My morning bus was re-routed this morning because NW 85th St. was closed off by a hoard of police and fire vehicles. As we looped around to the north and came back down Greenwood Ave., I could see what appeared to be a garbage truck up on the sidewalk. Judging from the intensity of the pulsating red-and-blues light illuminating the area and from the news helicopter noisily hovering above, I could tell this was no simple fender-bender.

I also knew that, since it involved a garbage truck, a certain four-year-old who lives in my house would be very interested in the story.

I called Amy and told her to open her laptop and find out what was going on. She called back a little while later to report that the garbage truck in question had smashed into a telephone pole and that rescue workers were using the Jaws of Life to free the trapped and injured driver.

As I suspected, Mr. Garbage Boy was fiercely excited by this news and expertly analyzed the photos published on the KIRO-TV web site. He determined that the truck in question belonged to Waste Management; was, in fact, a recycling truck, not a garbage truck; and that it was not our recycling truck because our truck does not have a white cab or white wheels. Ray was relieved, then, that it was not our usual driver (i.e. his hero) involved in the wreck.

Indeed, later in the day, our recycling was picked up normally. Phew.

Oh, and the driver was rescued and is expected to survive.

Holy crap. I just called the cops on a neighbor’s barking dog. What’s next? Where are some kids I can yell at to get off my lawn? What the hell is happening to me?

OK, seriously, this is (and has been) an annoying fucking dog. I should rephrase that: it is a dog being a dog; it’s the owners who are annoying asshats for not properly training the dog and who don’t deserve the privilege of owning one.

It was surprisingly hard to find the procedures for reporting a barking dog — or even if doing so was possible — so I thought I’d post them here for future Googlers who end up encountering dozens of pages about Seattle’s “Barking Dog Alehouse” as I did.

First of all, don’t call the cops. They didn’t seem to mind, but they referred me to Seattle Animal Control. Call them at 206-386-7387 and press “7” because “you have a complaint.”

The incredibly kind person who answers the phone (at least, she was kind to me) will take down the information (you have to know the dog’s address) and will send the dog owners a friendly reminder about Seattle Municipal Code 25.08.500, otherwise known as the “Public Disturbance Noises” ordinance. After a few days, if there’s no improvement to the canine decibel levels, a Law Abiding Citizen may call back and register a second complaint after which the “friendly reminder” becomes an “expensive ticket.”

I wonder if there’s an ordinance I can cite to people who let their dogs get up in the face of my 34”-tall 4-year-old son and then say “Oh, don’t worry, he’s so friendly” as said youngster recoils in terror from the giant salivating befanged beast and yells “No, no!”

News flash to dog owners: not everyone likes your dog.

In many ways, Washington state is unique in the Republic, and the way we handle our presidential primaries is no exception.

We have both a caucus (coming up this Saturday, February 9) and a ballot-based primary election (February 19).

The Republicans (boo! hiss!) will count the results from both. The democrats, however, will only count the caucus.

This is not particularly well-known. I talked to a guy I know from the bus the other day and he was all proud of having already mailed in his primary ballot. He’s planning to be out of town on Saturday, so his vote (for Obama) won’t count.

So, if you live in Washington, get out and caucus on Saturday. Cancel your Jim’s Birthday Day Parties (I’ll understand) and go stand around a school gymnasium arguing about Hillary and Barack and participate in the democratic process.

You can find more information, including your caucus location, at the Washington State Democrats website.

For the last two years, we’ve taken Ray to a Winter Solstice festival at Seattle Center (by the Space Needle). The event celebrates the end of long winter nights and the beginning of the gradual re-emergence of the sun. There are a couple dozen performers, including four female dancers who personify the seasons. The procession of performers leads the crowd to the International Fountain, which consists of a large metallic hemisphere set into a deep circular bowl. The performers descend into the bowl while spectators line the rim. The white-clad “winter” dancer is the centerpiece of the ceremony. The main part of the show features performers who dance with flaming chains, hoops, and batons, and play drums with flaming sticks as winter begins her decline. Near the end, an opera singer pulling a flaming train behind her leads the “new” winter (a child, also in white) around the edge of the fountain to meet the old winter. They embrace, the old winter is led away, and the three other seasons carry the new winter around the fountain.

