Any questions?

Breaking news from the financial section

Kelloggs (or Quaker Oats or General Mills, one of those major players in the food industry) is introducing a new cereal on January 2nd.



I can’t wait!

One week to the Rose Bowl

First, I have been remiss in not thanking ‘Anonymous’ for contributing the words to “On Wisconsin”.

It is such a cute song. And as a school fights song it is so reminiscent of Debby Boone’s, “You Light Up My Life.” Charming, but vapid.

But, now that Boxing Day is nearing a close, Richard and I are preparing for the big game.

GO DUCKS!!!

Happy Boxing Day!

All Hail Mrs. McManus

Er... I meant "Merry Christmas"!

The great Christmas tree escapade.

Following old family traditions, Richard and I decided to wait until Christmas Eve day to put up our Christmas tree. That means I was out trekking through the back forty this morning looking for the perfect tree.

Although we have many trees, a Christmas tree farm we are not. I searched and searched and searched. Finally, up a hill with a steep embankment behind it, I saw the ideal evergreen. I trampled up the hill only to discover, alas, it wasn’t the tree of my dreams. But there, at the top of the cliff was the king o’Christmas trees. There was even a downed log I could use to climb up the precipice. About half way up the 10’ climb, it suddenly dawned on me why the tree was down. It was dead and rotting. It gave way. I fell backwards.

As I was tumbling down the grade, ass over teakettle, I was thinking to myself, “Self, this isn’t your finest hour!” It is amazing how things go in slow motion when you are sure they are your final moments. I lay on the forest floor, wondering how long it would be before Richard became aware I wasn’t coming back of my own volition. I swear to god there was a chipmunk about three yards from me laughing like a hyena. I wiggled the fingers on my left hand; they worked. My right hand also was functioning, as were my toes. Before you know it I was back on my feet and staggering home.

There in a bramble about four feet from the edge of our front “lawn”, was a tree. Not great, but overly passable. The poor bastard now sets in our front room!

Happy solstice

And to all a good night!

It’s official.

Santa and I had a confab yesterday. Due to one of us being disorganized and well behind schedule, (I will not point fingers) we agreed to postpone Christmas until sometime in mid-January! I’ll keep you updated as details are worked out!

I have just sent my first email to my elected official.

"Dear Greg,

This is Mac, I work at the Hood River Inn.

You always have said you wouldn’t vote to raise my taxes. So why did you just vote to do that?

In truth, I can afford the additional taxes. I’m not personally offended on that level. But you have just voted what is best for the Republican Party, not what is best for the people of Oregon (and America). That offends me.

I know you are secure for re-election. You and I don’t agree on most issues, but this is over the top. People will be hurt by your vote."

Greg Walden is my representative in the Congress of the United States. I live in a strongly Republican district. Greg and I have know each other for something like 25 years. 'Friends' might be stretching the term, but we always greet each other warmly when we see each other.

My name is not Opal.

But I do bear some similarities.

The Inaugural Pac-12 Championship Game.

For those of you the missed last night’s game, let me give you the highlights:

OREGON WON!!!

World AIDS day, 2011

I have a jaded view of the AIDS epidemic. I had the honor of knowing a man who was at the epicenter of the crisis. A man who knew more than history will ever announce.

Wayno was as bartender in New York City in the late 70’s and early 80’s.He knew people who died of “Consumption” in the late 70’s. AIDS was officially discovered in 1981.

We had a president at that time: a conservative president who was particularly anti-gay, and apparently particularly stupid. Despite the ravage that AIDS was wreaking in the third world, he was silent.

It was 1987 before Reagan ever mentioned AIDS out loud. Almost six years into the crisis (in America), he finally said the disease’s name. (Would anyone like to compare that to Swine Flu or Bird Flu or any of those other great health crises lately?) Over 41,000 Americans had died of the disease, and god only knows how many millions had died in sub-Saharan Africa and other third world countries before our president announced that the disease existed.

The AIDS crisis is not over. It lives.

Crushing news for a comic lover

Bill Keane, the creator of the Family Circus has died.

