1. Apples and peanut butter
2. White balsamic vinegar
3. Falafel
Not all together, mind you.
January 29, 2006
January 28, 2006
Matchless
Woody Allen's genius is only apparent (and palatable) to me when he's not in front of the camera, at least in anything he's made since the mid-1990s. In other words, he needs to not be wooing an outrageously young and stunning woman who, in some alternate universe I don't believe in, finds a whiny, narcissistic geriatric attractive. When you lose that side of things, he's one of our finest living directors.
To wit: Match Point. Beautifully shot from first moment to last, like watching a slideshow of intimate photographs taken of people who didn't know you were looking. Everyone is slightly uncomfortable, but given the tangled relationships, that works in the movie's favor. And it's refreshing when Allen decides to use the take where they messed up their lines a little, or somebody stuttered, or there's a silence that goes just beyond an intentionally pregnant pause. It made me feel like all the actors came over to my house and rehearsed in my living room, so I got to know them a little better and see how they tick.
The acting is excellent also: Scarlett Johansson is great in everything, and she's officially cornered the contemporary bombshell market. They didn't blend into a sports comedy, but pretty boy Jonathan Hyphenated's bizarre flared-nose ticks are well-suited to the upwardly mobile cad he plays here. Emily Mortimer is awkwardly charming, and I was happy to see her again after recently discovering her in the quiet, sweet Lovely and Amazing. Everyone else is supremely English, and the total effect is tense, riveting, and perfect.
Plus the movie has a really killer poster.
Bravo, Woody! Now just stay away from our nation's daughters—especially your own—and don't get caught on film with your pants down ever again. Nobody wants to see that.
To wit: Match Point. Beautifully shot from first moment to last, like watching a slideshow of intimate photographs taken of people who didn't know you were looking. Everyone is slightly uncomfortable, but given the tangled relationships, that works in the movie's favor. And it's refreshing when Allen decides to use the take where they messed up their lines a little, or somebody stuttered, or there's a silence that goes just beyond an intentionally pregnant pause. It made me feel like all the actors came over to my house and rehearsed in my living room, so I got to know them a little better and see how they tick.
The acting is excellent also: Scarlett Johansson is great in everything, and she's officially cornered the contemporary bombshell market. They didn't blend into a sports comedy, but pretty boy Jonathan Hyphenated's bizarre flared-nose ticks are well-suited to the upwardly mobile cad he plays here. Emily Mortimer is awkwardly charming, and I was happy to see her again after recently discovering her in the quiet, sweet Lovely and Amazing. Everyone else is supremely English, and the total effect is tense, riveting, and perfect.
Plus the movie has a really killer poster.
Bravo, Woody! Now just stay away from our nation's daughters—especially your own—and don't get caught on film with your pants down ever again. Nobody wants to see that.
January 24, 2006
Whiter shade of pale
I've been home sick the last few days. Blah. I guess the first flu shot I've gotten in years did actually work, since I don't have the flu that's going around. Instead my body opted for general congestion, a headache, coughing, and grumpiness, tossed with a light fever and a balsamic vinaigrette.
Since I don't get sick much, it tends to have three effects:
1. Makes me realize how much energy I have when I'm not sick.
2. Reminds me there's only so much soup I can really be expected to handle.
2. Turns me into an even whiter person, if that's possible.
My English genes lean toward pasty over ruddy, so "rosy-cheeked" has never leapt to mind—but being forced to stay inside all day without much appetite takes pale to a whole new level. I look like a leaky Albino.
But The HMO Man prescribed some good drugs, so it should all be over soon. Then maybe I'll have enough energy to get riled up about the fact that I was at Kaiser Permanente for two hours and spent about six minutes with a doctor.
Naptime first. Then another lovely bowl of soup.
Since I don't get sick much, it tends to have three effects:
1. Makes me realize how much energy I have when I'm not sick.
2. Reminds me there's only so much soup I can really be expected to handle.
2. Turns me into an even whiter person, if that's possible.
My English genes lean toward pasty over ruddy, so "rosy-cheeked" has never leapt to mind—but being forced to stay inside all day without much appetite takes pale to a whole new level. I look like a leaky Albino.
But The HMO Man prescribed some good drugs, so it should all be over soon. Then maybe I'll have enough energy to get riled up about the fact that I was at Kaiser Permanente for two hours and spent about six minutes with a doctor.