Last year, I sat with Ray during the show and explained the symbolism and the meaning of the performance to him as it unfolded. He watched with rapt attention and asked questions throughout. As the sun set and the more fiery and rhythmic elements of the ceremony began, he got quieter and quieter and was remarkably focused. At the end, when the old winter said goodbye to her successor, Ray asked in a concerned voice: “Does the old winter love the new winter?” I assured him that she did, and he seemed satisfied. A few moments later, however, he burst into tears and sobbed. He was overwhelmed by the visuals, the music, and the emotional impact of the performance.

This year, he was expressed an interest to go again, and we even adjusted our scheduled departure to California by a day to accommodate the Solstice. Once again, he was remarkably attendant and interested in every detail. New this year (I think), six performers walked or skated around the edges of the fountain carrying illuminated globes to represent Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Saturn, and Jupiter. As Ray has been getting into astronomy lately, he was particularly interested in these orbiting planets (and wondered about the absence of Uranus and Neptune). There were no tears this year, but it was still pretty clear that this is becoming an important part of the holiday season for him.

I took some video of the performance with our regular camera so the quality isn’t too great (plus, it was obviously a “low light” situation) but I hope the snippets I assembled here (or see below) give you a sense of the ceremony. I also put up a few photos on Flickr.

One of the main reasons Amy and I moved to Seattle was for the climate of the Pacific Northwest. I had never known a life without four seasons before relocating, and I am constantly amazed at the difference a more temperate environment makes in overall quality of life. Not everyone can handle the rain and overcast skies throughout the winter, but to me, as long as I never have to feel the liquid on my eyeballs freeze in the winter or walk around the summer drenched in sweat and searching for air conditioning, I’ll never leave.

Yesterday, I was reminded of this after a chance encounter with some former colleagues of mine.

I ran into Linda and Cindy while I was grabbing some lunch. They told me that another former co-worker of mine (hi John!) had finally made a long-anticipated move to Iowa City where he was currently suffering through the aftermath of one of that area’s famous ice storms. I recall those ice storms and the inches of beautiful but deadly ice covering every surface pretty vividly from the time I lived there.

After bidding farewell to the ladies, I headed back to my office. On the way, I spotted Gretchen, another co-worker of mine, standing on the path looking up at one of the buildings. She saw me as I approached and beckoned me over to her where she spoke in a low whisper.

“This is a hummingbird battleground. Keep your eyes open for hummingbirds.”

I turned to where she had been looking. I saw a field of blooming camellias against the south wall of the library. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move by very fast. Then another, then another. I soon became aware of several hummingbirds darting in and out of the camellia bushes and then aggressively lunging at each other trying to keep all the sweet pollen to themselves.

December ice storms in the Midwest; flowers and hummingbirds in Seattle. I love it here.

Ask me again, however, after the earthquake hits.

Some co-workers of mine and I went to see a production of the play “Cloud 9” at the Balagan Theatre in Capitol Hill last night. It happens to star an insanely talented woman named Juniper, who I’ve been happily getting to know lately. It’s always fun to see a friend perform, and it’s been a long time since I’ve known anyone in the arts, so this was an extra special treat. The play was outstanding and managed to be provocative and compelling about gender roles and sexuality without being pretentious or preachy.

It’d been a criminally long time since I’d attended an independent stage production. To be honest, my experiences with live theater have been mixed, and my personal history with actors themselves has been … well, that’s a subject for another blog post.

Mostly, though, I have always found it exceptionally difficult to become as engrossed in a room full of actors as I can be when confronted with the impersonal detachment of the silver screen. I’ve always needed the fourth wall to be more of a unbroken barrier between me and “the action.” Watching a play, you hear the squeak of the actors’ shoes on the boards, you see the broken hems on their costumes, you feel the walls of the set quiver when a door slams shut. The imperfection of reality imposes itself harshly onto the proceedings, and I am too much a child of the cinema and its glossy unreality to overlook the scars that easily.