I was never the greatest fan of the Family Circus, but I know the world is a lesser place.

Celebrating the White Salmon

The breaching of Condit Damn.

Cruising the ‘net.

I came across a picture from a Gay Pride event in Ft. Lauderdale or St. Petersburg… okay let’s just say some city in Florida. (And don’t ask me how I found it, you don’t want to know.) There was a picture of a group of men who were something of my age. Okay, they were younger, there was less grey in their hair and fewer wrinkles on their face, but they were semi-close to my age.

One of the men was wearing a T-shirt that said “Fuck the Clock”. I’m thinking that would be a good theme for 11-11-11.

Opening Night

Adventures with Mac: or shopping with the inept.

At work today, I decided to make a quiche for dinner tonight. I’ve made quiche before. They’re really quite simple to make and I think they’re delicious. I can ignore the old wives tale that real men don’t eat quiche. Actually, I don’t care what real men eat; it’s probably better I don’t know.

We have a little bit of bacon to use up, eggs, milk and most of the other goodies, but I was going to have to stop by Safeway to get some more veggies and pie crusts. (Yes, my secret to good quiche includes store-bought pie crust as opposed to the leathery crap that I toss together at home and end up throwing in the garbage deciding it is wiser to go to bed hungry rather than deal with the nightmare of trying to mold the hard, viscous substance that I have created into a pie pan. But let’s talk about that later.)

I enter Safeway, cocky and sure. I know where almost everything I want is located. I grab a hand basket and strut to the produce section. I walk straight to the mushrooms. Or let me rephrase that I bit more precisely; I walk straight to where the mushrooms used to be. But 'used to be's' don't count anymore. Instead I find cabbage, fine looking cabbage. I pick up a head. Unsure of how it would fit into my next few days’ eating habits, I set it back down. Okay, it’s a small area to cover, I’m fine, no panic. I nonchalantly stroll through the produce section. I spy broccoli! Yes! Victory is mine. One down. And there to my left are the prettiest lemons you have ever seen. I pick one up and fondle it. It is a fine lemon. I put it in my basket. He looks so lonely in there with the broccoli. He doesn’t speak broccolese. He has no one to talk to. (Broccoli aren’t known for being heavy chatters, anyway.) So I pick up another lemon and set it next to its brother. They both smile at me. I know I have done good.

I’m not having much luck with the leeks. So I set my basket down and close my eyes. I try to think like a leek. Where would I be if I were a leek? In my leek-like mode, I picture myself lying on a beach in the south of France. I am in my happy spot, when I jerked back to reality by a caring, “Hey, Mac, you okay?”

It’s my friend, John. I was in the process of explaining to him that I was trying to think like a leek so I could find the leeks when he said, “Dude, look straight ahead.” I did and damn, there were the leeks. Under different circumstance, I would have dropped to my knees and praised the goddess of the harvest for bringing the leeks to me, but John already thinks I’m a bit odd, so I decided to save that ritual for later, in the privacy of my own home. Two down. John and I bid a fond adieu and I continue the hunt for mushrooms.

Many of you know that mushrooms are known to be elusive and can don cleaver disguises. But I am way too quick for them today. I check my shopping list again and say out loud, “Now I need to find the jicama.” And there, immediately to my right was the largest pile of mushrooms you have ever seen. I chuckled to myself as I picked out the finest specimens. Those fungi are so easily fooled. Three down. Odd though, I never saw a jicama after that moment.

I’m off to find the store-bought pie crusts. And there is my other friend, Delia. You all know Delia. Come on, you know, the woman who moved to town a few years ago after receiving Bon Appétit’s Culinary Artist of the Year award for the previous 12 years. The woman who said the only person who was truly attuned enough to appreciate her omnipotent ability was Jackie O. Yeah, that Delia.

Delia is the one you would ask if you wanted to know where Safeway stocked the Fleur de Sel de Camargue. She is not the one I am going to ask if she knows where the store-bought pie crusts are kept. We make small talk. I know Delia is checking out my basket. People, minds out of the gutter, I mean my shopping basket.

“And what is for dinner tonight, my friend,” she pried.

