Ernesto Takes Over The World

Sloth

2009-03-16T13:30:00.000-07:00

One of many sins I've been committing lately.... More soon.... Soon enough....

Something to think about in the waiting:

Why isn't the word "palindrome" a palindrome in itself?

Hangzhou

2009-02-18T18:02:00.000-08:00

The other day was filled with a day trip to nearby Hangzhou. We woke up early to head Shanghainan station to pick up tickets, but had trouble finding our gate. So, in an international covert operation, I posted myself near the ticket booth until a passenger purchased a ticket as well to Hangzhou. After the unsuspecting couple had ticket in hand, we followed them through the station at a comfortable ten meter distance. Almost lost them once on the escalator, but my extraordinary mysterious assassin skills locked them in sight and we were able to successfully follow them to the appropriate gate without blowing our cover. Turns out we walked past the gate twice, no matter.

Hangzhou is the most pedestrian friendly city I've found in China with walking paths everywhere and multiple bike rental stations. We filled up on some jiaozi and then meandered through shopping stalls before a leisurely stroll along West Lake. Dotted with temples, pagodas, and parks; it was bliss to get out of the giant city and intake some relatively clean air.

We abandoned bipedal motion half way round the lake and picked up a couple of bikes to head out to the nearby temples and tea houses in the rolling hills just west of the lake. Hangzhou can appropriately (I think) be compared to the Sonoma Valley. While the Californian visitors get raging drunk on the wine produced by the fields of grapes, Hangzhou denizens and visitors enjoy some of the finest tea that China has to offer- longjing. For five hours we biked along the terraced fields covered in cloud and mist, along groves of bamboo, and past historic temples. It was a much needed respite from the bustle and groan of Shanghai.

Updates...

2009-02-16T17:12:00.000-08:00

It has been a while. I've been busy. Things have finished up in Jingdezhen and I've returned to Shanghai for the time being.

The cloudy dust of clay, glaze, and smog from Jingdezhen has settled into the recesses of my nasal passage and larynx and I have taken it with me to Shanghai. The relative safety from exacerbating the onset of silicosis that I began in Jingdezhen is a comfort but the dust, dirt, and diesel continue to wreck havoc on the upper 1/7 of my body. Good thing I brought two boxes of Cold-Eeze with me and a box of Emergen-C. In lieu of this, I have not been able to return to my vampiric nature that exists while I'm in Shanghai. The residents of apartment 5F, Ruijin Gardens, Jianguo Lu only exist as functioning humans on an every other day basis as one day is completely overtaken by hangover slumbers in a dark and cavernous living room with the only light emitting from the flashing of the TV screen. Rarely do any of them leave the apartment during the daylight hours. That is what staying at the Shelter until five or six in the morning will do to a person. I have not yet been able to partake in any of those activities due to my inability to breath at the moment, but it is getting better. I'm getting stronger and stronger to prepare my body for a pounding of drinks, techno, and cigarettes. Funny how that works. Get healthy to get sick. We did go see some music for VD Day. I think the band's highest aspirations are a Putumayo disc. Cubano/African/Reggae/Boys

II Men/French Pop/Smooth Jazz/Jam Rock/Xanadu; I could barely keep a straight face.

My friend Evan Blackwell got here the other day, he used to work at OIP. He'll be teaching at The Pottery Workshop in Shanghai. Same company I did my residency with. He is a great sculptor, check out the link on his name. Before going to see XanaMarley, I met up with him and some other employees of PWS and we went to KTV for some wholesome karaoke. Most of the Chinese songs are slow and depressing, and most of the Western songs are-- you guessed it-- slow and depressing. I sang Yesterday, Leaving on Jet Plane, and Right Here Waiting. It was at least equally or a little more pathetic than my attempts at the Lower Tavern.

While I wait for my visa to process, I'm planning some day trips around Shanghai. We went to Hangzhou yesterday and I'll post info and photos of that tomorrow-- I don't have my camera now.

Chinese New Year

2009-01-29T18:43:00.000-08:00

...It is difficult to capture the immensity of this, one of the largest cities of the planet. We stared out over the city. From the 64th floor, we could see the lights in every direction. Skyscrapers were silhouettes surrounded by the glow from myriad street lights on the surface level. The omnipresent haze that lingers about softened the orange and yellow beacons that dot the paths through the maze of urban sprawl. Following the trails, taxis were fewer than expected, the millions of watchers poised in anticipation at their positions throughout the city in order to witness the event.

As we traveled to Le Meridien, a sampling of the collective was witnessed on every street, alley, corner, and square. The noisemakers rumbled like machine gun fire and the fountains set the night ablaze. This was only a taste and as the midnight hour neared, the intensity and frequency increased like a sweltering crescendo from a raging orchestra. High above the city floor we watched as the invisible conductor waved his baton and directed the pandemonium. A burst on the street below us was answered with thunder and a crash from another district. The volley had started. In a fever I rushed to another window to see if the South and the East were as tumultuous as the North and West. Without disappointing, every direction was exhibiting its clamor and felicity. Rainbows of color were flying into the night from all locations on the compass as the towering behemoths of Shanghai wealth presided over as darkened sentinels dancing the bursts of fire and light off of their gleaming windows. No longer were the people of this city defined by the postcard panorama of it's definitive skyline. It was the people on the streets that provided the vitality and the evidence of power in the human collective. Explosion after explosion, wonder followed by amazement, pride followed by humility, anxiety precluded peace. My eyes started to fill with tears, either from my unblinking gaze or from the profundity and awesomeness of the sight before me. I was a solitary observer of an ocean of fire and light. From my perch I flew over the war zone searching for the outer limits of the chaos. I found none.

The only image I retain is the one permanently burned into my retina and pounded upon my eardrum. I shall never forget the firefight. And as midnight passed and the Year of the Ox traveled upon its first hours, the sulphur and smoke rose up the elevation, hugging the pillars of concrete and steel. Come morning, the only remnants of the prior night were the thin red shells of mortars and dynamite collected in the gutters and doorways and dispersed in the naked branches and skeleton dwellings...

