The case of the missing bird

It takes a lot to get a funny look from the natives around here. Certain pockets of the city appear to have passed through Alice's looking glass, only to bring back the most weirdly wonderful sights and people. This is a facet of living in Seattle I have not yet ceased to appreciate.

Even a situation where, for instance, a man stops you on the street downtown, keeps offering to give you all of his worldly possessions, and asks you repeatedly how to get to Montana on foot will raise few eyebrows. (This did not happen to me, but to someone I know.)

Here in my neighborhood, we've got kind of a situation: a lost tropical bird. As to be expected in the Northern hemisphere, it is getting cold here at night, and there is a one-legged cockatiel missing. There are Lost Bird flyers everywhere. I keep one eye out for this bird at the bus stop, though I've never reunited a lost pet, even an amputee pet, with its owner.

In light of the general bizarre wonderment endemic in Seattle, however, I wonder if it would register in my head that a cockatiel is out of place in an half-bare oak tree. Can one lose the ability to see things as out of place? Can there be too much environmental weirdness?

Here's to a happy bird homecoming.

(photo by W.S.)

Making the most of everything starts at home

Downsizing to a 380 square foot apartment could have gone any which way for me. I could've despaired at giving away all of the art supplies I'd amassed for projects that never materialized over the years (but I didn't). Or I could've felt a bit smug getting in on the Tiny House and anti-stuff movements (there's been a little of that).

Mostly, I've been itemizing a list of things everyone should know about living in a teeny space. Manhattanites probably know all of these things already and they can skip the following, but in any case, there won't be a test.

1 - Anything you own can be hung up and out of the way on a hook. Anything. Just pretend like you've run out of surface space, test out some possibilities on your index finger, and use your imagination.
2 - Say you need to print a PDF document for school, straighten your hair, and poach an egg lickety-split. You're in luck, multitasker! There's no outlet in the bathroom for the Revlon doohickey, and the printer's in the kitchen. Start the water to boil, and voila!
3 - Someone needs to host Thanksgiving this year. Guess what? It won't be you!
4 - Electric heat in the winter is dreadfully expensive! But you won't need to run it if your cat is sufficiently obese and cuddly. Allergic to cats? An electric mattress pad should be able to warm the entire place.
5 - Mopping the floor can be completed in approximately 8 measures of a foxtrot step.
6 - Shouting will now be reserved for genuine emergencies.

And finally - what every city dweller knows - home is where the heart is, but I gotta get out of here. The walls are closing in on me!

The seating situation sometimes gets awkward
in such a small place.

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.