So maybe I’m actually growing up, or maybe the cast of “Cloud 9” was exceptionally good — or both, I’m sure. None of those usual petty issues mattered at all last night, and I found myself emotionally engaged and invested in the characters in a way that has been rare to me. I’ve always subordinated emotions to the intellect — indeed, I’ve believed that emotions are, by nature, intellectual — but I guess I’m becoming an old softie or something. And I kinda like it.

Oh… and go see the play. It runs through November 10.

Amy loves pigs. Just adores them. She’d have a pet pig if she were any less practical-minded (or if we had a fenced-in back yard).

As a direct result of her porcine preferences, we, as a family, don’t eat pork. Never touch the stuff.

It really wasn’t too hard for me to give it up when Amy and I got together; I was never a big pork eater. I disliked chops, was indifferent to ribs, and didn’t much go for bacon except on the occasional club sandwich.

The other day, I was invited by some co-workers to an afternoon Mariners game. The game day ritual, they explained, consists of grabbing a salami sandwich at a place called Salumi Salami, eating it at a nearby pool hall over a pitcher of beer, then traipsing across the street to Safeco Field.

I was a bit leery of the premise given the pork ban, but there had been a few relaxations of it lately and this was a Guy Trip, so I wasn’t about to be the pansy-ass non-pork-eater sitting in the corner munching on carrots. I made up my mind: I was going to have a salami sandwich with the guys. And maybe I’d tell Amy.

Coincidently, earlier in the day, Salumi salami sandwiches were served (among other varieties) at a meeting I attended. I spoke to a co-worker about my impending trip down to the Salumi mothership and she began waxing enthusiastically about the sandwiches. I have never had anything like them, she assured me.

And, indeed, she was correct. Salumi Salami is a narrow, wedge-shaped eatery squeezed into the lower vertex of a triangular building where 2nd and 3rd Avenues intersect in Pioneer Square. Upon entering, you are nearly knocked to your knees by the aroma of spices and meat. Great cylinders of salami hang overheard, and the buzz of the meat slicer rips through the air.

Samples are free; I tasted the Oregano and the Mole salamis before settling on the Hot Sopressata for my sandwich. The Mole (chocolate and cinnamon, not small burrowing rodent) was incredible and rich, but I couldn’t image eating an entire sandwich of it. The Oregano was also quite yummy, but the kick of the Sopressata is what got to me.

After I got home, Amy told me that she had rented Charlotte’s Web and watched it with Ray. I fessed up and told her about the sandwich. She considered it for a moment, and then said: “Oh, so you ate Wilbur.”

Last night, I played in a poker tournament organized by the Seattle Poker Open, an amateur poker league that arranges games at various local drinking establishments around Seattle.

Gambling is illegal within the city limits, so this is a “fun” league intended to provide a venue for those who want to play the game at a serious level without all that added stress of real money being involved. In this league, all players are allocated about $2,500 (or so) in chips. Betting levels go up every 20 minutes, and the game is played until all players but one are cleared out.

I enjoy a good game of Texas Hold ‘em but I haven’t much real life opportunity to play in a serious environment. So-called “card rooms” are legal in many communities that surround Seattle, so there are plenty of venues to find a game. But I’ve been intimidated having never played with strangers and with real stakes.

I happened on the Seattle Poker Open web site a couple months ago, but I only got around to signing up to play last week, around the beginning of their autumn season. The Wednesday night locale is a bar just a few blocks from my home, so it’s quite convenient.

The people were largely friendly and very patient with newcomers. I was initially seated at a table with two other rookies, and we all made little gaffes and breaches of protocol that in a real game with real money probably would not have been met with too favorably.

I lost two rather large pots early on; only one was due to bad playing. I calmed down and wised up as the game progressed and managed to make it to the final eleven (out of 36) before my stash was finally chipped away by the ever-increasing blind bets.

Overall, I had a really good time. I felt welcomed and comfortable and look forward to playing again next week.

If Amy lets me.

The Lady Washington and Hawaiian Chieftan were docked at the Seattle Center for Wooden Boats over the weekend. Ray and I took a tour and explored the decks, holds, and galleys of each vessel.

The Lady Washington is a reproduction of a 1788 ship and starred in the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie. You could still smell Johnny Depp.

