Birthday Buddy

Loki helps knit
Originally uploaded by Martina.

This message is brought to you by Jen's birthday buddy, Loki the Freeway Cat, who is surprisingly good typist:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MONTH, JEN!!!!!!!!!

In honor of your birthday and your love of lists, Loki has composed for you a listy retrospective of Jen & Mart's Great Adventures

1. Being shafted in Shafter

2. Your dad walking in on you, Martina and MQ as you all were sitting on your bed, wearing visors and smoking carrot stick cigars while teaching yourselves to play poker from a book

3. Replacing all of MQ's artwork in her bedroom with our own drawings. Loki, who always refers to himself in the 3rd person (just like Bob Dole and Tom Clancy) would especially like to remind you of The Madonna with Cone Bra, The Godfather of Grunge, and The Clown of Life.

4. The hotel with the vibrating beds in Yuba City

5. The sniper Day's Inn on 1st Street in Santa Ana

6. Wigfest

7. Meeting Tom Clancy at Wordstock

8. The Bovine Murder Train Sessions

9. The Chicago Underground

10. Bunny ears, cold medicine, Furby and Ricky Martin

11. Driving hours out of our way to see the wonder that is Carhenge

12. Being glared at by Romance fans at Powell's for laughing to loudly at the bodice ripper covers

13. Snack pockets

14. Pammyana: A Woman of Many Appetites

15. Driving to Tacoma to see George Michael in concert, then chanting "Wham Rap" when he asked for requests

16. The Baker Eagles

17. The campaign to bring the term "jive" back into popular usage

18. Pronking

19. The Butts of the Ancients Tour at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art

In closing, Loki hopes that the beginning of birthday month is also the beginning of a kickass new year. (He really likes the word "kickass".)

Vacation

Laguna Beach
Originally uploaded by Martina.

No time to post. I need a vacation or a new job or a nap or something. To borrow a phrase from Neil Gaiman, I am far from gruntled. I have a long list of things I about which I have been wanting to post:

- 3 Leg Torso
- Mix lists for March, April, May
- Who would win in a hot off between Johnny Depp & James Marsters? (ok, maybe it's not a topic for a post, but it's a competition I could enjoy...I do have my theories, though...)
- Paulo Coelho
- The Mystery of the Multiplying Draculas and the Contest
- Theme Music
- Tarot
- Reading groups

Perhaps I'll use this as a place holder and revisit them again later or perhaps I'll never think about them again. It's hard to say.

For now, though, I will restrict myself to posting a Phillip Lopate poem, found in Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird. It hits perhaps a little close to my neurotic home, but it still makes me smile:

We who are
your closest friends
feel the time
has come to tell you
that every Thursday
we have been meeting,
as a group,
to devise ways
to keep you
in perpetual uncertainty
frustration
discontent and
torture
by neither loving you
as much as you want
nor cutting you adrift.
Your analyst is
in on it,
plus your boyfriend
and your ex-husband;
and we have pledged
to disappoint you
as long as you need us.
In announcing our
association
we realize we have
placed in your hands
a possible antidote
against uncertainty
indeed against ourselves.
But since our Thursday nights
have brought us
to a community
of purpose
rare in itself
with you as
the natural center,
we feel hopeful you
will continue to make unreasonable
demands for affection
if not as a consequence
of your disastrous personality
then for the good of the collective.

Something else that makes me smile. The opening to Mark Helprin's short story "The Schreuderspitze":

"In Munich are many men who look like weasels. Whether by genetic accident, meticulous crossbreeding, an early an puzzling migration, coincidence, or a reason that we do not know, they exist in great numbers. Remarkably, they accentuate this unfortunate tendency by wearing mustaches, Alpine hats, and tweed. A man who resembles a rodent should never wear tweed."

Good advice indeed. There's no more to say, so I won't.

Crankypants

Since I am up at would be dark o'clock were it winter, a little posting is in order. In keeping with my early morning mood, I will regale my readership (yes, both of you) with a story of evil, high finance (the ubiquitous they, say it is the root of all evil), aggression and general crankitude.

I'm not going to lie to you. In the days following the end to my musical retirement, I was in a good mood, even an optimistic one. Anyway, shortly thereafter, we (me, myself, I, and my mom - the car was packed!) were driving home from an outing, feeling Pollyanaish rays of sunshine warm our benevolent little faces and talking about how generally good and kind most people are.