Naptime first. Then another lovely bowl of soup.
January 22, 2006
Rawhide
The acquisition parade continues: I have a cowboy hat.
Someone once told me that no matter where you go in a cowboy hat, people will talk to you and things will happen. So far, all I've done in the hat is go to a bookstore and a café.
The bookseller said, "It's nice to see cowboy hats around here," and gave me a discount. The waiter said, "I like your hats. Those are great." (The friend drinking tea with me was wearing a new Panama hat. Neither of us knew where to put our hats on the table. That wisdom must come with time.)
Two for two! I'm not sure how often I'll feel like wearing it around, but I guess I should be ready to chat with the locals when I do.
Someone once told me that no matter where you go in a cowboy hat, people will talk to you and things will happen. So far, all I've done in the hat is go to a bookstore and a café.
The bookseller said, "It's nice to see cowboy hats around here," and gave me a discount. The waiter said, "I like your hats. Those are great." (The friend drinking tea with me was wearing a new Panama hat. Neither of us knew where to put our hats on the table. That wisdom must come with time.)
Two for two! I'm not sure how often I'll feel like wearing it around, but I guess I should be ready to chat with the locals when I do.
January 19, 2006
Codeslinger
From time to time, you might find yourself wondering just what it is I do all day. Edit, yes. But for a software company? What does that mean? Sometimes it means ads. Website content. An invite to an industry event. Or, for a treat, the company holiday card.
But this week . . . oh, this week . . . it means I had to slog through a 69-page white paper about network drivers. Please don't ask what they are. It's enough for you to know that the length of this document was equaled only by its boringness.
It's not the writer's fault, he's a smart guy and knows approximately one bazillion times more about network drivers than I do. But 69 consecutive pages of anything other than a novel would hurt my brain, and these particular pages said things like this:
"However, in this version of the network stack, the netBufPool back-end's netTupleGet() support was optimized to be significantly more efficient than doing separate allocations and joinings, as it only locks and unlocks interrupts one time."
Are they nouns? Are they verbs? Who can tell?
"Rather than using netTupleGet(), the driver may allocate a tuple by directly calling the linkBufPool's pMblkGetRtn() function pointer using the mBlkGet() macro defined in netBufLib.h."
Had enough? Well, please don't stop reading until you experience my favorite moment of all, the pièce de résistance, the denouement—
"The application reads the data within the zbuf as needed, and frees the zbuf when done with it, which in turn frees the underlying tuple chain back to the driver or stack pool from whence it came."
You see, even engineers have a little poetry hiding in their souls. You just have to tiptoe through the tuples to find it.
But this week . . . oh, this week . . . it means I had to slog through a 69-page white paper about network drivers. Please don't ask what they are. It's enough for you to know that the length of this document was equaled only by its boringness.
It's not the writer's fault, he's a smart guy and knows approximately one bazillion times more about network drivers than I do. But 69 consecutive pages of anything other than a novel would hurt my brain, and these particular pages said things like this:
"However, in this version of the network stack, the netBufPool back-end's netTupleGet() support was optimized to be significantly more efficient than doing separate allocations and joinings, as it only locks and unlocks interrupts one time."
Are they nouns? Are they verbs? Who can tell?
"Rather than using netTupleGet(), the driver may allocate a tuple by directly calling the linkBufPool's pMblkGetRtn() function pointer using the mBlkGet() macro defined in netBufLib.h."
Had enough? Well, please don't stop reading until you experience my favorite moment of all, the pièce de résistance, the denouement—
"The application reads the data within the zbuf as needed, and frees the zbuf when done with it, which in turn frees the underlying tuple chain back to the driver or stack pool from whence it came."
You see, even engineers have a little poetry hiding in their souls. You just have to tiptoe through the tuples to find it.
January 17, 2006
DFW, revisited
It's no secret I'm not a big David Foster Wallace fan. I think his characters rant and rave in a style that's an airfield away from real human dialogue, and it's just about impossible to bring suspension of disbelief into reading most of his stuff. His prose usually makes me feel like I'm going to pass out or box my own ears if he doesn't stop and breathe soon.
But I have to admit he can turn a sharp phrase sometimes, and I'm always curious to see weird young influential authors in person—so when my pal Erin invited me along to hear him speak in the Haight last night, it seemed like a good idea. (Social note: Fellow litfreaks in attendance included Cement Brunette and Miss Mobtown, serendipitously seated in the row behind Erin when I got there.)