Antique Market

2009-01-11T20:00:00.000-08:00

I received a crash course in the history of Chinese ceramics at the antique market here in Jingdezhen. Surrounded by many, many contemporary pottery galleries & showrooms, hundreds of people congregate each Monday morning to barter for vessels and shards of Chinese pottery. Laid out on blankets, people display their pieces and try to get the best price for them, and they are usually highly overpriced. Often they are shown in conjunction with little knickknacks like those handy little multi-tool plastic pieces of junk, magnifying glasses, old Chinese coinage, Mao's little Red Book, socialist posters, a range of ceramic periodicals and books, and other pieces of junk that are passed off as "antiques." It doesn't take long to see what is made to look old versus the authentic ones.

Huang Fei parried a lot of scoffs from sellers that he was advising me on suitable prices, but he didn't mind. As we left, he felt that it was a good day with a lot of good deals. These four pieces ran a total of 280 yuan or 41 dollars. I'll be going back next week, there was this old poster with Marx, Lenin, Stalin & Mao that I must have. I'll have to put it up next to a Hendrix, Joplin, Cobain poster and see how they compare.

Tang Dynasty, 618-907

Wu Dai (Five Dynasties), 907-960

Song Dynasty, 960-1297 (I don't know if it is Northern or Southern-- yes, it makes a difference)

Yuan Dynasty, 1271-1368

I didn't pick up any Ming or Qin dynasty pieces, but I plan to next time. Most of the work that was shown was of these two dynasties and according to Huang Fei, they are the most sought after by Chinese collectors. Contemporary decoration techniques also reference these two dynasties quite a bit. They were also the two that were hardest for me to distinguish. Predominantly all in blue & white, one must pay attention to the character of the brush stroke, the hue of the blue color, thickness of the ware, and character of the glaze amongst other things. I'm not too good at it. What was interesting was the prices that the sellers were asking for the shards from Ming & Qin versus the whole forms of Song or Tang; Ming and Qin were much higher. Albeit the pieces I purchased have their defects, otherwise they would most likely be in a museum; I was drawn to the forms and their loose, human qualities. Over time, the forms are much tighter and more machine like; impecable precision with painterly decoration. In watching the buyers and the replicated ware that is constantly produced in Jingdezhen, it is interesting to see that many Chinese are more interested in the surface decoration on heavily manufactured, precise wares. It seems like something is lost in the picture, maybe Mr. Mao's sweeping hand has something to do with it.

Huang Fei and his student. Behind them lay (or is it lies... or maybe just lie. Mr. Coppage would be very disappointed right now) the Chang Jiang (River).

Huang Fei's favorite American author is Hemingway and with my beard he thought I looked like him, so I tried to act like him. Is this how Hemingway was? Well it is now for two Chinese ceramists.

Also here is my mold maker making my molds most merrily.

Furthermore, the water got turned back on today. A joyous occasion. Cold weather caused a pipe to burst, leaving us with only a trickle of cold water. And I added some "gadgets" to the blog. Tell me if they suck.

Jingdezhen

2009-01-10T19:40:00.001-08:00

I've been here for a week now and while my eyes are no longer glaze over and head spun from Seoul and Shanghai, it is still taking some getting used to. This city of 1.2 million is like a giant clay workshop/ warehouse. It seems like everyone is involved in ceramics in one way or another. Specializations in the field have been industrialized and it is a manufacturing extravaganza. You can look on the city as a giant factory. There are shops where people just throw forms and another person comes to trim (a highly respected position). Shops that just make molds; slipcast or pressmold. People that will do the actual press molding for you. Public kilns that are constantly churning out work. Glazers that sit and glaze anybody's ware.

Some shops specialize in traditional Chinese sculpture castings, others that do traditional Chinese pottery, and some that only cast Chairman Mao. Then there are shops that just do the onglaze or enamel painting of each of these. Multiple places that only sell onglaze decals, others only do inglaze decals and still more that produce just underglaze decals. These are then further broken down into places that make custom decals or have an inventory available. Big pot factories, tile factories, kiln shelf stores, really big pot factories, clay factories, kiln brick shops, tool shops, brush shops, box makers, crate builders, modellers...

The clay is like cream cheese. Rarely do I drop a pot while on the wheel, but the first five fell down, and even more have been thrown out due to cracking. This body has to be approached in a while new manner. The Chinese throw very thick and then trim very thin when it is bone dry. Even putting pieces together is done when bone dry. Seems ridiculous and destined for failure, but they have found a way to make it work for the past few thousand years.

There was a large feast the other night as an 'end of the year' get together. All of the staff and some local factory owners and staff came. It was good fun, amazing food- that is all the time though. After the meal, some of the guests came up and sang traditional songs from their respective province. An oral history passed down from generation to generation.

A dozen of us piled in to taxis later that night and rode three quarters of a block to a new "establishment" recently opened in Jingdezhen. The doorman was sceptical of letting us in and had to be pursuaded. Eventually he let us in... let us in to the seediest place imaginable. There were two dozen of these couch/ love chairs dimly lit and occupied by trashy, toothless old men ogling at a handful of scantily clad "staff". We were all a bit somber (and relatively sober) to walk into such a dreary scene. Needless to say, we didn't stay long. Desiring a more lively place, we went back down to the first floor to the new club that had opened up.

Take a swimming pool center-- about hte size of Ripon College's-- drain the pool and cover it over with concrete and wood. Install a video screen that you would find in a small town movie theater and play the visual effects that came standard with the original Windows Media Player. Put in glass tables with chrome chairs, green laser that shoot repetitive patterns of ant-like clusters onto the ground, and a galaxy of disco balls hanging from the ceiling. Next, find your favorite Art Deco motif, turn it into neon lighted wallpaper and cover the walls with it. Feel free to adjust to your preferred pulsating color scheme. Cover the remaining pillars and un-used wall space with chrome & black checkered aluminum/tin paneling. Have a skinny little Thai girl pole dancing behind and on the bar & stage. Also have a saxophone playing deejay that spends his daylight hours as an Asian Assasin for hire. Turn on your favorite German techno and overdub it with RunDMC, Sugar Hill Gang, 2 Live Crew, or Public Enemy. Remove all customers and transplant twelve ceramic geeks; Chinese, Japanese, American, and British. Make them dance poorly.

The combination of Caucasians and Asians on the dancefloor is something to behold. The worst dancers imaginable. Big, unnecessary arm gestures, awkward steps, and less rhythmic than a water spill. My favorite move of the night was that shuffle-backstep move that Troyer, Wally and I used to bust out at the Attic to win Italian hoagies or cheese puffs. A small pizza if we were lucky.