Western Washington is known for its incredible hikes. You can’t throw a latte around here without hitting some kind of trail head through our mountains, rain forests, or coastal areas. And yet, for a dazzling urbanite like me, it’s difficult to get too worked up about it. I enjoy a good stroll through the wilderness every now and then, but I’m not really up for anything more than a half-day outing at best. I’ve had to toughen myself a bit for Ray’s sake (he loves to hike, and I want him to love to hike), but I have to resign myself to the fact that I’m just not “outdoorsy.”

Today, though, we tackled the most interesting trail I’ve ever seen — a 2.3 mile decommissioned railroad tunnel at Snoqualmie Pass about an hour east of Seattle.

The old tunnel is utterly devoid of light. Water drips (and sometimes pours) from the vaulted ceilings, echoing throughout the chamber. Alcoves filled with old electrical gear line the walls and contribute to the overall sense of decay and abandonment. The trail is somewhat popular and supports biking as well as foot traffic, but when we arrived, we were the only ones venturing into the darkness, and when we turned off our flashlights, we could see only the faint blue speck of daylight from the distant mouth of the tunnel. Ray had Fungus the Bogeyman on his mind and remarked that the tunnel would be a good environment for a Bogey — dark, wet, and quiet.

Ray was a trooper, as usual, and trekked the half-mile to the entrance as well as the entire length of the tunnel, which seemed to go on forever. The goal of today’s mission was, of course, one of Amy’s coveted Geocaches (her 300th), which we found hidden in a dead stump about a half-mile from the western mouth of the tunnel. Ray finally petered out about halfway into the return journey, which means he logged about 6 miles on his tiny legs before we heard the first complaint. Amy and I took turns carrying him most of the rest of the way, which increased our workout considerably.

Maybe if I believed in a god I’d have more appreciation for natural beauty, but give me a good man-made structure — a feat of engineering — and I’m happy.

Continue reading "Best. Hike. Ever." »

A postscript to Afternoon at Safeco Field.

You need to understand that concessions at major league ballparks have evolved over the 30 or so years that I’ve been attending games. When I was a youth, Tiger Stadium offered its fans a choice of mustard or no mustard on their hot dog, and that was about it. Your soft beverage choice was Pepsi, and your beer was Budweiser. I remember they later introduced the hot pretzel … with “hot” being an outright lie, and “pretzel” referring to a twisted brown inner tube loaded with enough kosher salt to choke a rabbi.

Now, it’s almost embarrassing to stroll around under the stands and see Thai restaurants and sushi stands (Ichi-roll, anyone?). I don’t think I saw an actual hot dog or bag of Cracker Jacks in the place.

Caving in to this cornucopia of concessions, I steered Ray to one of the Ivar’s Seafood stands for a salmon sandwich and some French fries (not the famous Safeco garlic fries — those things can kill you).

The guy in line ahead of us ordered “fried scallops,” but was informed by the cashier that they didn’t have scallops. She helpfully offered clams or shrimp instead.

“No scallops?” the guy indignantly retorted. “What kind of Ivar’s is this?”

I felt like tapping him on the shoulder…

“This, sir, is an Ivar’s at a fucking baseball stadium! They serve thousands people within a three-hour period and, thus, probably felt the need to streamline their menu a bit. They also don’t have table service, porcelain dishes, silverware, a wine list, or a dessert menu. You should feel lucky they have clams and shrimp, you fucking whiner!”

But, you know, Ray was with me, so I held myself back.

Today was Day 4 of Daddy Weekend Care and a trip to Safeco Field to see the Detroit Tigers. Oh, and the Seattle Mariners.

The other day, Amy helpfully suggested that I might want to steer Ray’s baseball fandom toward his actual hometown team. After all, she pointed out, I’m a Tiger fan merely because of where I grew up; Ray should be a fan of the team that plays where he grows up.

Setting her blaspheming advice aside for a moment, I’ll relate a bit about our experience at the old (well, newish) ballpark today (and note that the Central Division-leading Tigers battered the Mariners 11-7).

First of all, Ray looked cheek-squeezlingly cute in his oversized Tiger cap.

