word of the day is awesome!

bibulous: of, pertaining to, marked by, or given to the consumption of alcohol.

On my first day of break, I've read, played computer games, watched our fat local weatherman tell me it won't rain through the sound of rain drumming on my windows, seen trailers for movies that are so dumb it makes me think the writers' strike is a good thing, and been viciously attacked by a poodle.

I love vacation.

i blog in my head now. takes less work and is much more satisfying.

marvelous...

6 more days

dwain's drain is a horrible brewery name! vote on a better one, people!

and go out and buy an October Project cd. do it.

Kate Rusby - Who Will Sing Me Lullabies

For some reason, I'm on a female singer-songwriter kick, and Kate Rusby is my favorite new find.

auxier ridge

auxier
Originally uploaded by dwain.

Looking at my del.icio.us bookmarks to the right, is it of any concern that all but two of my most recent ones are about beer? Worse, the two exceptions are a Gothic/prog/folk band and the oldest Port house in Portugal.

class talk on Tuesday

"Mr. C., do you think gays are nasty?"

"Do I think gays are nasty? No. No, I don't."

[Pause] "You and I have much in common."

cemetery

cemetery
Originally uploaded by dwain.

In Pennsylvania over break.

nancy and goliath

nancy and goliath
Originally uploaded by dwain.

In case you can't tell, Maxx is actually attacking Tyson, lunging at him barking and snarling.

Maxx: The home-defending champion weighing an intimidating 7 lbs. with a mean bite that won't go deep but may cause infection because of the nasty green stuff growing on his gums. Opponents would do well to avoid his tongue, too, because he can give quite a tongue lashing (and usually gives himself 2 or 3 a day).

Tyson: The curious "dog next door" weighing an overrated 95 lbs. A mean "helicopter-tail" that has been registered with the national sex offender registry because of its powerful and wayward ways. Has been known to take craps bigger than Maxx.

The Secret Poop Scoop:
Maxx and Tyson kiss through the fence. Seriously. I don't need to make a Brokeback joke. It's in your head already.

perspective

perspective
Originally uploaded by dwain.

One of my favorite things about fall in Lexington is the birds. Every October, thousands of birds begin to whorl through the sky in tight-knit groups. They can stretch for what seems miles, like a black Milky Way against blue space. With what seems one mind they change direction or burst from a tree. It's breathtaking to watch.

"I suppose I could pay my bills with blind kids' smiles, but it'd be easier with their money." -- Chi McBride on Pushing Daisies

survey

If you were cursed to have the voice of a cartoon character (pre-2000), who would it be and why?

I'm going to have to think about it, but right now I'm thinking Jenner from The Secret of Nimh.

is this good or bad?

What American accent do you have? Your Result: The West   Your accent is the lowest common denominator of American speech. Unless you're a SoCal surfer, no one thinks you have an accent. And really, you may not even be from the West at all, you could easily be from Florida or one of those big Southern cities like Dallas or Atlanta.
The Midland
Boston
North Central
The South
The Inland North
Philadelphia
The Northeast
What American accent do you have? Quiz Created on GoToQuiz

I just finished watching Lives of Others, a lovely and tragic German film from last year. It had one of those endings you want to happen for reasons of realism and art but emotionally dread because it doesn't satisfy the desire for complete closure.

I highly recommend.

fall

fall
Originally uploaded by dwain.

lingerers

lingerers
Originally uploaded by dwain.

day at the gorge

We went to the Red River Gorge with some friends today, the most beautiful day in a year of beautiful days. Pictures later. Maxx and Tyson, a 95-pound pooch, loved it. We saw quite a few people on the trail we went on; I wanted to tell them to get the hell out of my nature!

Things said about Maxx by people on the trail:

1. Awwwwwwww!
2. Look, a little lamb!
3. Look, dinner! (By an Asian man, cementing stereotypes for 10 more years)
4. Boy, I'd better be careful around this one!
5. Look, a groundhog. (WTF?)

Selebrate Satan

666

the number of the post

I'll admit that I was going to post something snarky about this story because it just sounds funny. Then I read the article.

Prostitutes Strike in Bolivia

Thoughtful words:

"We are hated by a society that uses us regularly, and ignored by institutions obligated to protect us."

30 Rock

"Never go with a hippie to a second location."
--Alec Baldwin on 30 Rock

Brilliant.

"I'm retaining so much water, I'm afraid you're going to try to swim across me to get your green card!"
--Jamie Pressley (sp?) to Catalina on My Name is Earl

Yowza! Gutsy joke for 8 o'clock.

it's raining!

Our drought is ending!

knock knock

Bad day at school today. Students annoyed me, and I annoyed them. One funny story out of my junior English class.

me: [reading The Scarlet Letter and trying not to fall asleep] You all look like you're not here. Do we need to do jumping jacks? Yoga?

student: Yes, we need to wake up. Tell us a joke.

me: (Do I know any appropriate jokes?) Um, okay. Will you laugh?

class: Yes!

me: Knock knock.

class: [long silence] What? That's not funny.

me: Oh. You haven't learned this. Great. Okay, when I say knock knock, you say...?

class: Hello!

me: No. You say "Who's there." Okay, let's try it again: Knock knock.

class: Who is that?

me: No, "Who's there."

class: Who that is.

me: No! Look, just say "Who's there." Repeat it.

class: Who's there.

me: Knock knock.

class: Who is there?

me: Dwain.

class: .....

me: Okay, you say "Dwain who."

student: Who is Dwain?

me: Just say "Dwain who!"

class: Dwain who?

me: Dwain the bathtub, I'm drowning!

class: .....

student: What? Where is the funny?

me: Okay, let's look at this. [Write "dwain," "drain," and "drowning" on the board.] Some people have a hard time saying the "r" in English and it sounds like a "w," so "drain" sounds like "dwain." My name is dwain. Dwain is my name. My first name isn't Mister; it's dwain.

class: Ohhh...

me: Knock knock.

class: Who's there?

me: Dwain.

class: Dwain who?

me: Dwain the bathtub, I'm dwowning!

class: ......

student: That's not funny! That's just mean!

student: Explain the funny to us. I do not get the funny.

Is there anything better than a refreshing morning round of disc golf?

Rhetorical question; answers other than "no" will be mocked.

silly competition

I was, for a time, competing with everyone on Librarything and del.icio.us to find the most obscure--not shared--book or website. There was something about seeing the words "Shared by 2 other people" that made a book seem more special, like we shared a secret.

out, damned vestigial teeth!

M had 3 wisdom teeth removed this morning, so she's been lying on the couch doped up under a down comforter since. I, dutiful hubby that I am, bought her yogurt and soup after spending a delicious hour in a bookstore. I find I do much better if I go to a bookstore alone because I don't feel any pressure to leave after a certain amount of time or to browse in any order. It's not uncommon for me to bounce haphazardly around a bookstore as different books come to mind and I follow my lambent mind. I found some great graphic novels to use in my classroom--an unabridged and illustrated King Lear!--and a couple of other books I'd been intending to read. I looked for Steven Erikson's Malazan books, but they didn't have them. When I got home, I did a little research and discovered I'm glad I didn't find them. My new resolution is to avoid ongoing series. Not worth the pain in the ass of waiting for 10 years out of my life, Jordan! Stupid mortals...

Based on the comments to the last post, somebody needs to write a book titled Fat for the Faith about obese clergy. Yeah, because we don't use alliteration in modern marketing enough (see rule 1). Here are some other ideas; please expand:

• Fatty-fatty but Faithful
• Chubby in the Church
• Lard for the Lord
• Meating Your Maker (double entendre is not entendred; Meaty for your Maker?)
• Everything I Need to Know About God I Learned at the Buffet
• Amazing Waist (pun alert!)
• Priestly Paunch: Or How I Learned to Start Loosening My Belt

hair police

This is just funny. This kid hasn't cut his hair since he was 4? Really? Not much to show...

My favorite quote, from a separate source:

Benson’s mother said she strictly abides by various Old Testament provisions, including a passage in the book of Leviticus that forbids the cutting of hair: “Ye shall not round the corners of your heads, neither shalt thou mar the corners of your beard,” Leviticus 19:27.