Surprise! Wallace is witty, erudite, a self-proclaimed "kind of an asshole," and (my favorite part) he seems genuinely angst-ridden about the world and his place in it. Like he's compelled to write by way of sorting out the big mess we've all made, taking full responsibility for his share. He knits his brow in a way that makes you believe. And he's built like he lifts anvils all day. Rowr.
Specific things that won me over, other than his forearms:
1. You'd think he'd be a seasoned pro by now, but he was visibly anxious onstage and made no bones about it: "I know I'm supposed to look up every few minutes and make eye contact, but if I do that, I'll get nervous and lose my place on the page. So this is our moment, right now. Then I'm going to read. But don't worry—I'm very aware that you're here."
2. He chose to read a straightforward, simple, heartfelt, bitter, funny, and winningly self-deprecating account of what he was doing on September 11 and 12, 2001. Bon mot: "Winter is a pitiless bitch."
3. He answered (sometimes thoughtful, mostly irritating) questions from the crowd with insight, intelligence, and an almost gentle, measured politeness that belied his Midwestern roots. You could just about see him fighting the cynical demons that rule his soul in order to behave properly in public. It was fascinating to watch. Bon mot (in response to a question about the final essay in his new collection): "It's a little harder to read than it's worth."
4. If the first three examples don't seem like enough fodder for conversion, try reading this interview Wallace gave to Charlie Rose in 1997 about Infinite Jest. It's hilarious and brutal. You want to tip your hat in respect to the author, then give him a hug and send him straight to therapy.
None of this makes me like Wallace's novels any better, but it makes me like him better, and that's a big step.
But I have to admit he can turn a sharp phrase sometimes, and I'm always curious to see weird young influential authors in person—so when my pal Erin invited me along to hear him speak in the Haight last night, it seemed like a good idea. (Social note: Fellow litfreaks in attendance included Cement Brunette and Miss Mobtown, serendipitously seated in the row behind Erin when I got there.)
Surprise! Wallace is witty, erudite, a self-proclaimed "kind of an asshole," and (my favorite part) he seems genuinely angst-ridden about the world and his place in it. Like he's compelled to write by way of sorting out the big mess we've all made, taking full responsibility for his share. He knits his brow in a way that makes you believe. And he's built like he lifts anvils all day. Rowr.
Specific things that won me over, other than his forearms:
1. You'd think he'd be a seasoned pro by now, but he was visibly anxious onstage and made no bones about it: "I know I'm supposed to look up every few minutes and make eye contact, but if I do that, I'll get nervous and lose my place on the page. So this is our moment, right now. Then I'm going to read. But don't worry—I'm very aware that you're here."
2. He chose to read a straightforward, simple, heartfelt, bitter, funny, and winningly self-deprecating account of what he was doing on September 11 and 12, 2001. Bon mot: "Winter is a pitiless bitch."
3. He answered (sometimes thoughtful, mostly irritating) questions from the crowd with insight, intelligence, and an almost gentle, measured politeness that belied his Midwestern roots. You could just about see him fighting the cynical demons that rule his soul in order to behave properly in public. It was fascinating to watch. Bon mot (in response to a question about the final essay in his new collection): "It's a little harder to read than it's worth."
4. If the first three examples don't seem like enough fodder for conversion, try reading this interview Wallace gave to Charlie Rose in 1997 about Infinite Jest. It's hilarious and brutal. You want to tip your hat in respect to the author, then give him a hug and send him straight to therapy.
None of this makes me like Wallace's novels any better, but it makes me like him better, and that's a big step.
January 15, 2006
Blink of an eye
You'd think yoga, brunch, baseball, blues, jazz, Italian, Japanese, and a manicure would be too much for one 24-hour stretch. But it isn't, really. Not if you space it out just right.
The only problem is that I want to sleep for a week. Oh well. Seven days, seven hours . . . both just a blip on the evolutionary timeline, if you think about it.
We'll see what my brain thinks of that rationale when the alarm goes off tomorrow.
The only problem is that I want to sleep for a week. Oh well. Seven days, seven hours . . . both just a blip on the evolutionary timeline, if you think about it.
We'll see what my brain thinks of that rationale when the alarm goes off tomorrow.