(Click to enlarge)

We had some really good seats, courtesy of the Mariners Ticket Exchange, where season ticket holders put their seats up for sale if they can’t make the game.

And Ray was able to follow his favorite player, Magglio Ordoñez (who clocked a two-run homer in the eighth inning), way out in right field.

Ray also scored a warm-up ball courtesy of tomorrow’s starting pitcher, Nate Robertson, and Andrew Miller’sautograph.

Back to Amy’s comment: I did try to keep things even-handed during the game, and led Ray in cheering for both Mariners and Tigers where appropriate. It was not my fault that the Tigers generated more cheer-inducing activity than the Mariners (Granderson’s three-hit performance, Sheffield’s steal of home, Thames’ three-run blast). I extolled the virtues of Ichiro (who really is awesome), and tried to find good things to say about Raul Ibañez (he hit over .300 a few years ago!), and Adrian Beltre (he almost has a .500 slugging percentage!). But I drew the line at whiny-ass Jeff Weaver on the mound. I just can’t stand that guy.

As part of Daddy Weekend Care, I took Ray to Emerald Downs today, as per his request.

I’ll begin by stating that, in my opinion, come Monday morning the to-do list of the nearest glue factory (the “to-glue list”?) should read: Clever Ridge, On the Ave, and Follow Your Shot. Those horses are apparently well past their prime and need to “retire.” And for the $14 I wasted betting on them, I deserve at least a free pint of mucilage.

Apart from souring my relationship with Lady Luck, I enjoyed my time today with the boy, and I think he had fun, too.

It was a lovely day, if a bit too warm, and Mt. Rainer loomed on the horizon.

(Click to enlarge)

Ray made friends with Ed, the Family-Friendly Emerald Downs Mascot. It’s never too early to introduce the young ones to gambling!

(Click to enlarge)

My favorite part of the whole track experience is the bugler. I have to wonder, though, how sick and tired does this guy get of the 33-note “Call to the Post”? And how often does he screw it up? Not this time (following a nice intro).

The news that a certain Ballard eyesore (the Denny’s on 15th and Market) will be bulldozed in early 2008 reminded me of my extra-special delicious post-nightclub snack back in the late nights of my goth-inspired youth.

Continue reading "French Fries and Ice Cream" »

Seeking shade from the scorching (80-degree) sun yesterday, I propped myself up against the magnificent stone edifice of the Suzzallo Library (left) and set about trying to finish up the engaging spy novel The Great Impersonation by E. Phillips Oppenheim. Distractions on Red Square were plentiful, however, from the distant bleating of a brimstone-filled preacher to the never-ending stream of young co-eds whose wardrobes took full advantage of the gorgeous weather.

After I re-read page 87 several times, I prepared to give up and retire to a more secluded spot but the arrival of two women onto the bench in front of me gave me pause. One woman approached the other and accused her of stealing her seat and beach towel. The seated woman protested, and the other grabbed her by the neck and raised her fist as if to strike her about the head. After a moment, a man in a shirt and tie (unusual attire for campus) stepped up and started giving them “notes.” It then occurred to me that he was the director of some open-air theatrical presentation. I was intrigued enough by having a play break out in front of me that I decided to sit and watch.

Continue reading "Drama on Red Square" »

I have resumed biking to work after a long, cold, wet winter during which I gained back nearly all the weight I had lost while on the South Beach Diet. You’d think that after my “Riding in the Rain” experience last January that I’d be hardened enough to endure all sorts of weather, but let’s face it: I’m not a big fan of discomfort. “No pain, no pain” is my motto.

Loyal readers of this site will recall my pathetic, whiny posts about the “mountain stage” of my commute, which covers the 1.2 mile trek up 8th Avenue NW at a grueling, constant uphill slog (which I previously reported was a 1.75% grade, but have subsequently learned is actually a 2.4% grade). In truth, though the weather was a contributing factor to my sloth, it was that last leg of the day that really planted my expanding ass firmly on the metro bus seat and not on my bike saddle for the last several months.

I just knew there had to be a better route, and I believe I finally found it!