“I consider myself a contemporary African-American Hebrew, if you’re looking for a label,” said Claudius’ mother, Alecha Benson.

I'm not sure why I find this so funny, but I do. Actually, I think it's the high-lighted phrase that gets me. Strictly abide by various... Oxymoron? "I choose 7 out of 253 rules to follow religiously because it has been set forth that we should. I disregard the rest because they're a pain in the ass."

nothing clever

I had nothing clever for a title, so I'll just put that to satisfy the RSS feeds.

Sushi is here! In 12 hours we'll be chowing down on 7 kinds of nigiri and 13 kinds of rolls. Our plan is to make 44 rolls and over 100 pieces of nigiri.

Laura's post in which she compared a child's gaze to a cat's gaze forces me to transcribe my English III class today...

me: Many people consider a child a treasure, though I'm not sure why.

class: Oh, you don't like children? So you don't have any?

me: I have a dog.

class: So you're comparing a child to a dog?

me: No no no no... [dramatic pause] Dogs are much better than children.

My dear friend, Jake, has said goodbye to his father.

Jake, know that M and I love you and are here for you if you need anything.

Have we lost interest in blogging?

Sushi night approaches, and all through the house
Lots of seaweed is roasted, while dwain gets soused.
Vinegared rice is being spread with great care
To make sure that each roll is free of all hair.
The slippery salmon is making us drool
And we strictly observe the 5-second rule.

The rolls have been planned right down to the color
And dwain's look like crap and are always the duller.
But he doesn't care 'bout the pomp and the circumstance,
He's more concerned with soy on his new pants.
Thirty-two are the rolls deliciously crafted,
And sake enough for all to get blasted.

So if you're coming that night, don't dawdle! don't dally!
And the motto of the night is "Puke and rally!"

Robert Jordan, an author whose work I've been following since I was 14, died on Sunday.

finally!

A Nebraska state senator is suing God.

The lawsuit admits God goes by all sorts of alias, names, titles and designations and it also recognizes the fact that the defendant is “Omnipresent”.

In the lawsuit Chambers says he’s tried to contact God numerous times, “Plaintiff, despite reasonable efforts to effectuate personal service upon Defendant (“Come out, come out, wherever you are”) has been unable to do so.”

The suit also requests that the court given the “peculiar circumstances” of this case waive personal service. It says being Omniscient, the plaintiff assumes God will have actual knowledge of the action.

The lawsuit accuses God “of making and continuing to make terroristic threats of grave harm to innumerable persons, including constituents of Plaintiff who Plaintiff has the duty to represent.”

It says God has caused, “fearsome floods, egregious earthquakes, horrendous hurricanes, terrifying tornadoes, pestilential plagues, ferocious famines, devastating droughts, genocidal wars, birth defects, and the like.”

The suit also says God has caused, “calamitous catastrophes resulting in the wide-spread death, destruction and terrorization of millions upon millions of the Earth’s inhabitants including innocent babes, infants, children, the aged and infirm without mercy or distinction.”

Chambers also says God “has manifested neither compassion nor remorse, proclaiming that Defendant “will laugh” when calamity comes.

Chambers asks for the court to grant him a summary judgment. He says as an alternative, he wants the judge to set a date for a hearing as “expeditiously” as possible and enter a permanent injunction enjoining God from engaging in the types of deleterious actions and the making of terroristic threats described in the lawsuit.

I love this. Obviously the emphasis is mine.

6th week

We begin our 6th week of school. Some victories, some defeats.

great loss

I didn't hear about Madeleine L'Engle's death until today.

yowzah

I'm not a big fan of bumper stickers, but I am a big fan of sacrilege.

God was my copilot, but we crashed in the mountains and I had to eat him.

Kentucky Theatre

The Kentucky Theatre is a beautiful place. It's great fun to go there at midnight and watch a cult classic with a bunch of other nightwalkers.

To see more, go to the Kentucky Theatre website. Fun fact: the name of the establishment is Kentucky Theatre, but the website is Kentuckytheater. Heheheh.

emergence

Maxx emerged from grooming with a close shave and ears trimmed almost into nonexistence. I'd post a picture, but he's a bit shy after these things.

Worst of all: they cut him while trimming. Worse than worst: it was 1/2 an inch above the poor guy's only remaining artifact of masculinity. They glued the cut and offered him a free haircut in return, the "Top Dog" trim. The last time my barber almost took out of my manhood, I got a cut and a shave!

groomed to perfection

I dropped Maxx off at the groomer's this morning to get his final shave of the summer. He was due it several weeks ago, but we'd avoided the anguish of getting his hopes up by riding in the car early in the morning then breaking his heart by handing him over to strangers with scissors.

On my way to school, I saw a man driving a Jaguar with two children in car seats in the back. He was probably in his 40s, obviously financially successful. He wore a white shirt, black vest, and bow tie; the boy was in business casual, and the girl was in a Sunday dress.

At the end of the day, I think Maxx will enjoy how he's groomed more than the children will appreciate their couture.

monday monday

A good weekend, if not restful. A sister-in-law came to town on Friday and left Sunday afternoon. Played disc golf Saturday evening and this morning. Went to a bbq last night and tried to light a cigarette backwards. Couldn't figure out why there was a flame shooting up from it.

Can't wait for the temperature to drop under 80. Too hot to write complete sentences. Pronouns and verbs disappearing...

pacific

pacific
Originally uploaded by dwain.

Standing on a jetty in Washington, the mouth of the Columbia on one side and the Pacific crashing into it from the other.

upside down at the lighthouse

upside down at the lighthouse
Originally uploaded by dwain.

When was the last time you did this? You should try it again.

And hope your landing is more graceful than mine was. I won't show you that photo.

lavender diamond

Fun. I prefer their song "Rise in the Springtime," but this is fun.

superlative

It might appear to the casual and infrequent observer that my blog is composed of exaggerations. My parents said I was melodramatic. My teachers agreed. My students ask me if I'm an actor because I am expressive. Only the latter is false: I can't act for shit.

All that to excuse this unabashed endorsement of The Best of Youth, an Italian film. In recent weeks I have called The Wire and Deadwood the finest television I've ever seen, and I'll stand by those claims. I would just as readily stand by my claim that The Best of Youth is the most engaging and tragic film I've ever seen. It's 6 hours long, enough time to connect you spiritually to the two brothers around whom the film revolves. I expected to watch it in installments. Six hours later I was crying through the credits.

If you have the patience to watch a film in Italian--which I know some of you will just because you mistakenly think the language beautiful--and invest yourself wholly into the lives of these brothers, you will not regret it.

Here's a wordless trailer that spans the 30 years the film spans.

tom morello (the nightwatchman)

I like this song by Tom Morello. Good protest album.

funniest photo i've seen in months

symmetry

I love symmetrical numbers. For example, I live to see the same number or a pattern on the DVD player, something like chapter 12 at the 1 hour and 21 minutes and 21 seconds mark, or 12 1 21 12. This post happens to be my 636th. To commemorate this moment of balance, an illustrated guide to coffee.

turning the bluegrass blue

M and I went to see Obama speak tonight. A group of us went to Heritage Hall at 4:30 and joined a sizable crowd in standing about listening to bluegrass music and waiting for the man to appear. I actually knew the guitar player for the bluegrass group from my time at Asbury. He was on my hall, and he was the "fire warden" for the hall. They played several songs interspersed with horrible "readings" by young African American kids (10-18-year olds) who sounded like they had a 4th grade reading level. Not particularly inspiring, especially the kid who ended his 20-second bit with "Obama is my hero." Why the hell would he be your hero? What has he done? Don't get me wrong: I like the guy. Has he done anything heroic, though? No.

It was an interesting enough speech, full of promises which could never be kept and rhetoric enough to fill a president's shoes. Of course I agree with him and support him, but I certainly didn't have the fervent hope that many of the people did. It was like being at a concert.

Obama '08!

Actually, anyone not Republican would be fine.

Oh, please, nobody notice that I'm wearing a blue and brown tie with a black belt and shoes... Perhaps they'll be so distracted struggling to keep their own pants from falling down they'll miss mine.

