Stickman grows up

I went to both Pearl Jam concerts this week in Seattle. Everyone's got that one thing she can't miss, and I guess that's my thing. Each night was completely different from the other, though some fans (like a fan I'll call BW, who bought my extra ticket & hung out with me both nights) prefer to see the entire tour as one long ride on a wave of music.

Wandering around Key Arena, I told BW I wanted to find a Pearl Jam logo tattoo, specifically their Stickman icon, to photograph for this blog post. BW said that shouldn't be too hard, since a fairly high percentage of male hardcore Pearl Jam fans have a Stickman tattoo, most usually on their calves. Lo and behold, in the outdoor beergarden, there was Chip from Illinois - an extremely nice PJ devotee with a very fine tattoo (pictured).

I think in the olden days (ie, 1991) Stickman and his big, outstretched hands probably signified to me something like angst, adolescent yearning for total freedom, or some other typical and temporary youthful struggle with which we all identified through a scowl. But as the fanbase ages, Stickman starts to take on a different meaning. Stickman looks to be more joyful, like he's celebrating, or experiencing a searing sublime moment.

Maybe that's why lots of people love Stickman enough to get him tattooed (not me, and not BW - but enough of us). With every Pearl Jam show, the crowd has mellowed a bit, the set lists stretch gently to embrace the entire length of the catalogue, and people continue to sing along.

That might go a little bit of the way to explain why this is the one thing I can't miss.

Cat Status: Weighing in on the health care debate

Dear President Obama,

Up until recently, I admit, I had no opinion on the raging healthcare debate, of which I have heard so much lately.

However, on a recent Wednesday night, I had the misfortune of suffering an attack of acute colitis. I was transported some minutes in a crate, via loud mystical moving machine, to an emergency vet where I was subjected to all sorts of undignified tests. These tests culminated in a prescription for a foul-tasting tablet called 'antibiotics'.

But I digress. As a severely overweight, domestic long-haired cat, I should perhaps be more concerned about my continuing access to health care. Nevertheless, in the same difficult evening with the emergency-vet-of-the-cold-hands, I believe I have identified a solution to the current national problem of paying for health care for all US residents.

You see, when it came time to pay for the services of the ice-fingered veterinarian, my cat-mom possessed the magic word: Visa. Why have we not heard this word in the debate before now, Mr. President? Once the magic word has been invoked, it seems there is only one further layer of query: debit or credit?

Mr. President, I wish you the best of luck in navigating the ongoing controversy. But I also urge you to look into the 'Visa' option, as it has done wonderful things for me, my colon, and the frequency of litter scooping in my own home.

Your feline citizen,

Pablo the Cat

Concerned Citizen Pablo

Cat Status: Needs belly rub

Bring me Solo, and a cookie.

Looks like Pablo and I had a similar weekend.

Oktoberfest in Fremont was a beer-taste-a-thon, in which I tried several delicious wheat beers, my first watermelon beer (odd, sort of delicious) and my first smoked porter (also my very last, even including future triple-dog-dare scenarios).

In case you've never been to Oktoberfest, the atmosphere was: bierfrau costumes, smacked lips, tipsy smiling people, and greasy food. No zombies in evidence, though we all know Fremont is zombie central.

Of course, I can't just blame the beer. There was also massive ingestion of fresh-cut curly fries. Yummmmm.

Picture not to scale

Something fishy

Shh! I'm being followed. I think.

A few weeks ago, in an early-morning walk by the river in Missoula, I stumbled upon these guys: a trio of handsome fish cast in poses full of motion, as though they were straining toward the water below.



Cut to Vancouver, Washington - last weekend. During yet another early-morning walk, there they were. Bronze fish. Nowhere near water, they are the landlocked cousins of the Missoula fish.


I wondered if there could be some rift, a terrible feud, between the Missoula and Vancouver fishes. And then I imagined an anguished fish-relative, left behind: 'They never call; they don't even write!'

Upon reflection, I should probably keep these sorts of thoughts to myself and limit them to early-morning walks.

Road Trends: The wheels on the bus

I miss the T in Boston already. We have buses, but no real subway, here in Seattle. This past weekend, I took the bus concept to the next level (namely, the Greyhound to Portland) due to cost considerations, as well as the romantic notions I attach in my mind to any kind of mass transport.

