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.

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.

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.

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!