January 12, 2006
Reheated
Hmm. Looks like people aren't feeling especially comment-y (except The Divine Miss M), and I can't blame you—it's not exactly the most pressing issue of the day. But a few ideas did show up in email. Thanks!
In a thrilling and unexpected twist, nobody voted for any of the names on the list except Fritz (one vote). Folks with time on their hands offered these fine alternatives instead: Gigi, Kermit, Sergio, Syriana, Tetsuo, and some unpronounceable German monstrosity from my dad that I couldn't spell even if I remembered it.
You are all mahvelous. I'll let you know the results soon. It feels like the muse will strike any day now.
In other news, I finally finished that butternut squash soup tonight. Yes, from weeks and weeks ago. You'll no doubt be thrilled to learn that it freezes well. So does the yummy artichoke and mushroom quiche I made . . . um . . . a while back. There are always leftover ingredients, so I put together an extra and stashed it away for a rainy day.
It's been raining, so I was happy to heat some up for dinner. But it still didn't feel connected to real cooking. Even though I did originally make the stuff, it managed to seem like fast food somehow. The moral? Fresh is always best.
Lesson of the day neatly filed away, I'm going to futz with the hard drive I bought to prep for iPod parenthood. My office neighbor finally got it to work. Now I just need to actually order the iPod and learn how to use it, and great things will surely happen.
In a thrilling and unexpected twist, nobody voted for any of the names on the list except Fritz (one vote). Folks with time on their hands offered these fine alternatives instead: Gigi, Kermit, Sergio, Syriana, Tetsuo, and some unpronounceable German monstrosity from my dad that I couldn't spell even if I remembered it.
You are all mahvelous. I'll let you know the results soon. It feels like the muse will strike any day now.
In other news, I finally finished that butternut squash soup tonight. Yes, from weeks and weeks ago. You'll no doubt be thrilled to learn that it freezes well. So does the yummy artichoke and mushroom quiche I made . . . um . . . a while back. There are always leftover ingredients, so I put together an extra and stashed it away for a rainy day.
It's been raining, so I was happy to heat some up for dinner. But it still didn't feel connected to real cooking. Even though I did originally make the stuff, it managed to seem like fast food somehow. The moral? Fresh is always best.
Lesson of the day neatly filed away, I'm going to futz with the hard drive I bought to prep for iPod parenthood. My office neighbor finally got it to work. Now I just need to actually order the iPod and learn how to use it, and great things will surely happen.
January 11, 2006
The Great Green Golf Naming Contest
OK, folks, I promise I'll only post obsessively about the new car once more. Maybe twice. Or three times, but that's it, I swear.
The thing is, my li'l buddy needs a name. It usually comes to me when I first drive a car around, but somehow that hasn't happened yet. I can't even narrow it down to the right origin. German (for obvious reasons)? Brazilian (his birth country)? Totally random ('cause I'm crazy like that)?
It's time to open up the ballot box. We haven't had a useless and overpriced special election for at least couple of months, so you must all be jonesing to vote on something.
Please check out the brainstorm below and let me know your top pick via blog comments (see link at bottom of post) or email. I can't promise to go with majority rule, but at least it'll help me narrow down the field.
German
Fritz
Lukas
Oscar
Otto (also Brazilian)
Rolf
Wolfgang (kudos to CG for this one)
Brazilian
Cesar
Chico
Gilberto
Oswaldo
Paulo
Procópio
Renato
Zico
Random
Gibson
Guido
Lucien
Max (also German)
Rudy
Thanks in advance for exercising your democratic right to help with this ridiculous decision. I don't have any photos of my car yet, but here's his silvery cousin as a visual aid:
The thing is, my li'l buddy needs a name. It usually comes to me when I first drive a car around, but somehow that hasn't happened yet. I can't even narrow it down to the right origin. German (for obvious reasons)? Brazilian (his birth country)? Totally random ('cause I'm crazy like that)?
It's time to open up the ballot box. We haven't had a useless and overpriced special election for at least couple of months, so you must all be jonesing to vote on something.
Please check out the brainstorm below and let me know your top pick via blog comments (see link at bottom of post) or email. I can't promise to go with majority rule, but at least it'll help me narrow down the field.
