April 2012

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Out of Context

Poor guy, sometimes I’m like the damned paparazzi.

The pair of us are still on a Radiohead kick, listening at all hours of the day, discussing, dancing (mostly me), etcetera, etcetera.

But that’s not what this post is about. These are random little ditties said and heard in these parts, all of which made us laugh. They might make you laugh, too. Then again, they might offend or confound, but whatever. This is my blog, and I post as I see fit.

“It’s G-Tooth, bitches!”

“Which one of those dudes looks Scandinavian to you?”

Every developer gets excited about blue balls.”

“Yadda, yadda, yadda, everything is okay on my jean pant now.”

“Why would you buy pork blood?”

“That was NOT chocolate.”

Jim Rockford.

“That’s a fatiguer talking.”

“Yeah, I want a giant Sasquatch stick in my mouth.”

“It’s a good thing I wasn’t wearing flip-flops.”

“You know that every beer bubble turns into a piece of fat.”

“It’s like Mick Jagger writing jingles.”

“I wouldn’t call it obsession. I’d call it love.”


Remember me telling you that we bought tickets to Radiohead?

Well, goll-ee, if it didn’t seem like ages ago and impossibly far in the future. But the date arrived, and we drove to Seattle for an overnight adventure to see one of the greatest bands of all time. You can disagree with me if you like, but I shall cover my ears while uttering, “La la la la…”

We’re just north of Boeing Field here, in Georgetown, a cool little enclave that is home to the tasty Calamity Jane’s restaurant, top photo, and across the street from the old stock house building. At said restaurant, you can get a side of Cheetos! Toss my every intention of eating somewhat healthy out the window during lunch because, damn it, I’m gonna have a delicious grilled ham and cheese with a side of these. I’m gonna smile and laugh and enjoy it, too.

Then I’m gonna walk it off, while taking scores of pictures, of course, because that is what I do.

The hat and boot, which is actually part of a pair, though not a matched one, are ginormous!

We’re in Fremont now, enjoying sunny skies before the show. The huge vent was blowing ever so powerfully, and I took it all in, becoming a light pole swallower in the process. I’m sure stranger things have happened.

Man, do I love bridges. This is the Fremont.

My favorite work of art. Wearing aviator glasses. Gulp.

The George Washington/Aurora Bridge that is infamous for other reasons, as well. Call it what you like.

“The TV baby shot me.”

Hello tall buildings!

A very fine view.

At the show, we sat next to another couple our age, the woman and I bonding over the weight of it without uttering the words. We saw it in each other’s eyes.

Afterward, and before my giddiness wore off, we sat on the hotel patio, enjoying the light and the cool evening air. Of course, we discussed everything Radiohead.

Like how the lights and general atmosphere were the best we’d ever seen, but the bass sometimes drowned everything out and made our bones rattle. How Thom and I are the same kind of dancers, and how his voice is just as good live. How tall Ed is. How we loved watching Jonny playing the lemon shaker and the piano with his guitar lying in his lap. He can play anything, even in pain. And how I cried when they played “How to Disappear Completely.” I was just so damn happy to be there, with my best friend in the world, watching and listening.

The next morning we went to the market.

Being a Tuesday, there was hardly anyone about, which was kind of nice.

Maren, we saw your hum-bao guy after we bought our piroshky. A smoked salmon, a beef, and the cardamom-cinnamon twist. Bread-y, dough-y heaven.

On our way home again. This could be an album cover.

“Glasses and Seatbelts.”

Sunshine AND bridges!

A link to more Radiohead goodness. You never know when you’re gonna need a fix, unless you’re me, of course. That would be daily.

Everything in its right place, indeed.





I at once had the feeling that this was the right way to do everything. It was the acceptance of nature, not the resistance to it. I had no sense that I was to be a painter, but I breathed a different air.

Morris Graves

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I spent Saturday with two of my favorite people: gazing, driving, eating, and enjoying every single second. We went to the Portland Art Museum to see the Mark Rothko show, which, as a pretty big fan, I thought was amazing. It was cool to see work from his career arc, not just his iconic pieces. Though I need to be better about remembering the names. Save for Nude, which I hope is obvious, I cannot recall any. A little help? Anyhoo, I got all giddy looking at brush strokes and drips (the last one is a detail of a larger piece for this very reason), those bits that make this observer really appreciate the fact that there was a live-person on the other end, with thoughts and ideas about execution and final products. Is this what he pictured in his mind’s eye? Did he look at it with the same sense of awe and excitement? I sure hope so.

After the Rothko, we went upstairs to the John Frame exhibit, one I could not initially give a whit about since I didn’t know any better. Then I saw the first photo of a bespectacled monkey, and knew something magical was in store. Indeed, it was one of the finest artistic endeavors I’ve witnessed. EVER. They asked that no photos be taken, and it nearly broke my heart. His work is so detailed and beautiful and evocative that I remained in a state of wonder and probably would have cried were I alone or with the hubster. Strangers leave me alone when I blubber in public, afraid it is contagious, I suppose. But friends not yet accustomed to my weeping ways I spared, saving my tears for home and the viewing of this fil-um with the hubster. He liked it, too.

John Frame makes everything. Sewing, carving, growing, composing, filming. Beautiful music. Sweet figures. Ever-so-tiny articulated hands. Everything. It is magic and madness and reverence done with an unfathomable love for the craft.

One of my companions, enjoying the Milton Avery on display. They are among my favorites at the museum.

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Hello peeps! It’s Easter and you may likely be full of Peeps at the moment, all their pastels-on-acid goodness. This is Friday night. Sunny Friday night, hoot and holler! Did I tell you that we had record rainfall in March? The wettest, with just shy of eight inches. I could talk like a lady or a sailor and still have it be impressive. The hubster and I celebrated a well deserved day of sunshine at Branch (we’re actually enjoying number three with no rain, huzzah!) and the hope of quelling that major pain in my neck with whiskey. Sometimes it is the right thing to do.

Old Fashioneds and Rickeys with water chasers.

They were playing heavy metal on the hi-fi, so the hand gesture was called for. My neighbor and I were contemplating a “Rock You Like a Hurricane” duet before the yummy-licious food arrived. It would have been epic.

That was cocktail numero dos. For those who know me up-close-and-personal, this is quite something. I am a one hit wonder kind of gal. A cheap date. A party favor. Sometimes you gotta break the rules.

I love murals, well, good ones, anyway.



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