“Oh, I’m just planning a simple quiche. I was wandering over to the wine section to find something that catches my fancy as an accompaniment.”

Delia immediately chimed in, “You MUST get the Zeiderbrűgen Riesling. It is to die for; it’s at the north end of the main island.”

Delia was, of course, in reference to the section where wines are under lock and key. There is bullet-proof glass covering the bottles, padlocks, alarms and an armed guard. It’s not where I shop for wine. I thanked Delia for her suggestion. We parted company smiling.

I strolled to the wine aisle. I glanced at the north end of the main aisle. There was a bottle of Zeiderbrűgen Riesling, shining brightly out from its prison. I checked the bottle color, size and shape, but I was brief so as not to bring much attention from the guard. Then I went to the “specials” section, found a bottle that looked similar and slipped it into my basket, label down. Delia could be lurking anywhere.

So, I am back in search of store-bought pie crust. I have just cruised through the store for the third time, when I decided to ask the next employee I saw where the store-bought pie crust might be located. At that very moment, there came an announcement over the loudspeaker. “All employees to cashier positions, please. I repeat, all employees to cashier positions.” All employees ran to the front of the store like they were crusaders attacking Constantinople. It was a little eerie. I was alone in my search.

It only took a few minutes before I found the store-bought pie crust. I happily put it in my basket (under the bottle of wine – you never know about Delia), and made my way to check out. Whatever the crisis was, was over. I paid and left.

Yes, it was a boring shopping trip. There were no emergency vehicles, confetti or throwing marshmallows at the Madoff’s involved. Yep, my life really is that mundane.

Long story short: shopping for four items took over 45 minutes because I couldn’t find anything and I ran into a couple of friends. Any of the other details that you found interesting or amuzing are purely fictional.

Ten Ten Eleven

The numbers are so close to being in perfect alignment.

This must be the anniversary of a great day.

Happy day, Shannon & John!

I have a cold.

Yes, I have managed to contract one of those doosies of a head cold. My body aches, I’m congested and I fear I will never feel well again.

On an average night, I am sure that you are all aware that I desperately need my beauty rest. Last night it was nearing crisis mode. I toddled off to bed at about 8PM, with my blanky, my box of Kleenex and my faithful cat, Max, the second cousin of the devil, once removed. (By-the-by, Satan sends his regards and hopes you are all doing well.)

It is October. The nights are getting cooler. The herd of wild Saints is starting to venture closer and closer to the bed after dark. (Make no mistake, before sunset, the bed is their center of operations.) At some point, after I crawled into bed, but before Richard was tired, Trixie crossed the line. She jumped up on the bed with me occupying a side. Max was not happy. Max let Trixie know he was not happy. Max let me know he wasn’t happy. Max let every living creature between The Dalles and Cascade Locks know that he was not happy. For thirty minutes Max lectured the world on proper bedtime etiquette and a Saints place in the world.

I got very little rest last night. Every few minutes, Max would wake me up to remind me that Trixie is an interloper and I am not to allow her on the bed again. I’m hopeful tonight will be better. I’m going to sleep in the basement.

Just seemed like a good quote to me

Pickles gives out my secret zucchini recipe

Songs of my youth – that made a difference

Janis Ian was a girl of something like 16 when “Society’s Child” was released in the mid 60’s.

Or should I say a woman with more balls than I have. She spoke of fear for her life performing this song even in safe places like New York City.

To add to her bravery, she was one of the first stars to admit to being gay (or lesbian, as the case may be.) She is one of my heroes.

Thank you, Janis.

DADT it dead.

Sorry about the advertisement that begins this clip. It's commercial TV, what can I say?

Not just another birthday

The picture shows a sister of mine, young and in her prime, with my mother and the infamous Santa cookies of 1977 (give or take a year or two.) They were not at our Christmas celebration, but somehow they showed up in a freezer 300 miles to the north the following summer. I'm pretty sure foul play was involved.

Happy 97th, Mom!

