pretty good right up to Madison, or maybe Tyler.) Sometimes, governments created by former terrorists are heinous (the French of 1793-1794, where ~40k people were killed in one year, springs to mind).

The point is that it's not always easy to tell which is pretty good and which is heinous right at first. Is building a nation on middle class gambling and strip clubs particularly worth celebrating? (especially, hello, with the HIV/AIDS estimates; I'll believe strippers are entirely look/don't touch when women around the world have the same median income as men around the world.) Is it possible that a goverment who wants to see the demise of their occupying nation an inherently bad thing? The neat thing is that they both leave it up, to some degree, to the people that put 'em in office. Make enough noise and, hopefully, you'll get the government you want (and in some cases, hello much of the US, the one you deserve).

Which brings me to this. Tim Eyman, that fucker, is at it again, this time putting a civil rights bill to voters. Normally I would say "voters are historically not the ones to pass civil rights rulings", but I hold out a ray of hope as a resident of the mighty King County. In the meantime, throw some time and/or money at Equal Rights Washington ($35/year to join and get your fill of newsletters, or fill out the somewhat lengthy form for a single online payment).

The Showdown

I might have succeeded in shooing the squirrel away permanently, without the use of a BB gun. A little bit of housemade critter repellent (the pros use a mix of vegetable oil, hot mustard seed, hot peppers and water) and a lot of paranoia versus a tiny pea-brained rodent with more persistence than sense--who do you put your money on? Yeah, me too--but a girl can dream.

Sweetie and I have continued watching Deadwood. It's nice to have Hickok's life out of the way, although he was our favorite. I'm glad they've defined "dope" as being "opium to smoke", and the last episode only had one side "only whores wore those stripey stockings" comment. I'm really happy that EB is coming into his own as an Iago-style baddie, and the sinister-thoughtful monologues are making up for a number of minor historical annoyances, at least on the last disk.

Another reason to break the law. Didn't realize the Mint had this power.
I am switching to loose tea thanks to this shiny little fellow. I have high hopes.
Reserve the weekend of October 1-2 for Skagit Valley's Festival of Family Farms. When wine tastings meet corn mazes meet Boom's Birthday Month, one can predict the outcome. And check out SPF over at that link, too--Skagit farms are worth keeping around.
Biblio and I are getting started on Edible Book Fest, Round 2. Another date to reserve is April 1, 2006, Saturday afternoon. Further details TBA, and this time don't flake. (And this time, look for more comfortable space, more beverages, more parking, and more non-cake entries.)

Welcome to the Cutest Calendar Ever. Hello, Calendar! Hello, freaky haiku! Hello strange and lovely  photos! Hello!

Mistah Paul asked yesterday how I ever enjoy anything. To that I say, fi! And, ha! And lookit this here engagement calendar for 2005/2006! I can't find any images of the inside photos, but I may just scan a few in. You might be able to see on the cover that while Kitty has no mouth, her pet pink poodle does. If anyone knows the equivalent word in Japanese of the dog sound "yap!", I would like to know.

Lately, I have been purchasing a number of things off the ebay, and I realized this morning that the list--an old leather train case, wool cardigans, hemstitched pillowcases--taken as a whole looks like I'm readying to See The World via time machine. All I need now is a raccoon coat, a brown-skinned maid, a large number of insane hats, an endless supply of martinis and a small terrier and Sweetie and I can zip off to live as Mr. and Mrs. Charles. Which would be another thing I would enjoy--we're the stylish, drunk millionaire mystery solvers of the new century!

Back in what they call "reality", the hummingbird seems to like the new feeder with the perch. Perhaps now she'll get all fat, from not burning up those extra six million calories while sipping sugar water. Instead of feeling visited by an alien, now it feels like a friend stops by for a beer.

And back in what they call "reality television", there is now a new version of "Battle of the Network Stars" (read the highlights on the list for a stroll down old person's memory lane), called "Battle of the Reality Television Stars". There is clearly much less cocaine on this set than there was back in the 70s/early 80s. Speedos, however, are just as ridiculous. And listening to the current "careers" of reality show has-beens, as they're being interviewed by young women from other reality shows is magnificent. Remember the evil guy's quote from The Incredibles, about how if everyone is special than no one is special? I look forward to everyone being famous, so no one is famous. We're clearly getting close.