Because I owed her money and was too lazy to actually get out of the car, I decided to stop at the drive up ATM before going home. Under the circumstances, it seemed like the wisest course of action. Even though she looks sweet, my mother is not above hiring some silver haired goon from the senior center where she volunteers to break my knee caps (or at least feebly hit them with a cane), if I don't pay up on time.

So, we stopped. As was getting my money out, a BIG, black monster truck pulled up behind me. It was one of those huge, gas guzzling vehicles that I abhor. It had tinted windows and bedecked with flags, making it look like the first vehicle in the Presidential motorcade. If I had noticed him before he started screaming something mostly intelligible, but recognizably peppered with obscenities, I would have wondered when the band was going to show up to play Hail to the Chief . As it was, I only noticed him as I was putting my ATM card away.

At first, I thought he was impatient at having to wait, which annoyed me, because I wasn't exactly dwadling. I don't know what possessed me, because I am usually not at all confrontational, but before my brain realized what it was doing, my head had stuck itself out of my window and my mouth was yelling the words: "What is wrong with you? Can't you act like a human being and wait quietly for five seconds until it's your turn?!?!?!?!?" In retrospect, I realize that human beings are capable of some pretty horrendous behavior, so he probably was just taking my advice when this made him scream and curse even more. He looked as though his hate-filled head was going to explode. If he is this way with strangers, I can only imagine what a nightmare he is for those close to him.

Who is he to try to bully me anyway? Half of me wanted to go back and be just as aggro back at him, and then I realized that his tantrum probably had more to do with the "U.S. out of Iraq NOW!" sticker in the back window of my car than it had to do with any ATM related malfeasance or sluggishness on my part. I imagine that he is one of those flag wavers who veer from patriotism into chauvinism and that my disagreement with U.S. foreign policy irked his "If you're not for us, you're against us" sensibilities, because he doesn't grasp that when you're "for something", you have an obligation to speak up when it is going down the wrong path.

Why is it that such people believe in freedom of speech, as long as one does not have the affrontery to disagree with them? Even if the four sweetest words in the English language are "You are SO right!", it is simplistic to see the world, and especially politics and policy, as anything but nuanced. It strikes me that this man's behavior is, on a small scale, exactly the sort of behavior in our policy that has half the world angry with us. There is nothing wrong with looking out for one's interests or even with strongly espousing a particular point of view, but there is something wrong with doing so with no regard to the rights of others.

I don't know what this man's problem was. Maybe he had a son in Iraq, maybe he is just some ueber-patriot, who can't handle dissent, or maybe he was just a garden variety asshole. All I do know, was that by the time I had made it around the parking lot to give him a piece of my mind, I was thinking "What's the use of me getting my blood pressure up over someone like this?" So, instead of screaming back at him, I just waved and told him as sweetly as I could to have a nice day.

The Sound of Music

How is it that we can love doing something, yet fall away from doing it? Why is it that when we grow up, many of us do not make the time for those things that bring us joy?

When I was a girl, I remember spending hours in the back yard, singing selections from The Sound of Music. I sang about alpine flowers. I sang about goatherds. When I could get someone to sing with me, I harmonized about alphine flowers and goatherds. Either way, I sang loudly. I sang proudly.

As I got older, I started badgering my parents for instruments and music lessons - first the piano (though an ill fated twist involving my dad and a smooth talking organ salesman, ended up with me getting an organ instead), then it was the violin, then guitar, then, finally, voice. I sang in choirs and talent shows and harbored a secret, childish dream of being a musician, diligently practicing singing into my hairbrush every night.

Then something happened. I started to grow up, and suddenly it wasn't enough to just sing. It had to be good. Somehow, like Salieri in Amadeus, I became consumed by the idea that perhaps I was just a mediocrity. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, I began to distance myself ever further from being a participant in the music that I had once so loved, leaving it to the people who really were good at it.

Oh, sure, I did my share of shower concerts and duets with Toby the dog (in case you were wondering, he prefers to howl along to songs sung loudly with his name as the lyrics, most notably The Battle Hymn of the Republic, The Macarena, and the Habanera aka the L'Amour est un oiseau rebelle song from Carmen). I am also always up for some good belting on a road trip, but the idea of seriously participating as anything but a listener to anything musical left me somewhere back in my early college years.