For those of you who have not had the pleasure of hearing David Gray's nasal tones singing pure poetry, run out and buy Life in Slow Motion. Until you do that, have a listen to "Now and Always" and enjoy.

It begins.

First week went quite well all around, in my classroom and in the department and in the school. There was an unfortunate misunderstanding regarding some students having to go to a different school because they no longer required ESL services, an affair that has a lot of our students wondering why all of the "paisas" (people from the same country) are being sent to one of the most hated and envied schools in the district. "Because it's the law."

I really like my schedule: 3 sections of "Reading 3" on A-day, 1 section of junior English, and 2 sections of freshman English. The latter two aren't quite as fun as the others, but hey, it's better than last year's schedule of 6 separate classes.

2 days down

Fascinating photos of how chic the young and the homeless in America can be. At least that's the message I get from most of the photos. Of course, the manky hands and hair are a little hard to pass off as cool.

awesome video of a master chef

This must be watched by everyone.

last friday

An interesting week for wrapping up the summer vacation.

On Monday we both had meetings all day, utterly useless in my case.

On Tuesday I went in and started going through the mess that is my room. The humidity in my room has all of my papers and books curling, and though I've talked to the custodians about it, they suggest I get a dehumidifier. Not happy.

Wednesday we had Laura and Jon over for a fun evening of sipping and quipping.

Thursday I went into school after taking M to the doctor in the morning because her lymph nodes were really swollen and her jaw ached. She has thrush. Not fun. That evening I went to trivia night at a local bar (did you know that margarine was originally going to be butterine?) and felt a twinge in my back. At 1:30 I woke up with more than a twinge and within minutes was fighting a devilish kidney stone. Took 2 hyrdomorphone left over from my last bout with the devil and went to bed around 4 and to sleep at 5.

Had a faculty meeting at 8 o'clock this morning. Couldn't see straight to drive so had someone pick me up. Talked crazy talk all morning. Napped for 2 hours this afternoon.

The Wire is the best television currently being made.

dia de la independencia

Un feliz 6 de agosto a todos! Viva la patria, y en las palabras del heroe Eduardo Avaroa, -Que se rinda su abuela, carajo!-

Sunday routine

Some people go to church on Sundays, regardless of how vapid their faith may be. Others watch sports, the unlettered man's opera. Others go to the park, and I have nothing snarky to say of them. M and I watch Mystery! on PBS.

Miss Marple is currently going through her case files, but my preferred current inspector, Inspector Lynley, starts up in three weeks. Of course I would prefer to watch Inspector Morse, but John Thaw died and his talent is lost to us. Fortunately there are torrent files of quite a few of the Morse mysteries. Derek Jacobi is in tonight's episode of Ms. Marple along with a handful of "B-list" BBC actors like Tim McInnerny of Black Adder fame.


Sundays are our day of house work and school work. We usually walk and buy the newspaper, read it and leave it strewn about the living room, cook a handsome lunch, then go about cleaning in and out. Then we set up our theatre: popcorn, wine, blankets, and a poodle who somehow knows that his week of boredom begins.

quotes

With all this talk of cats, I thought I'd post (re-post?) my favorite quotes about dogs:

Don't accept your dog's admiration as conclusive evidence that you are wonderful. - Ann Landers

The average dog is a nicer person than the average person. - Andy Rooney

Ever wonder if other dogs think poodles are members of a weird religious cult. - Rita Rudner

Ever consider what our dogs must think of us? We come back from a grocery store with the most amazing haul - chicken, pork, half a cow .They must think we're the greatest hunters on earth! - Anne Tyler

You can say any foolish thing to a dog, and the dog will give you a look that says, 'My goodness, you're right! I never would've thought of that!' - Dave Barry

If you think dogs can't count, try putting three dog biscuits in your pocket and then giving Fido only two of them. - Phil Pastoret

GOP debate

I watched part of the GOP debate on ABC this morning, a debacle of an affair which hammered yet another nail into the coffin of my faith in humans. Mitt Romney was the most despicable person followed closely by Giuliani. The only two people who made any attempt to give honest answers were Huckabee and Ron Paul, neither of whom stand half a chance. I actually hope that Mitt Romney or Giuliani get the nomination and cement the victory for the Democrats.

On another note, while Youtube-surfing for clips from this morning, I came across this argument between Christopher Hitchens and Sean Hannity. I'd heard of Hannity but never heard him, an innocence I only wish I could have back. Like all talk-show hosts, he's light on the host and heavy on the talk. At least Rush Limbaugh has some personality, despicable as it may be; Hannity's just a dolt with a big mouth.

night

We went to a wine and cheese party last night then jetted out early to catch the opening act at The Dame downtown, My Brightest Diamond. Apparently MBD is basically Shara Worden occasionally accompanied, and last night she was solo. Her voice is an instrument of itself, strong and clear and very versatile. She has an interesting musical background: classical and opera training.

The Dame is a dive of a place, and last night it was chockablock full of goths there to hear Rasputina, the headline show. M and a friend and I stood out like sore thumbs amidst the black on black. I must laugh.

On top of the strange company, it was unbelievably hot in this little place. The air went out the night before, and it was absolutely sweltering. Good time, though.

17 children

Would someone please tell this couple to stop having sex! Or at least one of them needs to get fixed.

politicians are stupid

What would a representative from Colorado do if there were another terrorist attack on the US? Bomba Mecca. Because that wouldn't piss off a billion people.

Impeach Bush.

ridiculous schools

This is one of the most blatant examples of the unethical approach that many administrators have toward raising their numbers. I also love the mother's quote about the teacher needing to grow up.

oldboy

We just finished watching Oldboy, a Korean thriller. One of the most disturbing films I've seen but quite well done.

Here's a clip that is not for the faint of heart.

my day so far

Decided to listen to The Cribs to see if they're any good.

Found out an old friend is gay.

Watched an episode of Burn Notice and like it.

Read about the "freaky origins of Christian rock" on Slate.com.

Found out that religious doctors are no kinder or philanthropic than atheist doctors.

One of my faves for how good it could have been.

fun story

I basically gave up on trying to maintain a blog on the second half of our trip because we were just too busy seeing and doing things to find the time. That and the fuse to our power source kept blowing when I plugged in the computer for more than 20 minutes and I ran out of fuses. I took notes--handwritten and typed--about places we saw, things we did, and incidents, but I haven't energized myself to revisit them to flesh them out.

M's sister in Vancouver planned for us to visit British Columbia's wine country, an area a few hours from the city. Since we all had camping gear, we figured we'd save money and just toss up a couple of tents at a provincial park, a brilliant idea with tragic consequences.

The Okanagan Valley is very similar to the wine-growing region of California and Oregon: dry and highly irrigated. Johannah, M's sister, found it more beautiful than I did, perhaps because I was disappointed to be returning to the arid terrain I had been so glad to leave only a few days before. Regardless of what confused people may say, California is not pretty. Despite its ugliness, the Okanagan is wonderful for growing certain varieties of wine, particularly those used for white wine. But I jump ahead of the story.

When we arrived at the provincial park mid-afternoon on Friday, we made the strangest discovery concerning Canadians. Apparently they possess a degree of patriotism great enough to warrant a day dedicated to celebrating their nation. Oddly enough, the day they do this is 3 days before the US does it, and they are adamant that it is not a celebration of independence but of sovereignty. Who knew? Anyway, it just so happened that on this day all Canadians go camping. We got the final site available, a prime spot not 15 meters from the highway on the top "tier" of the leveled campground which dropped down to the lake. Each level was probably 50 vertical feet from the next.

Provincial campgrounds in the Okanagan Valley strive to preserve the "natural vegetation" of the area by requiring campers to set up tents on gravel squares surrounded by lush, cushioning grass. Less than three inches under the gravel is a concrete foundation, making staking out the tent a real pleasure. We managed to get our tents somewhat settled using expensive firewood and a hatchet as hammers. Johannah, tricky cheeker that she is, skirted the "no grass camping" law by setting her tent up next to the grass but staking her rain fly in the grass. Oh, cruel fate!

We headed down to Sumac Ridge Winery and had a couple of drinks and bought expensive bottles of icewine, a Canadian specialty. Did I say we did? I meant the ladies did. Too sweet for me.