Continue reading "The Northwest Passage" »

When someone tries to hand me out a flyer, it’s kinda like they’re saying, “Here — you throw this away.” — Mitch Hedberg

Today, as I approached the vast campus green that separated me from meetings #4 and #5 of the day, I saw that the landscape was littered with student activists of one flavor or another each armed with a stack of flyers. Oh boy, I thought, I’m going to have to get my firm “No thank yous!” on for this trek.

I have a standing policy to not take flyers from people on the street because I have never, ever been handed anything that I found even remotely interesting. So, I pointed my eyes directly ahead of me and steeled myself against the impending onslaught of sloganeering and paper-waving.

But the expected deluge of harassment never occurred. I made it past one, two, three, even four earnest-looking undergraduates who simply stood idly by clutching their papers and keeping out of my way. As I neared the opposite end of the lawn, I even started to make eye contact with some of them, but to no avail. By the end of my sojourn, I began to feel outraged that I hadn’t had some piece of propaganda forced into my hand by a politically-charged co-ed. It was as if they were waiting for people to come up to them to request a flyer.

Continue reading "Amateur Flyers" »

This one happened after I put the laptop away.

[As the bus pulls up next to a Denny’s]

Teenage Girl 1: You know what’s terrible? Denny’s.

Teenage Girl 2: Oh, I know! It sucks.

TG1: It’s like, the food looks good, but then you taste it and it’s all yuck!

TG2: I know. It’s just like Play-Doh.

TG1: (laughs) It’s not like Play-Doh!

TG2: It’s totally like Play-Doh! I always thought Play-Doh looked really appetizing. But it tastes really bad.

16-year-old Female: “Every time I go out in public, I lose my shoe!”

I guess my Craigslist prankster could have made it worse for me.

Tacoma woman’s house emptied after craigslist hoax

A woman on campus was killed today by her psycho ex-boyfriend who then shot himself.

I got a call from Amy about it as I walked across Red Square. She didn’t know any details other than “a gunman was on the loose.” She asked me where I was and shrieked “That’s not a very good place to be!” after I told her. I immediately pictured a clone of Charles Whitman atop one of the towers on the Square and felt the crosshairs of a sniper rifle zero in on my head. I doubled my pace to get out of the open. I noticed, however, that no one else around me showed any signs of panic. I briefly considered shouting out a warning but felt concerned about starting a general panic.

I reached the Paul Allen Center and made my way to the building manager’s office just as he got a phone call about the situation. He raced into action to get the building locked down and I dashed over to the Computer Science office to relay the news. I waited nervously in the lobby as the guy at the front desk struggled to remember how to use the program that controls the exterior door locks. It would be fitting, I thought, if I were murdered due to poor software interface design.

According to a horrifying report, Fremont’s two existing statues that pay homage to historical monsters — V. I. Lenin and the Troll — will soon be joined by a third:

J. P. Patches.

A clown.

A terrifying, blood-red-nosed, swollen-lipped, corpse-skinned clown.

Says one person responsible for this proposed horror: “If you didn’t grow up in the Pacific Northwest, it’s hard to appreciate the impact he had on our lives…. He was there when you got up in the morning. He was there when you came home from school. …. That was something you never forgot.”

I’m sure it is hard to forget a masked man leering at you in bed and hanging around your house after school. In my neighborhood, we called them freaks and we had them arrested. We didn’t go around immortalizing them in garishly-painted bronze.

A while ago, I wrote about my efforts to convince the Seattle Times to include the perspectives of non-believers in their weekly “Faith and Values” section. The postings generated a lot of traffic (for this site, anyway) with two commenters making the point that “secular options in the newspaper are abundant” such as “Dear Abby” and “Miss Manners,” so there’s nothing wrong with one small section devoted to religious views once a week.

I didn’t really have a good response to that, as I sort of agreed with them even though there was something about it that nagged at me as being beside the point. Nevertheless, I let the issue drift and just continued to flip past “Faith and Values” each week on my way to the comics. That “Fox Trot” is a hoot!

Today, however, two things prompted me to return to the issue and try to state my point more clearly and emphatically.

Continue reading "Faith, Values and Atheism, Part 3" »