Other than that, I've started work-- have a few sculptures in the works and definitely making use of the vast resources here. I just hope I don't freeze to death before I complete them. Unfortunately, nobody got the memo over here about insulated walls and central heating.

Year of the Ox

2009-01-04T21:20:00.000-08:00

Finally I have a chance to reflect a little bit now that I am in Jingdezhen. I got here yesterday after spending some time in Seoul and Shanghai. In Seoul, Mr. Boesch showed me another great time on the town. We decided to skip the clubs this time and went out for a calmer evening of food, drinks and a hookah bar.

Mark, his friend whose name I forget, and I met some of the local flavour at the hookah bar and were joined the rest of the evening with two Seoul denizens. One of the ladies was a little intoxicated and a lot whiny, and she became a bit of an obnoxious addtion throughout the night while the other was not so much. Needless to say, it was a lot of fun with a large amount of laughter at the garbled conversations from both nationalities. The whiny one kept on teaching me the word 'stupid' in Korean, which I first thought she meant about me, then Mark, but in the end I believe she was actually speaking of herself. A little composure please, and more soju.

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I left the next day for Shanghai feeling better than I did the last time I left Seoul. By that I mean with a minimal amount of sleep and a clean shirt. It is nice to enter a city in another country and know your way about, and without fault I found my way to Sonja's abode in the French Concession. I was suffering from some serious sleep deprivation over the past week and was a bit catatonic by the time I got there. Sonja, Kendra, and Cori, on the other hand, were well prepared for any and every thing. That first night we mildly chatted and sipped some wine until Kendra decided to make herself a rum & Baileys. Mind you the only rum in the house was 151. I don't get it either, but they rallied into a full on dance party while I pathetically laid on the couch trying to remember speech and keep my eyes open.

On the final day of 2008 we rested and debated how to finish this year off. This went on all day. Don't knock it, it was nice. We ended up meeting with some of their friends and headed to Captain's Hostel near the Bund. The place was packed and stuffy but afforded a nice view of PuDong.

Across the streeet we ventured to the House of Blues and Jazz, not to be confused with the House of Blues. Sonja and Kendra were already there dancing their faces off and the New Year came in a slow, arrythmic countdown that might have been a few minutes early. Nobody noticed or cared.
Auld Lang Syne-- I don't know the words but it will be my resolution to committ them to memory in preperation for next year. That and.... another language. I think I'll try to learn another language this year, I'll give Chinese a go while I'm here, but it is hard. Wo tingbudong. Plus, I must add that I succeeded in last year's resolution while in Wisconsin. Yes, friends-- a slam dunk. You didn't think I could do it, neither did I. But I have photographic proof.

We left the HBJ in the early minutes of 2009 for the Shelter; a smoky, grimy, cavernous expat club that is somewhere near somewhere else. Taxis were difficult so five of us crammed into some regular car and convinced the driver to take us there. Kendra decided to take a nap along the way and it was determined that she better head to the homestead to sleep it off. Sonja & I, however, chose to hop out of the non-taxi and head to another party to meet some people. Like I said, taxis were difficult to find so Sonja flagged down a motorcycle and convinced him to take us there. The following is an excerpt from my journal written the next day:

...packed three tight on a 250cc motorcycle in downtown Shanghai in 35 degree weather. One of the scariest/ most fun experiences. Traffic rules are more so guidelines in China and our driver ripped through the streets with Sonja and I hanging on for dear life... but sometimes you have to embrace the chaotic nature of life and let yourself go... the cards will fall wherever. Jacks & Queens atop the Joker and a spade. A heart surrounded by clubs. And a diamond in the rubble. I let my clenching fists go of the screaming motorbike and soared into the passing Shanghai night. I could have flown away. Head back, arms out, with a light heart and glistening eyes, all that I know was contained in that moment with the dark night whirling by. My life, my loves, my passions and fears, dreams and consequences, nightmares and desires All contained on a little Honda three speed with a beast, a flower, and a breeze...

We arrived at the party to learn that it was being held for the homosexual expat community of Shanghai. Including Sonja and myself, there were a total of five straight people at the bustling party. I found a nice comfortable spot very near the bar and spent the night enraptured in conversation with Ismene. Sonja was off and eventually departed with out us. I started to feel the walls come in a bit and Ismene and I headed off to the Shelter, where we found no one recognizable. Thus we gave in to the night and escaped to the solace of her wonderful home near the Bund. And 2009 rolled in with an epic adventure...

Oh, and I've been taking pictures with my phone. Sorry, I'll stop doing that now.

The Christmas Saga

2009-01-02T21:26:00.001-08:00

I think this is a story worth mentioning in its entirety. Grab a glass of wine and relax for a bit.

I was surprisingly prepared for the three-month excursion. Bags packed, bills paid, affairs in (relative) order; not the usual nor the norm. Unfortunately my keys & iPod were lost. I searched and flipped over everything in the apartment, but they were nowhere to be found. Leaving for an already pressing ferry schedule, acceptance of our separation was necessary. The P.O.S. would have to reside in its location for the winter and I was to miss out on forty gig of music, podcasts, audiobooks and language instruction. Unhappy. That’s what I was about it. Hungover too. Turns out that Cote de Rhone and Tequila do not mix as well as they would appear to. Who’d have known. Struggling through a haze with a sixty-pound suitcase, twenty pound box with glorious presents, a backpack for the lighter side of things and anticipation of lost baggage (socks, toothbrush, nicotine patches, and condoms) and of course the lifeline—laptop case; I blundered onto the ferry to start the rest of my life. Beginning with the obnoxious traveling that is required to leave Orcas Island and eventually arrive in Ripon. I’ve never done it in less than twelve hours and only took longer when driving myself.

Maureen and Elizabeth were lucky to see me in a nearly complete stupor, dragging all of my things behind me. In order to keep the conversation as far away as possible from anything serious and potentially revealing, I tried to keep them laughing and diverted my own attention to writing “fragile” on each side of my too-large-should-have-shipped-it-box-of-Xmas-presents. But know it looked good with large and noticeable letters plastered all over it. Very large, very noticeable.

I pushed myself and dragged my luggage off the boat, bracing the too-big-box on my shoulder & face. Boat in 11.30, shuttle @ 11.55… no, wrong—should have looked at the schedule. 12.55. Plenty of time for the 5.15 flight. In the middle of some life sustaining actions Nicole meandered up and expressed some deep concern in regards to the my appearances. Something about a fight. Not since the 90’s, thanks. But my face—yes my face apparently had been the recipient of the one of the beautiful g’s that were painstakingly placed on the box. In red, permanent marker. Won’t wash off. It’s on there and it looks as if I were smashed in the face with a 2x4 by Hacksaw Jim Duggan. Strike one—actually strike two since the keys and iPod were no longer.