Post # 600

PK

I respect your quest for understanding into the core cause of you wife and her sisters’ fetish for shopping and all affiliated activities. But, I beg of you, don’t rush to the cliché explanation of placing all the blame on the parent, in this case my mother. I feel the adult child does need to accept responsibility for their own actions, as destructive and counter-productive as they are. While I wholeheartedly support the concept of working with the addict and helping them to see the destructive results of their ways, allowing them to cast blame on a dear soul who is long gone (and would be celebrating her 97th birthday tomorrow) would make you, dare I say, an enabler.

I tried hard to remember my childhood; to recall the subtleties and nuances of shopping with my mother and how it could have possibly influenced my four sisters and been in any remote way responsible for the shopping neuroses they currently demonstrate. It is not possible. Frankly, my own anti-shopping neurosis is much more of a classic Jungian response.

My mother was a consummate shopper. It wasn’t that she came home with ‘something’; she came home with trophies. (Note: a trophy is not a rubber spatula at half-price, it is a bolt of fabric for $1.29 that mom made into a wedding dress, four bridesmaid dresses, a slip cover for the couch, a duvet for the bedroom and still had enough fabric left over to make three ties.) I will never be the shopper my mother was, hence I hate shopping.

This really can’t be compared to the whole hunter/gatherer thing. It is on a much different level. One that I don’t understand.

Clarification

Apparently in my most recent post, I used inprecise phraseology that led people to believe that three of my sisters are insane and slaves to shopping and that one of my sisters is not. I apologize for any confusion caused by my choice of words.

Let me go on record stating emphatically that I have four sisters. Above and beyond that, any statement attempting to clarify the status of their mental stability could be dangerous to my health.

And get real, dear brother-in-law, if you haven’t determined the lucidity of your beloved wife and her sisters, I’m afraid I really can’t help you much. But there are trained professionals in your area that might be able to give you guidance.

Guilt Buy

I have never told you this before. Montréal has a vast underground shopping mall. The loud click you just heard was three out of my four sisters closing this web site and signing on to Travelocity (or whatever their favorite travel site is.) They are checking when the next flight is to Montréal. They don’t care about cost or other such mundane miscellanea. One of my sisters was slow on the draw. I just heard the faint click of her signing off.

Richard and I are horrible souvenir shoppers. Other than the beloved coffee cup, our souvenirs are limited to train ticket stubs, free brochures and an occasional tee shirt. But we had a purpose in Montréal. We wanted to buy napkins: the cloth variety. A queer choice for souvenirs, I admit, but we couldn’t find what we were looking for in Hood River, The Dalles or Portland, so we decided to make them our souvenir of Canada. So, we visited the Mall Below the Floor. (My name, not theirs.)

We descended into the bowels of underground Montréal. For the first three or four minutes it was kind of fun. Then it became creepy. There was no way to orient yourself to the real world. It was just shopping, unabridged shopping. There were people who looked like they had been shopping since the last decade. (Hell, since the last millennium.)

Richard claims I panicked. But I want to emphatically deny his contention that I ran around the mall screaming, “Oh my fucking god… is there a way out of this hell hole!” I’m pretty sure I said it in French, which mean, with my incredible French Canadian accent, no one understood me.

They had these wonderful floor plans all over the place. You will notice one thing. There is no “Sortie”. That is French for “Exit”.


We found our napkins. It was a successful shopping trip.

Have fun, my dear sisters!

Anoka-Hennepin School District.

Eight student dead by suicide in two years: aren’t you just a little bit embarrassed?

Don’t ask; don’t tell: gone totally awry.

It’s time to get over your big-bad-conservative selves and see what you can do to keep your kids from committing suicide.

Dollar Lake Fire

I took this picture just south of Parkdale.

September 1, 2011: An esoteric question.

Just think for a moment. My mother graduated from Vancouver High School. (Class of 1933… Go Trappers!) In 1956, Vancouver High School was renamed Fort Vancouver High School. All that pioneer spirit, you know! The building at 28th and Main was still the campus.

In 1970 they built a new building to house Fort Vancouver High… 5700 E. 18th Street. A decade later, the old Vancouver (Fort Vancouver) High School building was torn down.