As we were eating our supper, it began to rain. No problem, really, just an annoyance which drove us all into Johannah's tent where we sat reading wine facts from our new deck of cards even after it stopped raining.

There comes a point when the momentum of an experience, good or bad, cannot be changed and must be ridden through. I'm not sure when that point was on this trip, but I think it may well have started with the ubiquitous and white-noise sound of the sprinkler. Then the water started spraying in. Johannah's reaction was puzzling, and I'm not sure if I should be flattered or offended that the first thing out of her mouth was "dwain, dwain, dwain!" Apparently though I have no faith and would never be asked by anyone to pray for them, when it comes to sprinkler disasters I'm the person to whom you should reach out.

Johannah's plan of staking her rain fly in the grass was a great one except that the "natural vegetation" that the park was trying to protect wasn't natural at all and had to be watered by the largest arsenal of sprinklers I've seen outside of a golf course. All around us sprinkler heads were popping up out of the ground like moles at Carnaval--worst simile ever?. The people in the gravelsite--I mean camp--next to us were frantically trying to get the third of their enormous tents off the grass and away from the deluge. All we could do was bail out of the tent and try to avoid the spray as we unstaked her tent and move d it back. It didn't help that the spray kept hitting a tree and bouncing back on us.

An employee of the park saw our predicament and stopped by. Did he commiserate with us? "Oh, didn't they tell you about the sprinklers? Oh, well they'll be back on in the morning, too! You know now, don't you!" The man looked like a garden gnome who had somehow grown two feet taller and shaved.



























I won't go into the ordeal of the following day because it's too painful. Perhaps after a longer time of healing. I leave only this picture, for now.

voluntourism and youth group missions

I had never heard of "voluntourism" until a Time article with the title "Vacationing like Brangelina." Expecting to see an expose on the most expensive and extravagant resorts in the world, I was fascinated to read about the new vacation fad, voluntourism.

There is certainly an up-side to such things, but the concerns expressed in the article about the colonialist nature of some of the volunteer missions is valid. We're so accustomed to the notion that "every little bit helps" that we don't stop to consider that perhaps "every little bit can hurt" or "every little bit does nothing." I always took issue with the missionary teams who came down to visit us because they usually did nothing meaningful and nothing lasting beyond a paint job. The youth groups who go down to Mexico and to the Caribbean are particularly funny because they don't speak a word of the language and essentially get to go on a feel-good but do-nothing vacation sponsored by a church who lauds their good services when they return. Do the trips have a lasting impact on either party? Rarely. Liberation theologists would certainly find little benefit for the recipients of the great white magnanimity. Medical missions are a different thing altogether; I completely support the "tent-maker" approach because it focuses on the immediate needs of the people.

Islam

Christopher Hitchens wonders why we should fear or respect Islam--or any organized religion, for that matter--in light of its beginnings and teachings.

"...Islamic belief, however simply or modestly it may be stated, is an extreme position to begin with. No human being can possibly claim to know that there is a God at all, or that there are, or were, any other gods to be repudiated. And when these ontological claims have collided, as they must, with their logical limits, it is even further beyond the cognitive capacity of any person to claim without embarrassment that the lord of creation spoke his ultimate words to an unlettered merchant in seventh-century Arabia. Those who utter such fantastic braggings, however many times a day they do so, can by definition have no idea what they are talking about. (I hasten to add that those who boast of knowing about Moses parting the Red Sea, or about a virgin with a huge tummy, are in exactly the same position.) Finally, it turns out to be impossible to determine whether jihad means more alms-giving or yet more zealous massacre of, say, Shiite Muslims."

facebook

I blame Laura. I'd never looked at Facebook before. Never even thought of it. I now have 7 friends.

PBS

PBS is going to be broadcasting The Complete Jane Austen beginning next year. Laura is a huge fan--fanatical, Laura?--of Austen, an interest I do not share, unfortunately. I only recall reading Emma, but I think I may have read Pride and Prejudice at some point, the memory of any book erased by the wonder of the film adaptation starring the inimitably aloof Colin Firth. Victorian literature is an acquired taste or perhaps a taste simply present or not. For me, it's not.

M and I just resurrected our routine of last year of watching a Mystery! on Sunday nights. Ms. Marple isn't my favorite detective, that honor going to Morse or Lynley.

Here's why Welsh is a dying language.

Maxx, in his infinite laziness, decided it was time to get up this morning, but he couldn't be bothered to roll over from where he lay with all 4 paws straight up, so instead he started to kick his back foot against M's leg until he got her attention.

not sure what this is...

chick tracts

When I was a kid, I would often find tracts put out by Jack Chick in churches in Bolivia. They were always fun to read as a distraction from the message--a relief--but were terrifying because they preached such a narrow faith and path to heaven. The demons were especially hideous. I'd forgotten about these until I was doing some idle research on Masonry and came across a tract which talked about how evil the Masons are. It started me on a trip down memory lane.

This is the most ridiculous one I've ever seen:

The "dissection" is quite vulgar, to warn you, but there are a couple of funny reactions.

trailer

The trailer for Frank Oz's Death At a Funeral is the the funniest I've seen in a while, matched only by the R-rated trailer for Super Bad.

Made biscuits and gravy and an omelet this morning after running around and becoming entangled in all the red tape that surrounds M getting her Masters degree to the KY Dept. of Education so that she gets paid more so we can buy more sushi. Busy times.

lawsuit

This story about a woman who sued the local board of education for ignoring sexual abuse that happened 30 years ago and won the case has a lot of people angry. Considering the amount she was awarded, it was infuriating to hear her say "It wasn't about the money; it was about the education lost." The $3.7 million won't be felt by the schools now, then? It was obviously about the money because she went after the school board, the only party with money that she could get to. Despise people like this...

another music video

I just caught the last bit of an Austin City Limits rerun with Franz Ferdinand and What Made Milwaukee Famous. I'm not entirely taken with Ferdinand, but WMMF had a great song called "Jeopardy of Contentment." Of course since they're a small band I can't find any song links, but I did find a video to the song. Not the best, but I really like the piano in it.

tell your god to ready for blood

Deadwood is the finest television I've ever seen, and it closely approaches if not surpasses the mark of being the best cinema I've watched. The title of the post is the title of the first episode of its third and final season which M and I just checked out and started watching. One of the cable channels--A&E, I think--have as their slogan "Characters welcome." Deadwood's characters are the most beautiful and savage I've seen, and I'm saddened that it's over. Ian McShane was robbed of an Emmy.

"Custer was a c---. The end." ~ Calamity Jane on writing about her experiences as a scout

Here's a clip of Ian McShane talking to the town newspaper man after the latter's business was ransacked.

spoilers

In honor of Harry Potter.

returned

We're home (actually since Wednesday night). I can't put it any better than M did:

I'm sitting in my living room, naked, drinking wine. I love it.

We were welcomed home by a tree brought down across our neighbor's fence and into our yard by a huge storm we passed through east of Lexington. It gave me an excuse to buy a chainsaw, though, so not all is lost. Of course it's an electric chainsaw which takes away some of the manliness of it...

films

I went and watched Ratatouille with M and my 3 cousins yesterday, then I went and watched Harry Potter with my sister. I was very surprised by both, especially the Potter film. Rat was fun and definitely not intended for a young audience, but Potter was an all-out adult film. Not that kind. It was wonderful to finally see some adults fighting other adults instead of just kids running around fighting bad CG. To say the least, I thoroughly enjoyed it! And I'm so ashamed I did...

perfect...

Grassroots movements are dead, and someone really needs to start teaching this in civics classes.

2 kids are walking across the country in demonstration against the war. Whoopty-doo, they definitely inspired me to call my senator! Wow, what an amazing story, really, just super. Their courage is unsurpassed.

"Pope's comments irrelevant to non-Catholics"

If you remove a few words--Christian, Catholic, Pope, Jesus--and replace them with the equivalent words from other religions' lexicons, you have the most generic statement of faith ever. This schmuck doesn't realize that he's trying to "own" Jesus in the exact same way he's accusing the Pope of doing? I saw a DVD on my dad's desk put out by Focus on the Family--a thousand curses on them--which decried the rise of relativism in the evil modern age. That's such an old point of contention that they can't seem to get beyond.