On this day, the usually punctual shuttle for SeaTac was twenty-five minutes late. Strike three. Two erroneous stops to pick up non-existent passengers put us further behind. Little attention was paid and sleep came over me. After some time, I stirred and started to dry the drool out of my beard. A light snow had started and the overly cautious driver slowed his speed to a cool 30 mph. Exactly half the designated speed limit for that stretch of I-5. It is 4.32, seven miles to SeaTac, a little less hungover, and the drool in my beard is giving my face a little chill when a breeze blows through it.

I’ve never had to do holiday flights but have been to SeaTac enough times to recognize that it is quite a bit busier than usual and the people are slow to get off the bus. We’re here, get the hell off. Get off. Get off. Get off. They do and I collect my bags and burst into the airport like a wrecking ball into a glass house. Still a touch of a hangover. 4.48 pm. I already know it is too late, but one has to try. Maybe I can charm her, she looks my age. Oh, that’s right—I’ve been sweating out Cote de Cuervo, it looks like I was pummeled in the face with building equipment, and there is still a bit of a chill on my face. It is still shocking to not be allowed to check my bags. Strike three. The lines are backing up everywhere and the light snow turned into heavy snow. Flights are getting cancelled—here, Portland, Spakane, Boise, even in San Fran, Sacramento, and Las Vegas. After a few hours in lines, on hold, in lines, on hold, in lines, on hold, this guy gets rescheduled for 2.30 tomorrow to Chicago via San Fran.

Meanwhile it continues to snow snow snow in and around Seattle. Myself and six others depart the airport in a taxi van back to Seattle proper. All the hotels near SeaTac are booked, and since I’m going to Ballard all these jackholes get dropped first in downtown. Only the main streets are open and people are plowing through half a foot of snow to get to pubs and restaurants. Six inchecs of snow isn’t a lot of snow except for a city that has 27 snowplows to service a major metro area. But Mr. Cabbie is a champ, he gets up some serious hills warranting some ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ from the riders. An hour and forty five minutes I arrive @ Kari’s house, nearly 11.00. We passed cars stranded crooked in intersections, kids building jumps in the middle of streets, snowmen of an unfortunate fate, and a cross-country skier gliding swiftly through the desolate glow of the city.

Kari is hoping to leave the next morning for Denver @ 7.30. By the time I arrive, she has little hope for success and we weigh our options (heavy)—get some sleep & wake up early or go to the pub. A short deliberation leaves the former as the most responsible option and sleep wins for once. It is now after midnight and all of the taxis and car services aren’t taking reservations for the morning due to weather. Still snowing. We get a few hours of sleep and drive to the airport @ 3.45.

The airport is loaded with weary travelers forced to sleep on cots or the floor. Still snowing. Kari goes and gets on her flight and makes it to Denver. Lucky. I’ve got a few hours to kill for my 2.30 and I roll my cart with the too-big-box around the airport. By the time 10 am rolls around three airlines have cancelled all flights in and out of SeaTac and mine falls in suit twenty minutes after getting in line to check my bags. Strike four/ five? An already clogged airport is about to get a lot worse. Amtrak has canceled all trains. Greyhound has canceled all buses. You can’t get out of Seattle unless you drive, walk, or crawl. I’m not crawling. I do, however, have to call an already sad eight year old and giver her more bad news.

Getting on the information superhighway, also known as the “Internet,” I finally find a reasonably priced flight to Chicago via Denver (it is literally impossible to get anywhere else in the Midwest) with an overnight in Denver. Get back in line and try again. By this time, getting just to the other side of security looks like an oasis in a desert of humans. The rebook line for Alaska is roughly six hours long. Not too long in this line and Alaska cancels all flights in or out, they close up the check baggage area and tell everyone to go home or to a hotel and rebook from there. Strike 17… 23? A couple queries find out that the earliest flights out of Seattle are on the 24, 25th. Shit.

Matt kindly agrees to put his moving on hold that day and picks me up from the airport in the badass Suburban in order to regroup at Kim’s house and try and call/ email the airline. In exchange I help him move a load of stuff out of his house. We get to Kim’s in the evening and I drink beer and eat pizza. Having been trying to call Alaska all day, I had little hope of reaching them since it was a busy signal all day at both numbers. I call every major domestic airline that services Seattle and of the two that I actually spoke to someone, the cheapest ticket out was $1400 on the 25th. Mind you that through all of this, I have a return ticket on the 27th and then on to Shanghai on the 28th. All I want is to spend time with Autumn, screw the birthday. Obviously this isn’t going to happen on a couch in Capitol Hill and it dawns that had to get back to the airport. At 11.00 pm I called a guy that was offering rides on craigslist to SeaTac for $75.

John. John pulls up in his 4x4 SUV in a Land’s End flannel & Windmere pullover with Journey blaring on the radio inside his sauna of a car. I take my coat, hat, gloves and sweatshirt off and buckle up. John says he is happy to help (ahem… make money), I pay him, he drives off. I don’t think John knew it was snowing and I should have paid him when I got there. John says that he has always liked driving in the snow and is always eager to “see what he can do” in it. I tell John, “don’t do that now.” Staying away from donuts and brake checks, John cruises at a mere 65 mph in the midst of Seattle’s worst snowstorm in decades. He got me to the airport faster than I ever have in seventy degrees and sun.

Arriving at the airport, it is clear that the rebook line is a bit longer than earlier but with little choice, I queue up. Strike 392. The next twelve hours are spent in this line. Inching forward. A cowboy inches forward next to me. A salesman from Spokane inches forward in front of me. A soldier inches forward behind me. A young woman that repeatedly says, “it feels like it takes a lot longer when I don’t talk to anyone” inches forward behind him. I watch a Wilco movie on the laptop. We inch forward. Laptop dies. Inch forward. Annoying woman behind soldiers continues to speak to anyone/ everyone within earshot. I pull out the iPod that I had lost but later found in the exact place I had put it, keys were found too—they were in the pocket of the jeans that I was wearing while looking for them. Inch forward. Inspecting facial structures of people in line. Do crossword. Inch. Drink coffee. Smoke. (I quit). Stare. Inch. Re-inspect facial structure of people nearby. Smile feebly when the realized that I have been staring at the continuation of their forehead to the bridge of their nose for the past three feet, i.e. twenty minutes.