So, does Mother’s alma mater still exist or not?

This question has relevant meaning for a number of members of my extended family. Tyee High is a memory. Did we really graduate from high school or are we just kidding ourselves?

Notes from the road – Part VI.

It’s our last full day in Canada. We have another breakfast at Chez Cora. I recommend the Jambon Panini with mountains of fresh fruit.

We successful traverse the streets of Montréal and return the rental car. We ride Montréal’s subway, Métro for the first time. We journey to the Beaudry station and emerge in The Village, Montréal’s gay neighborhood. We know the secret handshake and are quickly ushered in. I’d tell you more, but it is top secret. (I’m kidding. There is no secret handshake. Anyone, even the most flamboyant breeder can enter The Village.) It’s mostly a commercial string of bars, restaurants and enterprises of ill-repute on Rue-Ste.-Cathérine Est (East St. Cathy’s Street) surrounded by some pretty swanky apartments/condos on the side streets. (Come on people, it’s the gay neighborhood, of course there are bars and restaurants and enterprises of ill-repute and swanky domiciles. I’m being semi-redundant here.)

Incongruously, there are two large Catholic churches in the neighborhood. As soon as I saw the second church, Église St.-Pierre-Apôtre (Church of St. Peter, the Apostle), I turned to Richard and said, “How many Catholic churches does a gay neighborhood need? I think this is overkill!”

He, of course, explains to me the storied history of the neighborhood as a working class, Catholic community that blah, blah, blah. And yadda, yadda, yadda.

We entered the Église St.-Pierre-Apôtre. Please, I have to ask that you all promise not to get on the horn immediately and contact the pope, but there was a very thinly disguised rainbow flag above the altar. This is not your mother’s Catholic church.


Rue-Ste.-Cathérine Est. Our neighborhood’s more festive than your neighborhood! Na-na-na!

Even the subway station has the colors!

I couldn’t read it in real life, and in pictures it just makes me dizzy.

The Université du Québec à Montréal replaced a church. I loved the way they saved the entry.

Notes from the road – Part V

Il pleut. Il pleut et il pleut et il pleut et il pleut.

For those of you not as fluent in French as I am, the above translates (figuratively) to, “It is raining so fricking hard that there are ducks standing in line to purchase umbrellas.

The nice valet parking attendant snatched the $5(CAD) bill out of my hand, handed me the car keys and watched Richard and I slog out in the rain to our vehicle. In the few seconds, it took us to toss our bags into the trunk and climb into the front seats, we were drenched. We wrung the excess moisture out of our clothes as I deftly navigated the car through the streets of Ville de Québec.

Thirty-five short minutes later, we were at Ste. Anne de Beaupré. Although a scene of miracles, it is a somewhat lesser pilgrimage site than Lourdes. Richard's mother had always wanted to go to Ste. Anne de Beaupré, but had never made it there. So, in honor of Bernadette Sloan Parker we made the pilgrimage.

Ste. Anne de Beaupré’s location, while not stunningly beautiful, was quite pleasant in its own waterlogged way. The Fleuve St. Laurent was nearby and it had lovely gardens and lawns. The torrential rains pouring off the roof of the basilique were, umm, quite invigorating as they splashed on our heads.

Richard thanked me for attending mass with him to honor his mother. I’m not quite as respectful as he gives me credit. My other option was sitting at a picnic table, unprotected from the deluge.

Leaving Ste. Anne de Beaupré, we passed the Chutes de Montmorency. We had planned to stop, but quite frankly if you’ve seen one damn waterfall in a pouring rain, you’ve seen them all.

We decided to take the scenic route back to Montréal hugging the Flueve St. Laurent, largely because I took a wrong turn and that was the road we were on. We passed through many quaint, rain soaked towns before we rejoined the freeway just past Trois-Rivière. By the by, if you’re looking for a picturesque small city, do not take the route we took through Trois-Rivière. Bleak is the best description.

We got back on the freeway just in time to experience… you guessed it… road construction. Nothing gives you an adrenalin rush quite like navigating Canadian road construction in heavy traffic during a rain storm.