Then, last year, I made the acquaintance of a choir director, who gently nagged and cajoled me for a number of months before I finally showed up for one of her projects - a performance of the Missa Luba designed to raise money for hurricane victims in the Gulf states. I ended up in the soprano section. Immediately my thought was "This is too high. I can't do this." For some reason, though, I decided to stay in that section. After weeks of rehearsal (and vocal exercises at home), I actually managed to bring my range back to where I could reach those notes. I'm not saying anyone would want to hear me do a solo on them, but I could reach them respectably enough for group singing.

In the end, the performance went off well (except for one train wreck section during the Credo, but we managed to recover in the end. It wasn't perfect, but it was exhilerating. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed it. I can't wait until we do it again next year (and at a bigger venue, I might add)! Now I want to sing wherever I go. Since this could potentially cause problems, I will probably just end up joining a choir or something. Whatever I do, I do know that I want to hold on to that good feeling.

I realized in participating in the concert that the good feeling comes from somewhere other than acheiving perfection. So often when we engage in creative pursuits as adults, we want the product to be too perfect. When they're not, we berate ourselves not being good enough writers, artists, poets, photographers, musicians etc. The fear of not being perfect drives us ever further away from perfection. The truth is that creative endeavors only have a chance of transcending the mundane, if we don't lose our sense of play. You can't worry about the note you just flubbed or the really hard passage coming up on page 10. You can only live in the now (oh, clown of life, how wise you are!). Enjoy and feel the note you're on. Sure you have to practice and learn and even refine, but ultimately, it's the ability to let go and just put whatever song, words, picture, idea one has out there and develop it that makes the whole process rewarding.

Anyone who wants to produce something, needs to hone his or her craft. But the more I think about it, it's not the technical honing that makes greatness. It's the ability to build on that honing by letting go and putting one's heart into the act of creation that creates greatness. But perhaps I'm becoming too esoteric. My point really is simply that creative endeavors should be fun.

So, my advice for everyone is this: Find something that you used to love (or always wanted to try) and just do it. Don't worry about being perfect, just throw yourself into it. Take the time to learn, take the time to enjoy. It will make you feel SO good, and ultimately you'll find with time that you do get better at it. Sometimes you might even come as close to perfect as humanly possible, but mostly you'll have fun.

IALFLWSIWRYSERTWMYLMFSYSI

Welcome to the first installment of "I am lazy and don't feel like writing, so I will refer you to something else to read that will make you love me for showing you something interesting" (or IALFLWSIWRYSERTWMYLMFSYSI for short).

Today's winner is the weblog of Michael Bérubé, in particular the Wednesday, May 19th post "St George and the Dragon, a fable by Richard Cheney", written by guest blogger Lance Mannion. Bérubé's blog is also good when he's there, but being a Terry Pratchett fan, it is Mannion's artice that I want to point out today.

So mote it be

DCP03320
Originally uploaded by jensect.

There are times when I am almost (but not quite) surprised at some of the places I end up. In the early months of 2006, I have helped plan a peace rally, joined a choir, ferried a group of nervous coworkers around greater Los Angeles in a rented PT Cruiser (a model that is completely sucktastic to drive, by the way), developed a fondness for South African music, and suddenly gone from mind-numbingly boring work to helping manage a test program that has me back to working with publishing, tight deadlines, reps, merchants and schools.

In this spirit of embracing the unexpected, last Sunday found me at a Beltaine celebration at a country home in Newberg. Not only did I attend, I made my pagan debut reading the part of East. Actually, I think the official term is something like "invoking the elements", but since I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, I read my part: “With the warmth of the sun, The seedling blossoms into color, Standing tall and proud beneath the radiant globe. Its glory admired and loved by all.”

How did I suddenly become High Priestess of the East? Out of curiosity, I accepted an invitation to attend the ritual from an acquaintance from my choir. Then, when I got there, the person assigned to the East decided she didn’t want to do it. So, I figured that if I was already making myself an affront to all things holy by attending a heathen ritual, I might as well read a few lines too.