The president of Alaska Airlines comes out to soothe distressed travelers at hour eight or nine. Having been in line since midnight, this also marks the hour of the day. His method of alleviating our worries about getting home is to inform us that waiting in the line we were currently in wasn’t really going to help our situation much. I wished that I had a spit-wad shooter. This moron is telling people this after eight hours and while new travelers are returning to the airport in order to get in the line I was in. By now it was up to 15-20 hrs. Dipshit. I wanted to lock him in a room with the annoying woman behind the soldier. That was the first time I became mad at the situation.

By noon good news finally came. Re-book lady found a seat to Chicago via Orlando. It left in an hour. She did her little refund stuff, put those unnecessarily long stickers on the too-big-box and too-big-suitcase and I ran to the gate. Fighting the urge to breakdance through security, I got to the gate just in time to board, sat down, pulled a blanket over my head and passed out before taxi to the runway, not to wake up until 5.5 hrs later notified of arrival.

Orlando was not quite as warm as I was hoping, but no snow. A hotel room for a few hours to nap & shower, then a taxi back to the airport at 4 am to catch the early flight. Upon arriving in Chicago, I had two hours to get to Union Station to catch the train to Milwaukee. Chicago was getting a blizzard too. In a complete waste of time, I waited in a line to check my bags. Train leaves @ 10.20. At 10.13 the woman behind the counter condescendingly informs me that passengers don’t have to check bags on the Hiawatha line. Bitch. As I run around the corner to the gate, the oversize- electronic glass doors silently and gently close. A perfect five minutes prior to departure, just as the sign says. And the woman pretending not to hear me pound on the glass doors to open them up spoke on her walkie talkie directly on the other side of the door. Strike 4,123.

Next train leaves in three hours. I buy another ticket and drag my too-big-box and too-big-suitcase and backpack and computer bag outside to watch the snow whirl about in the Windy City. A bus driver steps out and says, “ last call for Madison.” I hesitate but get on and buy a ticket. Three others chase the bus down a few blocks later and pay for standing room only. Five hours later the bus arrives in Madison. An hour wait for the cab—idiots. Another hour for the rental car—morons. Finally, I drive myself to Ripon, and am greeting by this smiling face. Well worth it John Candy.

High Demand

2008-11-10T15:18:00.000-08:00

There has also been a lot of demand and admiration for the stache, so I wanted to offer my own free of charge for some of those eager and adoring fans. Now you can print your own and wear it... well- everywhere!

Mustache update

2008-11-10T14:55:00.000-08:00

The mustache is not a hit at the local hardware store. My friend Roy used the word "ugghh," when he first saw me and the lady behind the counter was less than pleasant. But we did counterbalance a kiln lid, apply new bandings around the lid, and re-wired the mo-fo. That is what I call a "Yes We Can" stache.

November is Mustache Month-- Movember

2008-11-09T11:15:00.000-08:00

We'll start with a Halloween beginning, for that is when the mustache ascended to the stature of which it now holds on my face. If Richard Simmons isn't creepy enough, only a mustache and a nicotine patch could help him to further that status. As I work on sculpting the new focal point of my face, I hope I can keep up to date with pictures and reactions. All ready had an interesting few since the beginning of the month. First notable event was on a morning jog last week. Even as the Fall gets wetter and cooler, visitors still make time to come up to Orcas. West Beach Resort has had a sporadic spattering of guests and they usually quite jovial and welcoming as I huff and wheeze past their cabins early in the morning. That is-- until meine musstacio. An unsuspecting guest almost missed a step and pulled her dog a little closer with the leash even though she looked as if the mutt had just deuced right under her nose when I trotted by. Success! First stranger had an adverse reaction.

My students still may be a bit weary. I've addressed it forthright and opened to public discourse, but its fullness and beautiful brown chestnut tone may be a bit too intimidating for them. I tried to restore their confidence as a role-model, friend, and ally by pleading, "Fear not, with this 'stache my powers of completion are twice-fold. Plumbing, electrical problems and small engine repair are now added to my already extensive repetoire. Think of it more as a "can-do" 'stache. I can do anything now." They didn't buy it. But I could see the pride in Taylor's face as we entered the Pacific Northwest Ballet yesterday. Search as I may, no other mustache was to be seen at the ballet. I was just another fly on the wall at the Seattle Art Museum earlier in the day (mustache was good, but jeans weren't tight enough). Damien stopped by to admire my upper lip warmer and as we sat and talked a precursor to a possible future stopped to chat donning a short sandy 'stache and a blond mullet. As he spoke he intermittently sipped on his two liter Diet Dr. Pepper. He spoke of many things that needed no response from either of us, but he did inform us that he slammed a case before venturing to 1st Ave. and ended with something about Ewoks, I think.

If you want to learn more about Movember, follow the link.

South, North, South, North, North, South, North

2008-09-24T09:31:00.000-07:00

Well, I spent the last week being thankful that I am poor and have no major investments to lose. It'll be easier on us, we know what its like already. Me-1, McCain-0. Its nice that the higher ups can stop and think about the precariousness of their financial status, most of us can do it any day we want.

Luckily, however, I came to this brilliant self-discovery while bouncing through the state of California. (its on the west coast-- of America) Under the guise of visiting graduate programs, I celebrated the end of the summer with a jaunt in So. Cal. Aunty Bevvy opened her doors in San Diego and we took on a mission to see how much of her wine we could consume, which was a fair amount. Intermittently we visited the famous sand depots of Ocean and Mission Beach. Brett Favre (at least that's what his jersey said) gave us a fine show of his impeccable aim and narrowly avoided dropping seven strangers off their bicycles, denting three Mercedes and a VW, and nearly devastating the visages of four first-class females. A mighty hero. He was from Green Bay too, if that says anything.

We also stopped in to see our cousins at the famous San Diego Zoo. It turns out that caged animals don't get as excited to see us as we do of them, who knew. But it is a lovely zoo and Shawn Mullins has never performed there that I know of. SDSU seems like a fine school with a good program and the Clay Associates, a non-profit educational establishment, furthered the allure to the last stop before Mexico. (I cannot throw a stone from San Diego to Tijuana).