We were quite happy to finally get to our hotel.
Stunningly, there are few pictures from day 5. The is the basilica at Ste. Anne de Beaupré.

This is a cute little park in the town of Champlain. We needed to pee and it wasn’t raining very hard.

Notes from the road - Part IV

Pictures from our full day in Ville de Quebec

The iconic hotel Chateau Frontenac.

If you ask Richard, “Chutes de neige” should never be translated into English. It refers to the steep pitched roof above the sign and the fact that in winter snow will bombast off the roof, causing danger to loiterers below.

Richard wouldn’t let me bring home my new toy cannon.

A street scene from Basse-Ville or lower town, along the river.

Notes from the road - Part IIIb

Arrival in Ville de Québec.


The historic old city of Québec is perched on a promontory high above the Fleuve St. Laurent (St. Lawrence River). Our hotel was not perched on said bluff. Our hotel was at the foot of the bluff. We arrived at about 4PM. I cajoled Richard into making the trek to see the old town. We got a map from the hotel’s front desk. (Do not believe Richard when he claims that we were issued crampons and a safety rope. There was no rappelling involved.) The fifteen minute walk took a hair bit more than a quarter hour. We were panting. We were sweating. A concerned passerby checked us for a pulse. But we made it!

A typical street in Old Québec.

True to their French heritage, Québecois are into their gardens.

This is a building that is very important and I have forgotten the name of.

Notes from the Road – Part IV or III or OMG I am already lost in this trip.

Okay, I’ve regrouped. This is day 3, so this should be Part III. I want everyone to go back to the last entry and where it says “Part III (or Part IIb)” in the title, take a Sharpie and cross out the “Part III” portion on your screen (if you’re grammatically fastidious, you may want to take out the parenthesis, too). Now go up to the title of this post and black out the “Part IV or” and the “or OMG I am already lost in this trip”. That will take care of any confusion.

Day III was the day I rented my first international car.

Generally speaking, I don’t refer to rental car agencies in kind terms. I admit I had a good experience in Salt Lake City, but I thought it was a total aberration.

I had walked alone from the hotel to the Atwater-Métro branch of Globe Car Rental. One would think that on foot, with an exact address, I wouldn’t toddle past the agency. But I did. Three times. I was beginning to believe I had been taken. They had my credit card number (another sorry story) and were now enjoying an all-expenses paid vacation in some country that had no extradition treaty with Canada.

Estimating the address, I walked into what I thought was a multiplex movie theater. And there, next to the popcorn machine was Globe Car Rental. (Actually, it was a shopping center. It all made sense when you opened the door.)

I entered with an attitude. I spoke French with my most authoritarian accent, “J’ai un reservation pour une voiture. Je m’appelle Robert Cornelison.”

They responded with “oooh la ètre de whâtever.”

I glazed over.

“You’re more comfortable in English, aren’t you?” was the next thing I heard.

You have to have been there. I will discuss the hospitality of Montréalers later, but I had two new best friends. They did everything but drive us to Ville de Québec. If you ever need a car in Montréal, you have my recommendation!

Notes from the Road – Part III (or Part IIb)

More pictures from Montréal.


Montréal has this neat thing called the Biosphere. Richard and I were going to go in it, but after we got there, we heard that they had scientific thingy-ma-jigs displayed there. Well, that is just so un-American. You understand we couldn’t do it. The Biosphere, part of the 1967 Expo, is on the Île-Ste-Hélène, so we had to take a ferry to get to it. (I heard that quip, ‘færies on a ferry’. That is just so funny, I forgot to laugh.) Anyway… where was I heading with this before I was so rudely interrupted?

Well, that is one thought line lost for eternity.


Montréal is a big city, with a big city skyline. It bears no resemblance to Hood River.



This is the Place Jacques Cartier in Vieux Montréal (Old Town, if you must). We arrived there late afternoon and just kind of hung out with the other tourists for a couple of hours then had a great dinner at one of the many restaurants that lined the square. It was one of my favorite times in Montréal.

Notes from the Road - Part II

PHOTOS FROM MONTRÉAL.