While in Montana I watched 2 minutes of a Xian show on which some fellow complained, rightly, of the rise of "romantic Xianity." He was pointing out how inane it is to sing "you're all I need" or some other such drivel then go out and live your life no differently than anyone else. Fucking Jesus hippies...

I'm in a bad mood.

halfway home

For those of you who for one second were relieved by the post title and thought I'd gone into AA, I regret to inform you that I have not yet begun to drink this summer!

We got to my parents' place at 11 last night and were greeted by an enthusiastic poodle. Good to be in a bed other than a hotel bed.

off we go

We're off to the body shop! Never knew what that was as a kid.

For a good listen, try out Aboriginal Voices Radio. Heard it in Vancouver and am pining after the names of some of the beautiful songs I heard.

women of the Berlin night

I was reading a generic and ultimately newsless magazine--Newsweek, Time, US News & World Report--while waiting at the body shop, and I read an article that was basically a collection of pieces about how the US could become a better nation by following the examples set by other nations. Several of them were interesting propositions that would require a complete regeneration of the American social structure and psyche. The only one that I disagreed with to any great degree was the proposition to follow the Finnish model of free and accessible public education for all (FAPE, in the US). We've elevated this notion of equity beyond the point of realism, beyond the capability of human grasp; we've entered into the realm of idealism, a realm governed by people with beautiful minds and more hope for the souls of humans than I believe wise.

The most interesting article was about the recent legalization of prostitution in Berlin. Prostitution is not a business with a lot of job security, and the city wanted to find a way to provide more stable income and lifestyles for the women. As it turns out, there was a great need for caregivers for the elderly, so the women were trained to work with them. The reasoning behind is thought-provoking and rather indicative of how Western culture views the old: prostitutes are generally quite good with people and, most interestingly, are comfortable touching people. Is care for the old so despicable to us that it's fetishistic? I love that these women are being trained to use their gifts--and I hope that I won't have the involuntary prostitute argument rammed down my throat--in such a positive way, and I wish that the US would take a more progressive approach to both issues.

On a more mundane note, our car should be fixed tomorrow, so we'll have to surrender the cable, pool, hot tub, and sauna. Mmmm, sauna. Our plan is to drive like hell to get to PA to pick up Maxx, hopefully this Friday.

mistaya canyon

mistaya canyon
Originally uploaded by dwain.

Crashing violence is so beautiful in its own way. What amazes me most about waterfalls is that they never stop. Mountains stand still, trees reach their height, the sky goes through certain hues, but water always moves.

Well, we're leaving the Aero Inn for Ohs' Body Shop, hoping and praying--not really--that we can get the minimum of repairs done--windshield--to make it possible to drive it to PA.

It could have been worse. For us. Couldn't have been worse for the deer.

conflict of direction

I just joined the unhappy club of people who have killed a deer with a car. It makes me sad.

We're lying on a comfy bed in Aero Inn in Kalispell, Montana. It'll be nice to have our first shower in 6 days. There are only so many times I can dunk myself in a cold river.

crescent pier

summer 2184
Originally uploaded by dwain.

We were poking around the shore of Lake Crescent, waiting for our table to be ready. the water was glimmering, and though we never saw the sun set, it was beautiful for the dimness of it all.

catching up

I'm still trying to catch up on my writing since June 25th. I have a few notes jotted down, but there's a lot.

Hope everyone is having a great summer! I am!

Except I miss Maxx...

Paradisum – June 24th

In case you hadn't noticed, my Latin isn't of the quality of Joyce's. I'm basically mixing the Italian and Latin that I've seen in books or songs. This particular title actually comes from the soundtrack for 28 Days Later, one of my favorite films. I love Alex Garland's take on what remains when the social infrastructure of a nation gets stripped away, and beyond that what remains when the psychological infrastructure is demolished and begins to be rebuilt. Cormac McCarthy's The Road explores much of the same, especially the latter. As the man and boy wander, the boy struggles to define his own morality despite his father's teachings and using experience as his foundation. His empathy is what forms his morality, the sentiment that "All he wants is food, so don't hurt him." The father's morality is similar to the "brute emergent" morality of 28 Days Later, the veneer of humanity stripped away to reveal the animalistic morality that only humans possess when cornered: kill or be killed. I cannot recommend the film or book enough, and I'm hoping they attempt a film of the latter. Oh, and the soundtrack to 28 Days Later is good, especially Brian Eno's track.

North Umpqua

On this trip we have happened upon Serendipity often. Whether it's meeting an artist, unwittingly being in the same area as a restaurant, meeting a childhood musical hero, or being in the same area as a beautiful wine, these serendipities are the unforgettable moments of the trip, the memorable unplanned.

When I was at Cabela's in St. Louis, I picked up a free copy of Fly Fish America, a magazine with articles about equipment and places and fish. One of the articles was written by an Easterner about a steelhead fishing trip he took to the North Umpqua River in Oregon. I read it several times, envying him the opportunity to fish such a beautiful river—hell, just to visit a beautiful river. Late last week, as we were planning our time between Sacramento and Vancouver and poring over the maps, I noticed that, Thor be praised, we drove directly over the N. Umpqua. Thusfar it has been the most beautiful part of the trip, at least in my opinion.

The Umpqua Valley is a deep valley, almost a gorge, that wends from the mountains of central Oregon to the coast and provides access for thousands of salmon and steelhead to swim up to their spawning beds. I know little about the life cycle of these fish, but this trip has inspired me to learn more about them and their amazing journey. The N. Umpqua is more than 150 miles from the ocean, but every summer and winter a group of them make the journey upriver. There are also trout in the river, and I'm still trying to figure out how trout and steelhead are related. Nobody seems to know! I also want to understand the biology that allows them to live in both saltwater and freshwater.

We drove east, up the valley, following the river in all its twists and falls, mesmerized by the beauty of this sheltered valley. The river is a striking blue, like the water that flows in glacial rivers, and has a shallow edge that drops sharply into a channel of rushing turquoise. How the fish find the energy to push through this torrent is a mystery, as much so as the mystery of the compulsion that drives them to make the deadly but creative journey. The valley sides are steep and often lined by cliffs. There are few houses along the way, and the only town we drove through is more deserving of being called a village than is Rogue River. We stopped at Joe Howell's Blue Heron fly shop, the shop mentioned in the article above. Joe's dog, Shadow, rushed at me barking madly as I approached the door, but she was all bark and tailwagging. Apparently she's quite protective of Joe and will only bark at customers if he's in the shop.

Joe is in his 60s, a large man with rosy patches on his cheeks and a few stray blooms of red on his white face. He's the kind of man who stands with his belly pushed out a little and his hands in his pockets, only pulling them out when he's talking about something truly worthy of emotion and commitment. His wife is very friendly and welcoming, immediately offering up the dog for free with the purchase of any flies. They make a cute couple, she the personable welcome and he the gruff but knowledgeable keeper whose name may be on the store but is actually employed by his wife. It didn't take long to warm him up, though, with honest questions about the place and the fish. I think that many "old-timers" and locals get turned off by the idea of people coming in with the intention of catching a big fish and taking it out of the river without having any sort of bond or attachment to the river. Of course I fit much of that description, except I have no intention of taking fish out of the river—a good thing, too, because I couldn't if I wanted to! I was fascinated by the history of the river as a haven for fish and fishermen—Zane Grey and Hemingway fished here—and the biology of fish coming up the river, and Joe was more than willing to share his decades of experience. His brusque demeanor soon gave way to excitement as he talked about the runs of steelhead he had seen when he was in high school, and he spoke with nostalgic regret about the poachers who would throw dynamite into a specific pool up Steamboat Creek where the fish gathered before a final push. He said the department of fish and game estimated that the pool had been dynamited once a year for around 30 years, throwing an enormous pause into the run, essentially eliminating entire generations of early-run steelhead. Now some local fishing clubs—what do you do?—have bought an RV and hired a geology student to sit up at the pool and guard it constantly against poachers. Joe thinks that he's spent a little too much time up there, and he couldn't help but grin a little when he told about the man, his friend, telling him detailed stories about this one fish and the bubbles it let out and the movements it made. I think I'd go crazy, too, if I just stared at the same pool of water all day. A sort of lifeguard for the undrownable.