I stole Bev's car and drove to L.A., which it turns out would have been faster to walk there, in order to arrive on the minute of my meeting at UCLA. Six total hours of driving for an hour-and-a-half in L.A. was a bit ridiculous, but I did have a brief lunch with Cousin Grant in El Segundo, and he's nice. Back in SD, we continued on the wine goal over dinner and were delighted to receive an invite to the studios at the Clay Associates. Bless Eric for putting up with the two of us until one in the morning while he was stone sober. He and his venue are amazing and I recommend the visit.

Did I forget to mention Virgin-- Virgin America. It is the first airline that has ever acknowledged my destiny to rockstardom and they did so by keeping on the purple, blue and red club lights throughout each leg of my three flight journey and played moderate techno music when I boarded. They even let me sit first class on the last flight. We're all rockstars on the Virgin. Me-2, McCain-0.

And so it goes to San Francisco and Alex The Hooker. (no correlation between Hooker and Virgin). As I was in rough shape from the night prior, we took it easy with Emerson and discussed too many things to remember, but as soon as one was repeated it was over. I had rented a plastic box with wheels for the last few days in the Bay Area and used the POS to cruise up the coast to Stinson Beach and Point Reyes.

It had been six years since I last drove that stretch on my innaugural journey out to the West, which doesn't seem like too long, but I have driven over the Great Plains and Rocky Mts. at least twice a year for a long time now. The road gets muddled along the way. I digress. It had been a long time, I got introspective, you get the picture. But never had I been to Point Reyes Lighthouse, and it is quite the place. It has a lot of history, follow the link.

Needless to say, It was a wonderful day of loud music, American Spirits, coffee, and bad gas mileage. Oh, if you ever are out there and pass through Inverness Park, stop at the Busy Bee Bakery, yum.

Alex would also like me to mention that his work week is until Saturday, so if you visit, wait until then. He also does a lot of great things where he works, the Golden Gate National Recreation Area, so check that out too.

Meetings at California College of the Arts and UC Berkeley filled much of the next day with a quick lunch with Mr. John Geisler, whom is a candidate for the MFA in Architecture at CCA. Then I pushed the plastic box up to Guerneville to the Jameson, Will and Axel. They were more than gracious hosts and let me do laundry. Turns out the Axel thinks I'm more humorous than anything and we became fast friends. I'll be manager for the band. He's cute, but you know that because Jameson has a blog all about him that you probably already read too. Short stay with the fam., and jumped back into the PLASTIC BOX-- wasn't there a time when American automakers made quality cars? Sick.

But over to Sonoma to party with the extended family at Alexa & Ryan's wedding. Not me, I didn't marry my cousin, that is actually frowned upon in Western culture. Ryan Fox did, though, and he is a nice man. They held the wedding at the Atwood Ranch, a stunning private vineyard north of Sonoma, and it was filled with family and friends. Great food, fine wines, cutting a rug, night on the town, car service from SPD; a very successful affair it was. We stayed at a small B&B in Sonoma called Ramekins. Along with being a gorgeous inn, it is also a culinary institute; giving lectures and demonstrations from leading chefs. John Ash was demonstrating over the weekend we were there.

We said our long goodbyes after breakfast the next morning, anticipating a get together next summer. Then it was back to San Francisco for another night with Hooks. He, Natalya and I went out for Vietnamese and watched the Packers get demolished while the villian from the Scream series paced up and down the restaurant with blood oozing from his mask.

Probably why the Packers lost, but who cares; Brett Favre is in San Diego. We also went to meet up with Dr. John Geisler and some of his Middlebury alumni. It was Ryan's (not me) birthday and they were all celebrating by playing bar die-- not to be confused with Mexican or Goochers. The purpose of this game was to take a die and try and throw it to hit the ceiling while simultaneously not try and hit the ceiling in order for the die to hit your opponent team's end of the table and bounce off the table while they try to catch it single-handedly, lest they may have to run around the block naked. Apparently those rules are a bit more lax since relocating to San Francicso where it is an honor and not a punishment to frolic in the buff on the streets.

Next day, back to Seattle. Did I forget anything? Probably, but you don't care, you weren't even there. Now I need to get back to studying for the GRE. Bye.

Labor Day 08: High Speeds and Livin' the Dream.

2008-09-02T14:15:00.000-07:00

Forgive any missed events or lack of description, I'm still in a daze from the Labor day weekend activities. I hope to come out of it by the time '09 gets here. Orcas Island was invaded by seven entities over the weekend. They have names: Kelly, Alex, Drew, Adam, Kate, Liam, Sherry. If you can only visualize a face with each of these, then I'm sorry, because they brought with them the wrath of heaven and hell. First to sweep over the shores were Kelly and Alex via the Vibrator on Thursday. Their charisma and energy on the dance floor that night will long be remembered. Some of the island natives- Brad, Kaitlin, Megan, Elizabeth, Emily and Finn- joined us and witnessed a serious Riponia shredding of PJ's chipboard floors. When they stepped in, it was all over, and we cut such a rug that the support beams under PJ's house may have buckled.

Meanwhile, over the endless fields and pass the Continental Divide, Adam, Kate and Drew rushed across the Great Plains and Rocky Mts. faster than a sixteen year old on prom night. They departed Madison at 9 pm, Wednesday evening and were at PJ's house Friday morning before we could awake from the deep slumber set upon by the dance party. 28 hours. Thats roughly 2000 miles folks. With only a minor situation in the ferry lane in Anacortes (Adam had difficulties locating his computer-- which was in Wisconsin), they beat the total estimated time given by mapquest-- shattered it, and unfortunately, they also destroyed the long standing record held by yours truly. My hat goes off to them. While they recovered, napped, and scampered about Isle de Orcas, I laid out the crab pots for one final go to finish off the 08 crabbing season. By the time we all reconvened at Orcas Island Pottery we were ready to scoop up some dunges and reddies for a crabby feast. I rowed my little Walker Bay dinghy out in to rough seas (later found out that there was a gale advisory that day) to loaded pots. Sadly though, the busy season had depleted the numbers of keepers and we had to throw all of 'em back.

Spirits were lifted later with the resurrection of the pong table and we all learned some interesting things about Alex and his affinity for brightly colored underwear. Furthermore, you might be able to expect a hit single from Adam and I hitting stores sometime in the Spring of '09. It is headed to mixing and "Wabash Cannonball" will be available soon.