As it turns out, the evening was fun and fascinating. I’ve always been curious about what pagans actually do, so it was a good opportunity to see. The event was held out in the country in Newberg at the home of a couple whom I know vaguely from church. It was so lovely and peaceful out there. It makes me want to move out of the city even more. It must be so nice to live somewhere where you can do whatever you want without having to worry about bothering the neighbors (or about them seeing you!).

At any rate, the event was attended by probably 20 or so people, a gorgeous malamute Portia and a short and excitable dachshund named Willie. It was a very mixed group - Americans, Germans (thanks to me and my pagan cohort/mother), an Asian and an African. Even the pastor of the church we’ve been going to was there, which did surprise me in some ways, even though I already knew that she is very open minded.

The evening began with the forming of The Circle. There was drumming and a procession around the fires before I got to make my pagan debut only after first waiting for a Jester, a Cleric, North AND South to finish yammering on. Only West went after me, and frankly, I think she was a bit overshadowed by my brilliant performance and inspired reading of blossoming seedlings and radiant globes, especially since all she had to talk about were withered blooms and fruit.

After the forming of the circle around the fire, there was a welcoming of the Divine, which involved two people representing the Lord and Lady passing around the circle, and also a serving of grain and wine that was very much like taking communion in church, except for that they were accompanied by “May you never hunger” and “May you never thirst” instead of “This is my body, broken for you...” Once the “meal” (a chocolate chip cookie, dipped in wine) had been taken, there was more travelling as all the participants took another stroll around the fire before taking a bundle of sage and throwing it into the fire along with a silent prayer for the world (mine being for peace in general and more specifically that some asshat doesn't start a nuclear war).

Sages wishes made, we went about the business of choosing a Scapegoat, which was done by drawing tissue-wrapped cookies from a basket. (Who knew pagans were so big on cookies? I might have joined them years ago, had I realized). All the cookies but one were coated in powdered sugar. The burnt one (actually just coated in cocoa powder) was the one meant for the scapegoat. As we each took our cookie, I prayed that I would not have the burnt one, because I don't think that Martina falling into the fire and torching her new skirt makes for a successful celebration of any sort (though I did once manage to ignite my hair on the flame of a candle at a pub and still have fun, but that is another story for another time and another place).

Luckily, my fears were assuaged when our host's pre-teen son drew the scapegoat cookie. He was the perfect choice, since he was definitely spry enough to leap over the fire pit without any mishaps. Before he took his leap, however, he had to put on a white aprony thing upon which everyone had to write or draw some wish for the world. Not being able to draw, I confined my artistic endeavors to just writing "peace" and "health", which apparently worked, because the boy made it successfully across the fire without needing an extinguisher.

Once the Scapegoatery was done, there was some poetry in place of the point in The Mists of Avalon movie (the universally acknowledged authority on all things pagan) where the orgy begins. Then the divine was released by means of another chant (the Spiral Dance Chant) and we all were given prayer bundles to throw into the fire when we were ready. I’m not sure if I should tell what mine were. Perhaps such things lose their power when they are not kept secret, but I will share that one of them was for an acquaintance who recently lost her newborn twins to a rare genetic condition and that the others were more personal.

After the ceremony was over, there was a huge dinner with lentil soup, salmon, leg of lamb, a really great salad with kale and potatoes, a quiche-like dish with dried fruit and nuts (which I know sounds odd, but tasted so good!), and fresh strawberries for dessert. Frankly, if pagans always eat like this, I think I've found my people! We sat around the fire for quite a while, eating, drinking, and chatting. It was a nice evening, not only due to the company, but also to having learned about something new. I don’t know that I believe in it all any more than I believe everything one hears in church, but it’s interesting to learn about different spiritual traditions and absorb the things that speak to me into my own eclectic sensibility.

For more information on Beltane (and some really cool pictures!), visit www.beltane.org

P.s. Thanks to Jen for the use of her very cool and mysteriously named DCP03320.

Don't Attack Iran

The Senate and House has passed the Biden amendment to the supplemental spending bill. This amendment bans any use of the supplemental funds for the purpose of establishing permanent bases in Iraq.

Unfortunately, it appears that the Bush administration not only appears to be considering attacking Iran, but with use of nuclear weapons. Please take a moment to urge Congress to assert its constitutional power to decide whether or not the President may go to war. Tell Congress to tell Bush and Cheney NO!
http://democrats.com/peoplesemailnetwork/80