Romantic? You're thinking: that's nuts. But here are some thoughts on riding the Greyhound versus driving down the I-5 gnawing a piece of gum while rummaging through the backseat for a fresh CD:

-Riding the bus says: the tide comes in, and the tide comes out, and much like the ocean's tide, buses and trains traverse the landscape every day. Passengers surrender to the schedule. It's bigger than them.

-Riding the bus reminds us that, rather than the false glass-and-metal wall that separates a single-car commuter from others around her, there is actually a gauzy veil separating one's fortunes from another person's lot in life.

-Riding the bus is an indication that one can estimate, within 0.1 pairs, how much underwear to bring for a weekend excursion, and pack economically to avoid putting her luggage in the questionable bowel-like storage of a wheezing old bus.

-Riding the bus takes us from one city center to the other, leading us through the well-used public places worn to a shiny patina, with all the grime and excitement and weariness that comes with traveling a great distance with total strangers. Airports are not nearly so convenient or interesting.

Finally, riding the bus means we get to ride way up high in our non-reclining, slightly musty seats. And we can see right down into your cars, America! Right down to the floorboards covered in discarded Big Gulp cups and soiled hoodie sweatshirts! You guys are sort of messy.

Postcards: Hiking in Oregon

Three girls and a dog just put Lewis & Clark to shame. That's right: I'm trailing those guys again - this time in Oregon, and on foot. Although if we were handicapping some sort of contest, I guess Lewis & Clark would get a fairly hefty leg up due to the lack of Target stores in the early 19th century.

But did they have a dog with a sparkly pink leash to keep them company? I think not.

Since the hike was a great success, I've put together a failproof recipe for an enjoyable day on the trails.

1 - Pancakes for breakfast

(sadly, no picture available - but add fruit compote

on top in your mind's eye)

2 - Intrepid canine companion

3 - Terrifying trail heights

4 - Wildlife staying obligingly out of your hair

5 - Lots of majestic trees

6 - Waterfalls

Finish with beer, to taste. Fin.

Let me know if you see me, okay?

Have you perchance checked Gasworks Park?

There are a whole lot of people around here looking for themselves. When I ask them what they do, they'll say, 'I'm communing with nature, transitioning - you know, finding myself.'

I sort of want to correct them, since you can't actively be finding something all the time, but you might be looking for it. A thing is either lost or found or not considered at all, if I'm not mistaken. However, I don't correct them, because that must be one exhausting task.

Regardless of the phrasing, it would seem all these people are making a hash of their intentions, anyway. If everyone's attempting to find themselves here, then wouldn't this be an obvious place to avoid, assuming detection is undesirable? Unless they think their selves would take the tack of hiding in plain sight, which is plausible - but then, I think, if you haven't found yourself yet, how would you know enough to strategize like that?

It is, perhaps, time to reshuffle my mental list of conversational icebreakers, until I get this all sorted out. Till then, let's all keep our eyes peeled for...us.

Cat Status: Deliver us from zucchini

Pablo's hiding, and not because it's playtime.

I'm about to cut his wet food with zucchini*, because I bought way too much at Trader Joe's last weekend and I have to use it up before it goes puckery at one end and gooey at the other. These summer squashes are like the loaves and fishes of the famous proverb: numerous, multiple, bottomless.

They just sit there, in their fancy Ziploc bag in the fridge, mocking me: 'What's your next move, cupcake? How will you prepare us next? What about some nice pasta - WITH SAUTEED ZUCCHINI?'

Oh, I'll eat those smug courgettes all right. I'll give thanks for them, too, for I'm not going hungry - and the good produce season will soon pass into the potato-and-rutabaga fog of deep autumn.

*not really

As soon as Maury Povich is over, you guys are going to get it.

Spoiler alert!

For some unknown reason, my new limited cable lineup offers me the Hallmark Channel but not CNN. I spend a lot of time misting up, while being terribly uninformed: not altogether unexpected.

The Hallmark Channel programming director, if the last few days have been any indication, has some sort of unhealthy fascination with Little House on the Prairie reruns.

I watched a Very Special Episode of the show last night, wherein Jack the Dog dies of old age and Michael Landon's Pa obtains a replacement farm canine - later named 'Bandit' - wandering around the local five-and-dime for Melissa Gilbert's Laura (sounds safe). And now I get to my point; this reminded me of the Ultimate Book Spoiler Incident.