Joe and his wife recommended that we stay at Horseshoe Bend campground because it was farther from the road than the others and had fairly isolated sites. It was gorgeous. It was a fair distance from the road indeed, and the only sound was the Umpqua rushing by us yards away. We were in a deep valley, so the light that reached us felt tired but still warmed as it filtered through countless leaves and needles. There were several other people in the site, but we were separated by enough trees to maintain our comfort zone. It was gorgeous.

No showers, though, and no hot water, so after two days we were…ready.

On the first evening, I headed down to the water with the camera to get some pictures. As I was setting up, from behind me I heard M say, "Bald eagle." Down through the narrow valley flew a bald eagle, low enough that a sudden swoop would land him a fish but high enough to declare to all those below that he was the master of the valley, sky and land. Did I get a picture of him? No. Bald eagle's are interesting animals for both their place in the animal kingdom and their place in the human psyche, specifically the US psyche. There's something about a bald eagle that conjures up ideals which the bird undoubtedly doesn't possess: nobility, bravery, justice, etc. It's a bird. Despite my lack of patriotism, each time I've seen one I pause and watch it, and only half the watching is for the beauty.

Fly fishing is a fascinating activity—I won't call it a sport. It's an amalgamation of physicality and knowledge: you need to know how to present the fly and use the equipment, and you need to know what to present and where. I'm still working on the two areas, but I love knowing that once I become adept at the physical part of it I still have a world of knowledge to explore. Entomology is not something that has ever interested me—I wasn't a boy who was fascinated by any bug beyond tadpoles, and they're not bugs—but it is an integral part of fly fishing. I love kneeling down in streams and turning over rocks to see what nymphs live in the water. I love watching what's floating by to see what hatch is emerging from the nymphal stage and rising to the surface. I love watching the air around me and trying to see what bugs are dropping on the water. For most people, bugs on the water are a nuisance, as they were for me until recently. I'm still learning the bugs, so right now I basically have to catch one and open my fly box and see if it matches anything I have. I never knew about this amazing process of bugs: they begin as eggs on the stream bottom then slowly morph and float up to the top where their wings emerge and they fly up only to fall and lay eggs, beginning the cycle again. It would have held no interest for me if not for fly fishing, and I am grateful to it for awakening in me an interest in the biological world that I didn't have before.

One of the most important flies in the West is the stonefly. It's a hideous bug in every stage. The nymph looks likes a forked-tail demon which would love to chew through your palm if you held it. It's about an inch long with lots of legs on either side. When it becomes an adult and flies, it's a little over an inch with large wings that lie against its body. I bought a few of the imitations at Joe's shop.

RV people are like birds that migrate south for the winter

fishing report

Actually, there's nothing to report except that I'm going fishing tomorrow. In British Columbia. How fun.

BC wine?

We're in Vancouver getting ready to head out--already--to BC wine country for a couple of days. Much vin to be had!

And much blogging to catch up on...

paradiso

I have much of which to write for the past two days, but little battery power with which to do it. M just called me a dork for sitting in the car with the engine running so I could have the power to write this little bit. She softened the blow by saying I'm a cute dork, a lie I'll for which I'll forgive her.

We ended up spending two nights at Valley of the Rogue State Park, a park the state should be ashamed of. The proximity of tractor-trailers to the park belies the idyllic sounding title, but the awesome showers and wireless made up for it. The showers weren't locker room style; there were stalls that had partitions with two shelves and a place to sit. I wore shoes to avoid walking in any of the body-funk that may slough off of people who use them.

Rogue River City

The city of Rogue River would be more appropriately called a village. It has all of the amenities that a village needs—barber shop, grocery store, pharmacy, real estate office, bank, and a couple of eateries—with none of the accoutrements that would make anyone call it a city or even a town. Oregon has surprised me by being less cosmopolitan than I had imagined and much more hillbilly—for lack of a kinder term—than expected. On Friday morning I got my hair cut at Ron's barbershop, open at 7:30. Ron was a stocky guy with closely trimmed hair, glasses, a handlebar moustache, and Republican allegiances. I struck up a conversation with him about something, and within minutes he came out with "The environmentalists have ruined Oregon." Not willing to get into an argument with a razor-wielding man, I asked him what he meant without agreeing. He was a fourth generation logger who had to find work after laws were passed because of environmentalists which limited the amount of logging that could be done. He wasn't speaking economically, though; in his mind, trees are like crops which must be harvested when they get old so that new ones can grow. It took great control not to ask how in the world the forests had survived before we wonderful humans came along to tend them. Apparently the forests have been hit by several funguses and forest fires in recent years, and Ron believes that thinning the forests would help limit the damage to the trees—irony alert—by cutting them down. We moved on from the environmentalists to the general climate of Oregon. The night before there had been a 30-degree temperature swing, something he said is common on the Rogue Valley. There are more than a dozen wineries in the valley—this is something I learned elsewhere; Ron didn't strike me as the oenophile type—and it would be interesting to learn more about how the temperature swings affect their harvest and grow time. One last story about Ron: he used to go fishing down in some creeks that empty into the Illinois, and we were talking about the proliferation of anglers in the area and how little joy there is in fishing in great company. He said that when he had fished, "If you saw another guy, one of you was leaving. I had my shotgun with me, and I knew he did to, just because." I tipped well.

If Ron's story doesn't convey the aura of Rogue River well enough, perhaps the tale of the fishing license will. It's not an adventure; it's just funny. So I had to go to the local pharmacy to get my fishing license, once again dealing with a handlebar moustache and a shirt that said "The trout, the whole trout, and nothing but the trout, so help you cod." He was a little less helpful and welcoming, but I got a 3-day license and a little license holder. Are you ready for it? The holder is camouflaged, and in bright white letters it says "Rogue River Guns and Drugs." You know the Rx symbol? The x is two rifles crossed. I'm keeping this forever.

We spent the rest of the day driving around looking for places for me to fish along the Rogue and deciding it's too big and swift to fish easily, so we just hiked around, played cards, and read. I read Cormac McCarthy's The Road, an easy read that is depressing as can be but fantastically engaging and haunting. The nameless protagonists work their way to the coast through a post-apocalyptic world, giving McCarthy the opportunity to insert little adventures at the same time he delves into the human spirit. Here's a bit I particularly liked:

"Dark of the invisible moon. The nights now only slightly less black. By day the banished sun circles the earth like a grieving mother with a lamp."

I flew through the book and finished it in about 4 hours, something I hadn't done in a while. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek is boring the hell out of me, and I don't think I'm going to return to it. It's too much diary and too little insight. She is an immensely talented word-artist—I find myself sitting by rivers looking for the words that she would use—but thematically boring to me.

We had a very pleasant evening drinking Deschutes Brewery's "Black Butte Porter," a coffee-like beer made with crystal and chocolate malts. Since we've missed the wineries in the area, we're just going to stop at gas stations and buy the local brews instead. Cheaper.

Oregon Gas

You can't fill your own gas tank in Oregon. The first time I pulled up to the money-sucking box, a fellow walked up to the window and looked at me expectantly. I just sat there staring at him then looked around for the "Full Service" sign and finally asked, stupidly, "Is this full service?" He was nice enough to explain that all of Oregon is. Since I'd already made an ass of myself, I decided it wouldn't hurt to ask him if tipping is expected. Of course it is.

Rogue River

Saturday morning began at 4 o'clock for me when my alarm went off. I'd woken up at 2:30 with the horrible feeling of having slept too long—there's an odd notion; too much sleep—but was able to go back to sleep fairly easily. I was to meet Matt Shore, my guide, at 4:45 at a Pilot station about 15 minutes down the road. The easiest thing would have been for me to follow him to where the boat would dock after the trip, but we weren't going to be done until 2 and had to be out of the campsite at 1. M, gracious and wonderful person that she is, drove me to meet Matt and then picked me up at 2, packing up all our stuff by herself.