German
Fritz
Lukas
Oscar
Otto (also Brazilian)
Rolf
Wolfgang (kudos to CG for this one)
Brazilian
Cesar
Chico
Gilberto
Oswaldo
Paulo
Procópio
Renato
Zico
Random
Gibson
Guido
Lucien
Max (also German)
Rudy
Thanks in advance for exercising your democratic right to help with this ridiculous decision. I don't have any photos of my car yet, but here's his silvery cousin as a visual aid:
January 09, 2006
Golf herder
The road to car ownership is paved with hopes, dreams . . . and cows. Lots and lots of cows. At least, that's what Yahoo Maps wanted me to experience on my way to the Volkswagen dealership in Elk Grove, about 15 miles outside Sacramento.
Never heard of it? Neither had I. But it took less than half an hour before I realized I wasn't in the California I knew anymore. It looked sort of like the Central Valley, or at least the one that's fixed in my mind after making the drive to L.A. and back a few times. Two-lane roads, lush farmland, flood warnings, and a festival of cows. A cowstival. Where there weren't cows, there were pickup trucks. So soon after leaving downtown Oakland, it's a weird perceptual shift.
Then you're suddenly in Elk Grove, a near perfect match for the Chicago suburbs: upscale chain stores, traffic lights, and bland beige mini mansions as far as you can see. But if you turn onto Auto Center Drive, then West Stockton Boulevard, you'll reach the Land of VWs, third in a row of giant dealerships that have a tumbleweed feeling early on a Saturday.
Fast forward through a pleasant test drive with chatty Manny the Car Guy, who told epic stories about his two-year-old and gave a practiced lesson in how to work the power windows. Zippy green four-door, shiny and tight with plenty of vrooooooom. Al the Mobile Mechanic, the nomadic repairman I blessedly found through the yellow pages, turned up right on time and spent an hour making sure the car was worth its salt. His assessment? "That's a great color." OK, man, but does it run?
Yes, it does. Exceptionally well, in fact—maintained with plenty of TLC by the dealer and two previous owners. Needs a timing belt in 20,000 miles, but that's not a jaw-dropper. All clear. But I'm not one to buy the first thing I like; the comparison shopping instinct is too ingrained. So I left a deposit with Manny to discourage the couple waiting for a test drive, and hoofed it on over to Napa for Golf #2.
Small family dealership, royal blue two-door with 20,000 miles and one year of life less than the first. Even so, it drove like a sorely neglected carthorse that can still do the job, but isn't happy about it. Coats of dust on the wheels. "I don't know why nobody's come to look at this one," said the painfully honest son of the owner. "Usually Golfs sell fast. It's just been sitting here." But for all that, the salesdad only dropped $250 off the price for the work that needed doing (battery, tires, etc.) before tossing out that age-old failure of a line: "So, what can we do to make sure you drive out of here today in this car?" Um . . . give it me for free?
Back on the road, negotiating with Manny on a terrible cell connection in the Safeway parking lot just before Route 37. Less than an hour until my coffee date with Dad and Ann in Berkeley. Sweating like a sauna dweller, with the weather changing from torrential rain to bursts of sun in that special way only Northern California is cheeky enough to pull off.
But a week or two of research, one six-hour driving day, and a parade of stories about a stranger's kid aren't much to suffer for a peppy, trusty green jellybean of a fine German automobile, purchased for a song at about half the original dealer price and a third under Blue Book. By way of frosting on the Golf cake, Manny even delivered the car to my door yesterday, armed with an arsenal of paperwork.
Sometimes all the pieces fall into place. If you can get a few cows and a stretch of empty golden road in the bargain, then you're a lucky girl indeed.
Never heard of it? Neither had I. But it took less than half an hour before I realized I wasn't in the California I knew anymore. It looked sort of like the Central Valley, or at least the one that's fixed in my mind after making the drive to L.A. and back a few times. Two-lane roads, lush farmland, flood warnings, and a festival of cows. A cowstival. Where there weren't cows, there were pickup trucks. So soon after leaving downtown Oakland, it's a weird perceptual shift.
Then you're suddenly in Elk Grove, a near perfect match for the Chicago suburbs: upscale chain stores, traffic lights, and bland beige mini mansions as far as you can see. But if you turn onto Auto Center Drive, then West Stockton Boulevard, you'll reach the Land of VWs, third in a row of giant dealerships that have a tumbleweed feeling early on a Saturday.