It was the center of a busy street. I liked it.


This was really beautiful. Remind me to tell you about my success rate for taking pictures inside of cathedrals or basiliques or churches or kerken or anything like that.


An old man on a park bench: you have to be careful of them. They seem to be endemic to the parks of Montréal.


The true symbol of Canada! (Well, for some pathetic people.)

Notes from the Road – Part I

Or perhaps I should say, “Notes from a tiny aluminum craft hurtling through the sky, propelled by a song, a prayer and a law of physics that is only understood by a handful of geeks who attended a prestigious institute of higher education.” Note: Tyee High School is not now, nor has it ever been a prestigious institute of higher education.

We all know that nothing good starts with an alarm clock bleating out an obscene noise at 2:30AM. Throw in an entourage of snarky airport employees, a dearth of edible food and a man who’s love of the airlines is second only to root canals and hearing tales of pestilence and plague, and you have all the makings of a good time.

Our flight out of PDX left right on time. Richard and I know it left on time. We saw it leave. It was a very pretty plane. There were happy, smiling people waving out the windows to family and friends. They were successfully on their way to Toronto, Ontario, with connecting flights to all of eastern Canada. Richard and I were at the gate next door waiting for a flight to San Francisco.

Now, I know you are all thinking to yourself, “Why are Mac and Richard heading away from Montréal and Ville de Québec instead of toward Montréal and Ville de Québec?” I was asking myself that very same question. Well, there is a funny story behind the flight to SFO.

I’m lying. There is no funny story behind Richard and I flying to San Francisco.

We arrived at Portland International Airport at 5:32AM for a 7:05AM flight. But that was too late. It seems that our airlines-du-jour has a hard rule that you must have your boarding pass in your hand 1 hour (60 minutes) prior to the scheduled departure. At 6:05AM precisely, Richard, myself and approximately 10 other passengers who were planning to head to the great white north, were ordered out of the main line and herded to a separate queue by an agent with the basic disposition of a bitter, wounded hyena (not the laughing variety.) We all assumed we were in the express lane to Toronto. We were wrong, so wrong. We were in the “You ain’t going nowhere without our express permission line.”

There was one person who had total control of our destination. She sat at a behemoth computer behind the counter at the head of the column. She was as kind and as personable as a Brillo Pad. Although San Francisco seems a somewhat circuitous route to Montréal, considering the power wielded and the compassion shown by Attila the Ticketing Agent (this is a nickname, not her real name), Richard and I felt fortunate. The couple with two small children who stood behind us sassed Attila the Ticketing Agent. Last we heard they were boarding a Greyhound Bus. I overheard something about a layover in Houston.

We flew to San Francisco. After a brief (brief in geological terms, not the common vernacular) encounter with an agent and her supervisor at SFO, Richard and I had a boarding passes in hand for a flight to Montréal. It is amazing how fast two and a half hours pass when you're having fun.


We arrived at Pierre Trudeau Aéroport only three hours after our planned arrival. We were tired, but we were in the province of Québec. All was good.

Ville de Quebec

As close to Europe as you can get without leaving North America!

We are here!

The day of travel to Montreal was horrific, but we are here.

Montreal is great!

We’re off!

Montréal and Ville de Québec, here we come.

There is a reason to only go on one vacation a year. Getting ready is too much work!

August 11, 2011

I'm sure you all have your festivities planned to celebrate the 27th anniversary of the debut of the Four Younger Siblings and Their Much Older Sister! Going to be a major party!

Oh, and "Happy Birthday, Annie!"

The perils of living with someone who is musically talented.

On the way home from work today, I heard one of those great old songs from my youth: one of those great old songs that I really don’t remember, other than in bits and pieces. So when I came in the house singing it came out something like;

“Ya da da da da da da, ‘live for today’, ya da da da da da da, ‘live for today, don’t worry about tomorrow anyway.”

Richard was looking at me funny. I made some comment to the effect of “Obviously, I heard that song on the way home from work.”

His face went from blank to incredulous.

“You don’t know what song I was singing, do you?” I said, with obvious hurt in my tone.