In lieu of becoming complete sloths, we ventured forth on Saturday to hike up Turtleback Mt. The blackberries are in full force these days and we snacked on many as we tramped up the south end of Turtleback to be graced with stunning views of Orcas and other surrounding islands. This was followed by snacks and brews on North Beach. We tried to play "throw things at things" but PJ selected the smallest piece of driftwood he could find and the game fizzled out. It was recommended that Liam and Sherry depart as early as possible that morning to arrive in time for the planned night activities but there developed some delays around "Bullshit Central" (which is a city near Portland-- I think) and we had to depart on our fishing/whale watching expedition without them.

Beau of Outer Island Expeditions again went above and beyond the call of duty and took us to the Gulf Islands (a continuation of the San Juans, but in Canada) to be dazzled by a frenzy of orcas.

We drifted about as the sun set over Salt Spring Island surrounded by forty-some whales occasionally breaching, spy hopping, and tail slapping. On our way back to Orcas, we scooped up his nine crab pots and had much better luck, raking in ten luscious crabs keen to be eaten. We also caught two of the largest sun stars that I have ever seen, much to the dismay of Kate. Upon arriving back at Camp PJ, Liam and Sherry were waiting there for us and we cooked up a fine feast fit for friends of crab and frozen pizza.

Steve Braun was a native islander and avid outdoorsman whom sadly passed years back in a kayaking accident. In memorium of him, the Orcas Rec Program started an annual triathlon in his honor. I heard about this Thursday evening from Brad and was immediately sold on it. It may come as a shock to you, but I'm not in that good of shape. Thus being the case, I knew I would need some assistance in completing this test of endurance and, unknown to them, I signed up Liam and Alex to participate in team "Livin' the Dream" for the 10th Annual Steve Braun Memorial Triathlon. They were informed of there required participation on Friday afternoon and left to prep in their own ways; which we did nightly until one to two a.m. After an exceptionally viscious training session on Saturday night, we woke up at seven a.m. to depart for Cascade Lake, leaving our team of trainers snoring and drooling.

In a haze, we registered and got ready for a .4 mile swim, 17 mile bike ride, and 3.5 mile run which myself, Alex, and Liam did respectively. It should be mentioned that I do not swim. I know how, but I also know how to swing dance, and I do that about as much as I competitively swim. It should also be mentioned that Alex is a fine biker... a damn fine biker. Alex also likes beer, and the bike that was available was a 1984 Schwinn that PJ purchased at a garage sale a year and a half ago and had never even rode. Furthermore it should be mentioned that Liam was one hell of a runner, but as Sherry pointed out, "In the two and a half years that I've dated Liam, I've never once seen him run." A more unlikely group there never was. But we were stubborn... and hungover.

I can't speak for Alex or Liam, but the swim was hell, and I don't doubt they would say something similar to their legs of the event. The water couldn't have been warmer than 65 degrees and I don't own a wetsuit, or goggles. I took the plunge and started strong but it soon became clear that I was going to have to keep my head out of the water for how hard I was panting to catch my breath. Thus, I lagged behind and finished leaving my teammates a large margin of time to catch up on.

But luckily, Alex has the largest calves of anyone I know. In slip-on Vans and a ProTec skateboarding helmet, Alex crushed the biking section of the race. He passed upwards of forty people on his ride and tagged off to Liam in good position.

Liam harnessed some serious endurance and rocked the running part, passing a handful of other runners even with a minor detour. Our trainers had stumbled their way to the lake by the start of the race and with 20 oz. lattes in hand, cheered their faces off all the while. PJ even suffered a flat tire in his quest to catch up with Alex. By the time it was over we were happy to have completed it and not mindful of our time or ranking.

And the best way to follow up a triathlon? Burgers, onion rings and beer from the Lower Tavern. Plus a long lie-down in Eastsound Park while PJ, Sherry and Megan played volleyball with some tourists. Getting back to PJ's and everyone was wiped... that is, until we received the results of the triathlon via email. Turns out that we placed 3rd out of thirteen in the team category and 20th overall. Not bad for a bunch of drinking and smoking SOBs. And finishing immediately before us were islanders Carlos and Dyana (they did the whole thing). If you didn't follow the link earlier, you can see the full results here.

Needless to say, a tame, restful night got flipped right around when it became a bronze medalist celebration! (No medals were actually given out.) Furthermore, Adam also awarded us with Rookie of the Year and first place in the "No Goggles" category. Pong, finger moustaches, encore perfomance of "Wabash Cannonball," you name it, we did it.

Alex and Kelly snuck out early the next morning and PJ, Drew, Kate, and Adam ferried over to San Juan to play some frisbee golf while Liam, Sherry, Megan, and I visited the folks at Bullock's Permaculture Farm. As we walked about the farm, I was overcome with Dionysian fantasies of running through the throngs of veggies and fruit trees in search of nymphs and satyrs. Whatever pheromones that are running in those roots, keep 'em coming.

Liam and Sherry left later that afternoon and we passed the night away with Kate's divine potato soup and Drew's famous artichoke dip, followed by Trivial Pursuit with Doctor Uno. Kate, Adam, and Drew left early this morning, hopefully at more of a leisurely pace back to Wisco. I haven't been able to pull myself together all day. One hell of a weekend.

Portland Portland Portland (with a Bend in there too)

2008-08-27T13:34:00.000-07:00

Blog delay. Lots o' stuff happening. Its been a while. Here we go. Two weekends ago turned out to be a grade A auditory, visual, and sensual extravaganza. We hopped a flight from the bustling Eastsound Airport from a new good friend, Scott Malcom, in his charming little Cessna into an actually bustling Hillsboro Airport in Portland. One and a half hour flight versus a six to seven hour car hell-ride... you do the math. It was a great flight over the sound and past the Olympic mountains that I sure hope to do again. Upon arriving in Portland, Kelly picked us up and, worried about our spiritual energies ( I was with PJ), she decided to take us to a Christian/Spiritual Festival down by the waterfront. I can't remember what it was called-- we stayed for a really long time, measurable in minutes. All revved up with cosmic, metaphysical goodness (...), we sallied forth to an equally energetic venue: The Vault. You really can't beat four dollar happy-hour martinis. Sara, Nick, Blaze, Liam and some new friends came to talk about God, String Theory, and the world's best burrito (which might be at Ole Ole's in Portland). We finished off the evening at Kelly's favorite hangout, Chopsticks, so she could sing karaoke and we could cheer her on, cause thats what happens when you go to karaoke with Kelly. Blaze was a little annoyed with our neighbors that evening and decided to cool them off with some PBR; very thoughtful of her, don't you think. They were very appreciative and decided to follow us outside to thank us repeatedly.