Fast forward through a pleasant test drive with chatty Manny the Car Guy, who told epic stories about his two-year-old and gave a practiced lesson in how to work the power windows. Zippy green four-door, shiny and tight with plenty of vrooooooom. Al the Mobile Mechanic, the nomadic repairman I blessedly found through the yellow pages, turned up right on time and spent an hour making sure the car was worth its salt. His assessment? "That's a great color." OK, man, but does it run?
Yes, it does. Exceptionally well, in fact—maintained with plenty of TLC by the dealer and two previous owners. Needs a timing belt in 20,000 miles, but that's not a jaw-dropper. All clear. But I'm not one to buy the first thing I like; the comparison shopping instinct is too ingrained. So I left a deposit with Manny to discourage the couple waiting for a test drive, and hoofed it on over to Napa for Golf #2.
Small family dealership, royal blue two-door with 20,000 miles and one year of life less than the first. Even so, it drove like a sorely neglected carthorse that can still do the job, but isn't happy about it. Coats of dust on the wheels. "I don't know why nobody's come to look at this one," said the painfully honest son of the owner. "Usually Golfs sell fast. It's just been sitting here." But for all that, the salesdad only dropped $250 off the price for the work that needed doing (battery, tires, etc.) before tossing out that age-old failure of a line: "So, what can we do to make sure you drive out of here today in this car?" Um . . . give it me for free?
Back on the road, negotiating with Manny on a terrible cell connection in the Safeway parking lot just before Route 37. Less than an hour until my coffee date with Dad and Ann in Berkeley. Sweating like a sauna dweller, with the weather changing from torrential rain to bursts of sun in that special way only Northern California is cheeky enough to pull off.
But a week or two of research, one six-hour driving day, and a parade of stories about a stranger's kid aren't much to suffer for a peppy, trusty green jellybean of a fine German automobile, purchased for a song at about half the original dealer price and a third under Blue Book. By way of frosting on the Golf cake, Manny even delivered the car to my door yesterday, armed with an arsenal of paperwork.
Sometimes all the pieces fall into place. If you can get a few cows and a stretch of empty golden road in the bargain, then you're a lucky girl indeed.
January 04, 2006
Mingus is dead, long live Mingus
My friends, the faithful Mingus is no more. One run-in with the back end of a Jeep Cherokee and its sturdy hitch proved too much for the poor fellow. He's gone to that big wagon parts clearinghouse in the sky.
Let's all take a moment to remember his year of devoted service to the wanderings of the BCB.
Ah, Mingus, we hardly knew ye . . .
Yes, it's a sad day. But on an up note, it's also a step forward in my search for elusive grownupdom—I actually get to pick out and buy a ride that's not being discarded by a member of my family. And thanks to a bizarre formula over at my insurance company that values cars way over blue book, I'll have a decent chunk of change to start with.
Turns out my Prius and Mini dreams were too lofty, unfortunately. Guess I'll save those for real adulthood. But a good sturdy Golf is the clear runner-up, and I'm pretty excited about the idea. My very first car was an old-school Golf with nonexistent shocks and a leaky moon roof that squealed like a banshee at 40 mph. Even so, they're fun to drive, they get reasonable gas mileage, they last forever, and they're a great size for city parking.
The new arrival will still be used, but in much better shape than anything I've owned before. Dover, Hogan, Mingus . . . you were all good pals. Now it's time for the next movement.
Let's all take a moment to remember his year of devoted service to the wanderings of the BCB.
Ah, Mingus, we hardly knew ye . . .Yes, it's a sad day. But on an up note, it's also a step forward in my search for elusive grownupdom—I actually get to pick out and buy a ride that's not being discarded by a member of my family. And thanks to a bizarre formula over at my insurance company that values cars way over blue book, I'll have a decent chunk of change to start with.
Turns out my Prius and Mini dreams were too lofty, unfortunately. Guess I'll save those for real adulthood. But a good sturdy Golf is the clear runner-up, and I'm pretty excited about the idea. My very first car was an old-school Golf with nonexistent shocks and a leaky moon roof that squealed like a banshee at 40 mph. Even so, they're fun to drive, they get reasonable gas mileage, they last forever, and they're a great size for city parking.
The new arrival will still be used, but in much better shape than anything I've owned before. Dover, Hogan, Mingus . . . you were all good pals. Now it's time for the next movement.