“I had no idea if you were singing, or in horrible pain”, was his reply.

I hate people with talent.

Random notes from the Hood River Valley

First, I have some tragic news for many of you. The greatest miracle of our time, the “Miraculous Apparition of the Holiest of All Dogs, the Great Saint Bernard, in a Pile O’Gravel” has fallen. I was half-way through the construction of the tollbooth, I mean ticket stand, that I was going to place at the end of the driveway so that the faithful could support the lifestyle I have become accustomed, I mean tithe for the miraculous event. There must be someone to blame for this heartrending situation

I blame, well I blame so many people and institutions. There is the pope, who didn’t come immediately to validate the miracle. There is the federal government, which didn’t give me an immediate tax break, because I was going to hire someone to work the “ticket stand” when Richard and I were at work. There is the Weather Channel who allowed a rain storm to pass through the Northwest.

I also have to comment on Glenn Beck’s observation about the victims on Utoya Island in Norway being equivalent to “Hitler Youth”. Imagine if after the Oklahoma City bombing, one of Norway’s most known radio/TV personality came on line and said… well something equivalent. We would have wiped Norway off the map. If you are listening to Mr. Beck as we speak… fucking hang up. This is so basic.

And finally, if you’re going to call me “crazy”, do it anonymously.

Okay it is official.

I am calling it the “Miraculous Apparition of the Holiest of All Dogs, the Great Saint Bernard, in a Pile O’Gravel.”

It’s a Miracle!

Roll over, Shroud of Turin. Prepare to be compared, Lourdes.

There is a miracle in the upper valley.

Sacred apparition of a Saint Bernard in a pile of rocks.



This is big time. This will make the Ball O’ Twine seem like a stupid tourist trap!

Jesus Christ, Superstar!

I just got home from CAST's production of "Jesus Christ, Superstar". It was amazing. Richard is one of those grand song and dance productions! He is so ready to be an honorary sib! It is remarkable to live in the small town of Hood River and have the local community theatre do such mind-boggling productions. So much talent in this area!

Farewell Betty

I've always admired your courage!

And Happy Birthday!

Long gone, but far from forgotten!

Summer has arrived.

I’m ready to whine about the heat!

But that will wait until another day. Today, I will just glory in the heat. Okay, it is only the mid 80’s in the Upper Valley, but I am reveling in the advent of summer!

Yee Haw!

Thirteen Years

I'm as stunned as you are. Who would have thought it would last this long?

Such a busy week.

There was the summer solstice last Tuesday. Of course, that meant a trip out to the Stonehenge replica outside of Goldendale to perform a pagan ritual or two. You will all be stunned at how difficult it is to find a virgin willing to sacrifice themselves to some not quite believable god.


Then there was the 70th birthday party for Cheerios. All the planning and the execution: it was nerve racking.



And New York became the 6th state (along with the District of Columbia) to recognize gay marriage. Wow, totally awesome. I’m almost ready to take back all those horrible things I’ve said about you breeders over the decades.

The Last Day of Spring

Perhaps summer will come tomorrow; or perhaps it will just be another lousy day in paradise.

Dorothy is gone. I know I should be sad, and a big part of me is, but there is that part that ...

Total turmoil.

And Brad is gone, too. One of my main faces from the Hood River Bridge Club, one of the few who remember Wayno from his days in the club, has also passed.

But summer is tomorrow.

It will be good.

Happy Father's Day

Shouldn't there be a horse show somewhere?

At long last!

The peonies are peoning!
Auntie Bea's irises are irising!

Festival d’Avignon

Yes, we received our guide to the Festival d’Avignon in the mail today. The south of France’s premier theatre festival wants us to return. Apparently Richard and I were the life of the party last year. If we don’t attend, they are afraid it will be a dismal failure this year.

But alas, we need to take a year off. The cosmic signs don’t point to a European vacation this year. The cosmic signs point to Canada this year. So, Richard and I will vacation in Montréal and Ville de Québec this summer. We will survive.


Please, try not to feel bad for us. Europe will be in 2012.