Cruisin

Last night, we had a Crazy Lady in our neighborhood. Not that we don't always have a Crazy Person of Some Variety around here--this is Capitol Hill. This un, though--skeletal woman in sexily shredded camo, driving a shiny red hummer with a large orange tabby cat (yes, a real cat) perched on the dash, loudly rocking out to 80s chick rock (if Pat Benatar qualifies as chick rock). She seemed to be driving around in circles--clearly not just looking for parking, clearly not very happy. Team Knitty had some fun making up backstory for her. Stalking lover? Left husband with, "I'm taking the cat and I'm out of here! You keep your whores!" Other people's lives always look more interesting from a distance.
Up close, there's mostly just the options of dramatically predictable or boringly predictable. That likely sounds pissier than I mean, but everyone has trauma and heartbreak and everyone has a Dark Secret and everyone juggles money and responsibility and dreams and time and allergies. Not all of us have shredded camo and a red hummer and a giant orange tabby to accessorize with. Maybe God is in the details because the big picture is just so unendingly the same.

On a wildly different note: let's talk about Deadwood. (Or rather, let's watch me writing about Deadwood.) Yes, it's clearly like "Shakespeare with cocksucker" (I'm not sure who to credit for that quote, but it's right down to the clown's intro monologues.) -- and yes, the third and fourth episodes are certainly more compelling than numbers one and two. But it's tough watching an historical series without getting caught up in details that distract from the plot, like answering all of Sweetie's questions about the history of the Pinkertons and debating whether the streets of South Dakota in the summer would've been muddy as shown or actually dry as dust. (Did slops and horse piss actually make deep trenches of mud? Seems doubtful, but looks good.) And what's the deal with the "dope" the Evil Brothel Owner is selling? Morphine, I guess, since heroin wasn't around for another 20 years. And what's up with what appears to be insta-smallpox? Where's the multiple days of rash before the big ol' nasty pustules? And when you know the facts of Mr. Hickok's murder and subsequent legal actions, it does take some of the suspense out of that story. I am happy to see Bullock swinging back to lawful neutral rather than LG, and I'm glad that there are now signs of female characters that won't be diseased, pregnant junkie whores or junkie rich ladies or scarred, spastic childless gunslingers made all Tender by the presense of Blond Innocence. At least the new whores seem to be free of disease and habits. One more two-episode disk? I guess so. But I think I want more than television is prepared to offer in this case.

GABA GABA Hey!

Hurrah for the Lunesta, hurrah for the new GABA boss! Who knew what the Ramones were really talking about? (My bets are on DeeDee, poor ol' junkie.) I drifted off to sleep like the best lil' sleeper in texas, starring Dolly Parton and, um, me. The annoying bit in the new-pill process: copays for drugs are sometimes frustrating. 30 pills would have cost me $40, which is pricey, but worth it. Because there's a fill-in doctor right now, or perhaps because this is sleeping pill #3 in three weeks, the prescription was only for 10 pills. Those 10 came in at about $35; considerably more jacked than a full month's supply. The new Bartell receipts have this funny little section that says, "without insurance, this prescription would have been X" (in this case, X was about $53 bucks.) I think the "lookit the money I saved!" thing is a little weird, and would like to know what the receipts look like for people without insurance. (dear god: a month supply of sleep would be about $160. I do believe I would choose insomnia at that price.)

There will be more regarding scones (first note: it rhymes with "gone", not "bone") in the coming while. I have an ideal scone in my head, and it's dying to get out. Rich, a little cakey, with tiny bits of dried apricot and lemon zest, that pretty-but-pain-in-the-ass egg wash.

And because I think you'll all be surprised, here's an extraneous British tidbit I learned recently: "Fanny" apparently is slang "vulva" in Britain, hence the deep offense taken in the word. I would like to know which came first--the actresses and prostitutes named Fanny, or the slang.