January 02, 2006
Benign Girl vs. Elk Slayer
Back from a few refreshing days in the snowy north, with feeling slowly returning to my fingers and toes as heat creeps through the apartment. (If somebody could explain to me why California homes are never, ever insulated, it'd ease my mind. Thanks.)
Our epic journey began on Friday morning in the pouring rain, loading up two cars with five people, delicious coffee and pastry from La Farine, and all the food and supplies you can imagine for three days and nights in a cabin at 8,000 feet, accessible only by foot or snowmobile. Off we go!
About halfway through the ride, we had our first real road trip moment: Riding along next to a burly pickup lavishly decorated with paintings of horned beasts frolicking in the forest beneath a colorful sunrise, topped by the priceless vanity . . . Elk Slayer. We didn't try to pass him.
Then another killer find by Miss Emily, looking over the meager toy selection while we waited in the line for the bathroom at a fuel stop. "My god, that can't be real," I heard her murmur in wonder. But it was.
Ladies and gentlemen, the hoochie gas-station gift of choice for the special child in your life—Benign Girl. Andrew, always quick on the uptake, made the whole thing even better: "Yeah, but where's Malignant Boy?" Thus are road trip legends born.
Those promising adventures behind us, we reached Bear Valley in a steady downpour to meet the rest of our group. Eleven strong, we loaded our soaking wet selves and gear into Jeff the Flaky Snowmobile Guy's ride (after waiting 45 minutes outside for him to "be right back"), bounced our blind way to the door of our cabin, and stumbled in. We admired the hotel-worthy toilet covers and the giant inflatable deer head by the front door. Then we dried off, got the fire started, and cooked up a latke and chicken storm.
It was still raining hard on Saturday morning, so we all started bracing ourselves for a weekend of board games and staring out the window. Then the temperature slowly began to cooperate . . . crept down . . . and brought us more than three feet of snow by this morning.
Everyone put the big bags of snowshoes and cross-country skis to good use during the day, then gathered by the fire at night with rosy cheeks for lavish group dinners and highly charged games of Sorry. I didn't remember how awesome Sorry is. Seriously, run to your nearest game store and pick it up. Nothing goes better with a Chilean Malbec and a freezing midnight.
The trip home was long but uneventful, no Elk Slayers in sight. But we did each pick up a Benign Girl for posterity. Some things are sacred.
Happy new year!
Our epic journey began on Friday morning in the pouring rain, loading up two cars with five people, delicious coffee and pastry from La Farine, and all the food and supplies you can imagine for three days and nights in a cabin at 8,000 feet, accessible only by foot or snowmobile. Off we go!
About halfway through the ride, we had our first real road trip moment: Riding along next to a burly pickup lavishly decorated with paintings of horned beasts frolicking in the forest beneath a colorful sunrise, topped by the priceless vanity . . . Elk Slayer. We didn't try to pass him.
Then another killer find by Miss Emily, looking over the meager toy selection while we waited in the line for the bathroom at a fuel stop. "My god, that can't be real," I heard her murmur in wonder. But it was.
Ladies and gentlemen, the hoochie gas-station gift of choice for the special child in your life—Benign Girl. Andrew, always quick on the uptake, made the whole thing even better: "Yeah, but where's Malignant Boy?" Thus are road trip legends born.
Those promising adventures behind us, we reached Bear Valley in a steady downpour to meet the rest of our group. Eleven strong, we loaded our soaking wet selves and gear into Jeff the Flaky Snowmobile Guy's ride (after waiting 45 minutes outside for him to "be right back"), bounced our blind way to the door of our cabin, and stumbled in. We admired the hotel-worthy toilet covers and the giant inflatable deer head by the front door. Then we dried off, got the fire started, and cooked up a latke and chicken storm.
It was still raining hard on Saturday morning, so we all started bracing ourselves for a weekend of board games and staring out the window. Then the temperature slowly began to cooperate . . . crept down . . . and brought us more than three feet of snow by this morning.
Everyone put the big bags of snowshoes and cross-country skis to good use during the day, then gathered by the fire at night with rosy cheeks for lavish group dinners and highly charged games of Sorry. I didn't remember how awesome Sorry is. Seriously, run to your nearest game store and pick it up. Nothing goes better with a Chilean Malbec and a freezing midnight.
The trip home was long but uneventful, no Elk Slayers in sight. But we did each pick up a Benign Girl for posterity. Some things are sacred.
Happy new year!
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