Let me take you back: there I was, tearing through the Little House on the Prairie books in the backseat of a Chevy as we moved from Someplace to Someotherplace. I was approximately eight years old, and the following scene transpires:

Dell (turning to face me from the front seat): Is Mary blind yet?

Me: Whaaaa??

And so, I learned all about spoilers. Naturally, I'm paranoid about spoilers now, though I have thus far managed to beat Dell to the movie theatre for Crying Game, The Usual Suspects, and The Sixth Sense. So not all is lost.

Without a map

I tend to anthropomorphize places, and Seattle struck me as a big, friendly, huggy person right away. I was so comfortable here during my first visit, I made tracks all over the city like that football-headed Family Circus kid on one of his loopty adventures around the block.

Now that I've moved here for good, the city seems easy to navigate: it is arranged on a grid of numbered streets with directional suffixes that probably requires a decoder ring-like device to master entirely (I am sure the DMV issues these with new car registrations). For now, since I am displaying the out-of-state plates, native drivers have been mightily patient with me, like an odd visiting cousin who always comes bearing lemon bars and a dreamcatcher for hostess gifts.

Yesterday, I accidentally left my handy CityGuide map on the kitchen table and drove to the store. And wouldn't you know it: Seattle's I-5 freeway punk'd me! The on-ramp was not where the off-ramp had been, or even in the same neighborhood, as far as I could tell.

I eventually made it home (you can't hide an entire expressway from me for long!). If all else fails: just head for the Space Needle. It's like hitting Ctrl-Alt-Delete on any given outing.

Besides, how can I stay mad a place like this? Ginormous traffic cones are considered public art!

Postcards: I saw Seattle's junk and I liked it!

Now go put those Saw movies in your Netflix queue!

Quick: did you enjoy Connections - that awesome, if short-lived, TLC special with the Einstein-hair guy (James Burke)? Like most TV that won't liquefy your brain, it was originally produced by the BBC.

If you liked that, you'd like the Underground Tour in Seattle. Dell and I had to do something Seattle-y while she was here, and she's not the type to ogle a landmark like the Space Needle from the ground (or pay $20 to go to the top), so we chose the quirky-guidebook-pick route: seeing Seattle's underbelly.

I'd rate this attraction quintessentially 'Seattle-y' just for the attitude about the history: 'Yeah, it was weird! We embrace it. And we also like puns.'

A skylight from the underground

In case you aren't familiar with the historic background, Seattle's waterfront district was re-graded after its great fire in the late 19th century, which was a relief since the entire place was built on a tide plain. The residents had to deal with all sorts of sewage-based nightmares.

The guides have lots of historical bits to share while the group wanders around slightly damp basements left over from the major civil engineering hassle that ensued. Some of these spaces are filled with semi-interesting junk, like old elevator parts, arranged in photogenic piles.

I totally recommend it.

Road Trends: The car you save may be your own

With apologies to Flannery O'Connor

Leaving Montana

You may already know this, but Dell and I basically followed the Lewis & Clark path out here to Seattle, albeit with less risk of dysentery and no guns. On the drive, we were reminded constantly of our intrepid forerunners by historic plaques - you know, the ones I like to read out loud - at rest stops along the way. Which is exactly where you need something to read: OUTSIDE the restrooms. Someone should write a letter.

In any case, the trip was hard on Lewis & Clark back in their old-timey days. Dell read on one rest area plaque that each man in the expedition ate 9 lbs of meat a day during the journey.

In modern times, however, our journey was tough on the ol' Silver Bullet.

I went to get the oil changed in the car, thinking I was being a very responsible car owner by going 400 miles early. However, to my chagrin, my car was out of oil. As in, dry. The guy told me the oil light should've come on any minute, but it was okay now. He rolled his eyes and gave me a look usually reserved for people who:

• sample more than one grape at the grocery store;
• fold women's underwear when they 'need' the dryer at the laundromat;
• pick their noses at red lights.

So I'm a bad car owner. And I always thought checking the dipstick looked so dashingly awesome; what a missed opportunity. Oh well! The Silver Bullet completed the Lewis & Clark route with no troubles after that. More to follow!