Anyway, next day... After kidnapping Liam, we scooted into Kelly's Vibrator and drove off to Bend. Up into the high desert we passed the time by reading Adam Mella's short story about Alex the Hooker and his bicycle journey across the USA a few years back. It is a great story that Adam adapted from Alex's journal. You might be able to read it here, if not, I couldn't get the link to work. Too bad. Wilco was playing at the Les Schwab Amphitheater, hence the need for a three hour car ride. Kent, Steph and their fine friend Mary-Chris Mas (yup, thats right-- say it again) joined us to the concert and kindly let us stink up the house they rented. Turns out that they brought two dogs there as well. Big ones. A Rottweiler and another named Bear-- I didn't make eye contact with either the entire time.

Back to Portland for The Avett Brothers. Whiskey drinking, gun slinging SOBs made me wish I wore a diaper, they rocked my ass off. We sat in the rain for three hours and it was well worth it. Shawn Mullins was the opener and I wonder how much he had to pay the Avett Brothers to do so. Even the newborn elephant was a little pissed off. Wet, thirsty and hungry, our crew rendezvoused at the Rogue Brewery to have some of the best beer I've ever had. Drink some today, you won't be disappointed. A stopover at a Portland past-time, Mary's (moms and dads might want to control this link), and this blogger was ready for sleep (in the cab ride home).

We finished the weekend speaking little and doing about as much, except for the world's best bookstore, Powell's. Go there, read a book. Flew back to Orcas with Scott and upon arriving PJ's car was dead. Turns out there is no need for satellite radio to play all weekend in a parked car. Who knew.

OO 2008

2008-08-03T21:10:00.000-07:00

In lieu of the upcoming Beijing Olympics, Orcas Island held its own Olympics today. With an unhampered torch ceremony and complete lack of protesters, the event was a smashing success-- Orcas-1, Beijing-0. Held at Matthew and Erin's land, which is adjacent to Maple Rock Farm, many of the island's finest attended and participated in many extremely specialized and difficult events: badminton, bocce ball, twister, egg toss, orange pass, boat race, limbo, suck & blow, and shirt swap.

Intermittent activities also included hula hoops, beer drinking, elbow tag, beer drinking, Monty Python and the Holy Grail tag (think of the stubborn knight who still tries to fight after losing his limbs), beer drinking, and an ultimate cage-free wrestling match between Alfred and Charlie and preparatory maneuvers for a new Land Rover commercial. Plus a little beer drinking. Alex brought a beautiful salmon to grill up and Anne made divine carrot cake cupcakes (alliteration- thank you Mr. Coppage). Plus, Kai donated a heap of gorgeous greens from Morningstar Farm.

The Jammers and the Whiffers battled it out in the grueling events and the games ended with a tie and both teams taking home the silver. (It turns out that a large group of smokers and drinkers are not quite as adept to suck & blow as they once were in their formative years- a half point was awarded to each team.) The gold was awarded to Lola, who won all events in the Special Olympics, she does have a neck brace dammit.

Ruffles and Granny

2008-08-02T22:41:00.000-07:00

The orca whale is not a whale, it is the largest of the dolphin family. Fortunately that does not detract from the allure to witnessing the aquatic beasts in the wild. They still are magnificent creatures and almost wholly contribute to the livelihood of most of the denizens of the San Juan Islands, whether they will admit it or not. After six weeks of, "when are we going to see some whales?", Autumn and I finally got our chance through the graciousness of Beau Brandow and Outer Island Expeditions. We set out from Brandt's Landing on the north end of the Orcas Island and motored our way down Presidents Channel taking peaks at salmon, spotting out harbor porpoises, and gazing at seals on Flattop Island. A long deliberation ensued as to the gastronomical quality of a seal and ended in the answer of, "no". Moving along, we passed Spiden Island and sought out its population of exotic-four-legged-beasts. Rumor has it that early owners of the island, of which John Wayne is included, imported exotic game on to the island in order to expertly hunt after indulging in large quantities of their favorite libations. I hope it was PBR and Old Crow. None-the-less, Mouflon and European Roe deer can and will be seen on the island, we did so why can't you? Thank you John Wayne. Through Mosquito Pass, we finally reached Haro Strait, the separator of our land and Canadia, and the most likely place to see the worlds largest dolphin.

The southern resident whales that frequent the SJI are grouped into three different pods and many people have learned a lot about them and are probably smarter than me so look here. Our pheromones had attracted two top-notch orcas, Ruffles and Granny (J1 & J2), and they lingered by our boat begging us to take hundreds of crappy pictures and feel really good like the little boy in Free Willy.

And let me tell you, we've come a long way from yelling at Beau to go slow at the beginning of the summer to needing to go faster and faster all the time.

Double Time

2008-07-28T22:47:00.000-07:00

This inaugural post shall cover two momentous occasions over the past couple of weeks. Our little island held host to the first annual Waterball World Championships. Such notable attendees were The Fearsome Schoenbergers whom, all know, are the standing waterball champions of the Skagit Valley after their embarrassing defeat of the Smiths in the fall Skwaterball Fest (that name is made up). Needless to say, their presence was intimidating. On top of that, the Ultimate Experience (aka Justin Ellis, Juice, Newt, la Ducha) flew in from Wiscovia to display his dominance in the water. Presiding umpires were the lovely and vivacious duo of A.Q. Lawless and S. Schoenberger (she's pregnant and the taunts from la Ducha were too much to safely allow her to participate.) Joining with la Ducha was the luminary, la Noche ( yes, they were the night and the douche) and with Captain Schoenberger was yours truly.

In a stunning and awesome display of power and might, the Schoenberger-Lawless combination pummeled the unsuspecting challengers to a grand total of 101 to 28. The cries and moans from Ducha/Noche were unbearable and the games ended in their humiliating defeat. Never again shall they underestimate the full wrath of two has-been-ex-high-school-football-stars: Snaggle and Biff.

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Secondly, we celebrated the 35,496,000 second since la Noche's wailing entrance to this world this evening with a star-studded dinner party at the most noble house of Brad. After twenty-seven years, he is still an enjoyable person to spend time with; a feat that we all appreciate.