Matt was in his mid-thirties, very personable, and an outdoorsman. I had originally thought I was the only one going, but we picked up Paul, a middle-aged insurance lawyer from Indianapolis who was used to fishing for bass and crappie. We drove about 10 miles up the river from where we would come out of the water and put in Matt's drift boat. I had no idea what a drift boat was, and I won't begin to fumble through a description of it using the few words I know about boats. The way it works to fish from it is that one person sits in the back with the prow pointed downstream and rows upstream. You don't actually move upstream; you just move at a slower pace than the water so that your lures or flies get the required action as you fish in front of the boat. Matt had a hellofa workout. We each fished with three poles—not simultaneously—depending on what kind of water we were in. The Rogue has a lot of riffles and some class 3 rapids in the section we were in, so we were fishing primarily for salmon and steelhead, though we were too early for either to be in great quantities. We used a fly rod with two nymphs on sinking-tip line for the shallower spots in hopes of steelhead; we used regular rods with plugs—I have no idea what that is—with treble hooks for steelhead in slightly deeper pools; and we used sardine wraps on spey rods for salmon in deep, swift pools. What's a sardine wrap, you ask? I asked too. On the Sacramento River in NorCal, fishermen found that salmon would strike at a flatfish lure—the length of your hand and the width of two fingers with two sets of treble hooks at either end—with a piece of sardine attached to it. Matt pulled out some thread, a jar of sardine filet, and cut it so that it fit around the base of one of the hooks and wrapped it tightly using the thread. The line on that rod was 20-lb., huge considering that most of what I use in Pennsylvania and Kentucky is 3-lb. Fishing those was the most exhausting fishing I've done because the current was pulling so hard that I had to wedge the base of the rod against my body to keep it from flying out of my hands. I can't imagine what it would have felt like to have a salmon on there. Did I give it away.

I caught no steelhead or salmon. Well, technically I caught steelhead, but they were smolt, steelhead that haven't gone to the ocean and are between 4 and 6 inches long. I also caught a 6-inch cutthroat trout, a beautiful animal that I was able to release without hurting him much. I hated that we were using treble hooks because they have barbs on them and ravage a fishes' mouth cruelly. I was unhappy about that. Actually, I was quite disappointed at not catching anything and having to pay—and tip!—for it. I've decided that I don't like tipping. I like prices that are cut and dry, tip included.

Anyway, we were on the river for 8 ½ hours, and my arms are toasted. I've never had my arms as sunburnt as they were after that, and in funny ways too. My bracelets left a line, and my ¾ -length sleeves left a definite line, too. In the morning we saw a river otter with a fish in its mouth, and alter we saw an osprey circling and diving toward the water, trying to catch a fish. The beauty of the river was almost enough to make me not regret the money paid. Almost.

Any time I'm rowing on a river or lake, I find myself mesmerized by a little phenomenon that holds no visual draw whatsoever but pulls my eye each time. As the oar pushes through the water, it creates a little whirlpool of bubbles that gets carried away or left behind and quickly disappears. These little storms that pass so instantly fascinate me, and I love watching them twirl through the water, dissipating within moments of their birth. The bubbles are the first things that rise to the surface—I'm wanting to use a word to describe the currents, but the word is on the edge and won't come to me; it's somewhere on here from months ago, and it means a rising wind. The real beauty is the cyclone of water. The tail whips back and forth under the water, growing shorter and shorter until it meets the surface and dies. The life cycle of these storms is so predictable, yet each one moves uniquely, raging in its own idiom.

North Umpqua

When we pulled in at 2 o'clock, we drove to the North Umpqua river, but that will have to wait for another post. It truly is paradise.

millie

"Hi, I'm Millie the dingy Avon Lady. When you hear a ding dong it's Avon!" -- Older woman outside the homely grocery store we just visited.

I'm off at 4:45 tomorrow morning with Matt Shore. I'm excited to learn new things!

Sitting here…

I'm sitting in the car with it running, charging the phone and the computer. We've had to move our tent twice this morning because we were in the "buffer" spot and someone had another reserved. It was funny to just take out the stakes and poles, fold up our bags inside the tent, and stuff the tent in the back seat. At least it was funny the first time.

Tomorrow morning I'm going with a guide down the Upper Rogue River fishing for steelhead. This river is big and scary, and I'm doing it by boat.

By the way, I'm never letting anyone give me crap about Kentucky rednecks or hillbillies ever again. They're everywhere! I got a haircut this morning from a friendly but scary guy with a handlebar moustache then bought a fishing license from an unfriendly guy with a handlebar moustache. Be afraid!

me in yosemite

summer 1453
Originally uploaded by dwain.

sitting atop our campsite

On our own

NPR just mentioned a "suicide truck bomb" in Iraq, as if the very automobiles have risen up in protest and outrage.

Today is the summer solstice, and it's hot. In the northern hemisphere we celebrate the longest day and the hottest weather, while in the southern hemisphere they huddle in hopes for a warm morning that seems like it will never come. In Bolivia, last night was the night of San Juan, a night of bonfires in the street and fireworks all night long that lead to a hazy morning that isn't nearly as beautiful as it should be. I remember one San Juan when our family had a large group of people in our home and a bonfire on the sidewalk; yours truly decided it would be fun to throw some Black Cat-equivalents into the bonfire to see if they would go off. They didn't immediately ignite, and I quickly forgot about them. Until I jumped over the fire and they went off under me. The fire was in serious danger of being put out as I nearly wet myself in midair.

We had a lazy morning at Eric's house drinking coffee and reading the paper. It hurt me to see the local fishing conditions and not be out, but we're heading to Oregon today to see what we can see. I've been waking up early—5:30 this morning—and decided to use the time this morning to blog a bit and catch up on some of what we've been doing. I noticed that I've been ripping on California quite a bit, and I need to clarify that it's the geography, not the people, that bothers me. The people have been wonderful and are possessed of a vibe that I've enjoyed more the further we travel. Cities are generally unfriendly, but we had several encounters with neat people in San Francisco, and Jamestown was friendly, too, if a little backcountry. Before we got in the car this morning, we went shopping for our lunch foods for our next few days at Bel-Air, the Kroger of Sacramento. It was a great place—a grocery store with wine tastings!—and the staff was incredibly friendly, gushing about how cute M's short hair is and how my ears are normal—bless them! Some of you may know that as a rule I dislike humans, but I've encountered a few this trip who pass my test of decency.

At 6:30 this morning I got a call from my dear friend announcing that he and his wife are expecting a baby! It was a complete surprise to them but not an unpleasant one, so I'm happy for them. Just not for me because it means we'll be hanging out less. That's my major complaint with kids and my reason for championing dogs. Of course, Maxx probably won't be changing my geriatric diapers, so I can see some benefits to miniature-humans.

Out my window I can see the Sierra Nevadas looming through the haze. I think I can even make out a little snow on the summit! I'm ecstatic about getting into Oregon and the northern forests; there's a stark beauty to the Southwest, but my heart lies in the mountains and forests. Ironically the only forests I spent any time in in Bolivia were the eucalyptus groves that were transplanted from Australia. I hadn't seen a eucalyptus tree since being in Bolivia two years ago, but they're everywhere out here! My mom used to go outside and break off a branch and boil the leaves, a smell that filled the home and has stuck with me for years.

For every two radio stations in English, there's one in Spanish. No, not just Spanish: Mexican. Mariachi, reggaeton, cumbia, duranguense: they all drive me crazy despite having grown up with similar music. What's funny to me is that they consider it to be a "traditional" style of music even though only the percussion instruments are actually indigenous to the continent. That doesn't mean it's not traditional; it just shortens the history of the tradition. I don't point that out to my students, though. They have surprised me by listening to their "own" music more than American music because I, for some reason, thought the whole world listened to rock and pop and hip-hop. With them, though, it's all duranguense and reggaeton and cumbia. They don't even listen to "rock en español" like Maná or Los Aterciopelados. I think one reason for this is that the kind of people who immigrate up into KY from Mexico are the working class, the people who we would call "rednecks." They're the country-folk of Mexico and listen to the country music of Mexico.

The thought occurs to me that these agro families are the traditional social foundation of Mexican culture, the people who preserve the culture of the past by living it presently. Is that culture being lost as they slowly—or quickly—are migrating into the US? I know that they're bringing their culture with them, but the dominant culture will influence the subordinate culture no matter how quickly the latter grows. I would say, actually, that it's a sign of the dominance of US culture that so many people are moving here, abandoning what they see as an economically futureless nation. It's the importance of money that draws people here, capitalism reforming national ethnicities. What effect is that having on traditional Mexico? What effect will it have on US culture as a whole, not just in border areas? It also makes me wonder about the traditional social foundation of the US, or at least what we often consider the base. When I think of traditional Americans, I think the South and Midwest. The coasts and cities in general represent social progressivism while small towns in the "bread basket" and Bible belt represent bastions of morality. We've certainly been hearing a lot about this in recent years—think Xian Coalition, Focus on the Family—though it's been present for well over a century in America's self-perception. As small towns dwindle and cities grow, are we losing that social foundation, or was it ever actually the foundation? Are cities the true foundation upon which the country is built and towns are collections of primitive—hyperbole—people? These are all questions being asked around the nation by both sides—if there are sides—that have easy answers depending upon which frame of reference you use: traditional or progressive. The very word "traditional" implies the past and culture, yet the word is used disparagingly in many "progressive" circles. Last question: many progressives in the US fight for the preservation of cultures around the world in the face of globalization, yet they also fight the traditionalism of the US, a paradox I don't fully understand. I agree with them completely, but I can't defend the glaring contradiction. Strange thoughts.

A bi-plane cropduster just flew over us.

Apparently I don't have enough nose hair because I just noticed a hair in my moustache that's growing up into my nose!

Enough writing for now. We need to find an auto place and have our brakes checked; they've been shaking as we go down hills, not a good sign considering the foothills we've been exploring before hitting the big stuff of the Northwest.

Notice we've dropped the photos of cool trucks? That's because there aren't any out here!

11:47 – M just spotted the first snowcapped peak of the trip! My best guess it that it's North Fork Mountain. Our map of Northern California and the Bay Area is getting worn and is starting to rip out of the atlas because it's been in use for so many days. It's a good thing we're leaving, otherwise we'd be lost in this wilderness. Actually, from what I'm seeing up here, I wouldn't mind getting lost in the Redding area. Just head for the hills!

10:30 PM – This is funny: I'm sitting on the concrete slab of an RV pull-in at Valley of the Rogue State Park in Rogue River, Oregon. There's an electrical outlet next to the slab and the whole place is a wifi hotspot, so I'm having a blast. About two hundred yards from me is the Rogue River, one of the finest salmon and steelhead rivers in the US, and I have little to no intention of fishing it because I have no clue what I'm doing and there are several hundred people in this damned park right now. Oh, and bugs are congregating around the holy glow of the laptop screen, so this may be short and unsweet.

Here are some phrases I typed as we drove from Redding, CA up to here:

The northwest is conical

Trees so old they've gone senile. I can't begin to express in a new way the wonder they inspire.

We are living in Eureka

Standing, staring up at the tops of trees, I grew dizzy

Trinity River at Douglas City

Of course they make no sense, but I will return to them. I just don't know when.

For those of you who have commented or emailed, thanks so much! I'm sorry I'm not emailing or commenting back, but the wifi has been so sporadic that I spend most of the time rushing about trying to look up maps and post blogs and things to actually do any personal communication. Thanks, though! Yes, Wendie, I feel bad for leaving the poodle, but he'd have been miserable after 4200 miles and 12 states! Laura, I'm trying to let it flow, but it's hard to recapture emotions 3 days later.

Slowly moving north

We decided last night that we would get up early and do a hike this morning. When our alarm went off at 5 this morning, that plan went the way of the dodo. I think long days and short nights finally caught up. It also didn't help that last night was our first night in the woods, and it usually takes a couple of nights for your body to reconnect with the earth despite your attempts to limit that with a Thermarest. It dropped down into the 40s last night, a blessed relief from the heat of the day. A nearby meadow made for a fun hour of nighttime photography and scaring the begesus out of M.

Sleeping in a tent is an interesting affair for those best accustomed to the comfort of walls and a roof. The fabric offers only the slightest protection from the elements, and it only slightly limits the senses: you still smell the wood smoke and pine; you hear the drunken campers and the bird greeting the light; you feel the hard ground grinding into you as you desperately try to make of it a comfortable bed; you see the shadows of trees wave on the fabric, backlit by the crescent moon and smattering of stars; and you taste, sometimes, the little particles of soil that will themselves into your tent. I always wondered why people with dirt floors swept them, but I understand now the compulsion to clear away the reminder of inevitability and fruitlessness. I usually sleep quite well in a tent, though I despise doing so when I know there are strangers in a tent 20 feet away. I'm quite private about being outside, like I have a particular right of ownership over this experience and this place and this time.

Sleeping on the ground is a greater challenge than sleeping in a tent. As I said, it takes me at least one night to return to the earth. I usually sleep on my stomach, but doing that on the ground isn't nearly as comfortable, nor is lying on your side. Apart from finding that comfort, there's also the struggle of finding a comfortable way to sleep in the cocoon of a mummy bag, a morose name. I learned years ago that to fully utilize the warming properties of a mummy bag, you must sleep in the nude or as close to it as your sensibilities will allow. My own sensibilities stop with my underwear, so last night found me zipping the bag up to the hood and drawing the string tight around my shivering shoulders. It didn't take long to warm up, and I slept wonderfully most of the night. M, on the other hand, wore pants, socks, a thermal top, a goose down vest, and froze. Of course, if I had had to get up in the night to answer the call, a late night squirrel might have wondered why the white ghost was relieving himself right outside the tent and shivering so madly. That campsite is probably the highest we'll be in at 7200 ft. above sea level, but I suspect that there will be many more cold nights as we continue to go north.

Before I forget, I must share a tagline that M came up with for Yosemite after an encounter on Glacier Point: "Yosemite Park: where the squirrels are all fat and friendly." They had no fear! One bastard tourist kept shooing them away when they approached his family who were sitting eating lunch and kept going on about how they were nothing but rats. I hate tourists. I am one…

We broke camp—I love the phrase—and left at about 8:30, wending our way down the mountain to the tourist-infested valley. There weren't as many cars lining the roads as there were the day before, so we took the opportunity to stop and take pictures of the gorgeous river that flows through the valley and of El Capitan, an enormous tombstone of granite that towers over the valley much more impressively than Half-dome. Yosemite is surrounded by giant stones, and I kept trying to come up with a clever personification phrase, but the clichéd "slumbering giants" kept getting in the way. The only variation I could muster was "dozing titans," but that doesn't ring quite as powerfully.

As I was walking along the river—for the oh-so-beautiful purpose of finding an out of sight tree—I saw a man kneeling on the bank with a Mac and a tripod with an incredible camera panning on a tripod. I had to stop and ask him about it, and he told me he was taking a 370 degree photo of the valley that could be printed at about 34" high. I turned green.

We returned to Jamestown and spent a couple of hours there making pique macho, a Bolivian meal, and washing clothes. I didn't bring enough shirts. Worst of all, I tried to trim my hair with a friend's clippers, but they were dull and gave me tiny little Mohawks all down my head—the computer capitalized "Mohawks" for me, twice!

The road from Jamestown to Sacramento is ugly and crowded, but I'm beginning to realize that this is true for much of California. It's a state that's brimming with people, and I cannot begin to imagine why. For me to want to live in a place, the place must have some kind of geographic draw, and I haven't been able to turn my mind to the mentality that finds heat and flat beautiful. M's cousin and fiancé-friend, Eric and Sarah, are being gracious enough to let us stay with them. They have a lovely home on a lake north of Sacramento proper and a personable little dog who just makes us miss Maxx all the more. This evening we sat outside and ate turkey burgers and talked all of the taboo topics: family, religion, politics. Fortunately we tend to agree on most of the topics, so we all get to revel in the party of righteous indignation against all those who are too obtuse to see how asinine their actions and beliefs are. M's family, especially her grandparents, loom large over the family, and it's astounding how often they are the topic of conversation, for better or worse. Eric has had a rough experience being the "black sheep" grandchild of the family, and it was frustrating hearing how hurtful that has been and continues to be, for both he and Sarah. It was a lovely evening of conversation, and I look forward to the next time we're able to visit with them.