Archive for June, 2009

Monster basil menaces eastern Oregon

Wednesday, June 17th, 2009

Basil

I’ve got a pretty rockin’ herb garden growing at the corner of my house. Most of the herbs I picked up at the Bush Barn plant sale earlier this spring, but I’ve had a little more trouble tracking down some really great Genovese basil to add to my mix of sage, French thyme, chives, oregano and rosemary.

But I’ve waited on the basil. Not long enough, it would seem.

A couple of days ago I bought this smaller, piddly basil at Life Source for about $3.50. I figured I’d leave it alone for a while and see if it would grow into the kind of frothy basil bush I need for my summer tomato dishes.

And then, just yesterday, on my way home from the airport, I followed the throng of finely-coiffed little old ladies heading into the Lake Oswego Trader Joe’s and was  thrown to the floor by the stench — and when there’s this much basil, it can really overpower — of a couple hundred plants of MONSTER BASIL bushes being sold for $2.99 a pop.

The TJ checkout dude tells me they’ve been getting an entire trucks worth for the past week and they’ve been selling out every day.

Oh, the paradox is just flooring me: You can’t wait to eat basil so you had really better just wait to get basil.

This basil is so big I imagine it sneaking into my bedroom at night, dragging its perfect, green-hued tendrils over my skin before strangling me with its leafy hands. Not a bad way to go, really.

Poor, sad little cousin basil. I think I’ll just put it out of its misery and chop him into a salad tonight.

Weekend in the Fast Lane

Wednesday, June 17th, 2009

car

What’s the sound of one blog dying for the weekend?

Rattle Rattle Rattle Rattle Rattle Rattle WHOOOSHHHH!

Adam and I were in Park City, UT last weekend for a professional conference. I took this picture of him and some nice other dudes barreling down the 2002 Winter Olympics bobsled track. I had my Canon on the sports setting and didn’t even notice him noticing me until after they were down the hill (in a daytime record 63 seconds). They were flying by  on their way to 60 mph.

My very own cool runner…

The rest of the conference really dragged in comparison.

Why I'm part of the housing problem

Saturday, June 13th, 2009

Bathtub

Adam and I should be buying a house in Salem, but weren’t not. Don’t tell me about that cushy tax credit, I know about it. I’m looking — really I am! — but how am I supposed to ever leave my cheaply-rented 1920s cottage with red-and-white checkered kitchen floor and arched doorways. It’s all I’ve ever wanted in a house.

Except for the bathroom.

The bathroom is a dealbreaker.

The actual bathroom, not pictured here, is pretty tiny, which isn’t a problem, but only has a shower, which is a problem.

I’m a bath fiend who hasn’t taken a bath since I went to Breitenbush hot springs in March.

Well, I have the most amazing landlord in the world because he is actually going to build a second bathroom onto the back of our tiny rented abode so that I can get a tub.

He even picked up a claw foot tub to put in there — and let me sit in it for a while before moving it back to his workshop (his dad refurbishes such tubs and thus isn’t deterred by a little thing called rust).

In praise of Small Houses! All hail the tiny house! Glory be to the not-so-big house!

We won’t be moving any time soon…

Drowning yourself in "Rapids and Pools"

Friday, June 12th, 2009

Gifts

The retrospective exhibition of works by mixed media artist Robert McCauley, currently on view at Willamette University’s Hallie Ford Museum of Art, doesn’t sound that impressive, or really that inventive, on paper:

“Rapids and Pools”

“Robert McCauley is a Mt. Vernon, Washington artist who explores the 19th century notion of “Manifest Destiny” and its impact on the indigenous cultures and environment of the western United States through paintings, drawings, installations, and mixed media works. Organized by Director John Olbrantz, the exhibition features 24 works from public and private collections in Washington, California, Idaho, and Illinois.”

But then again, that’s why it’s mixed media. You really have to get down to the three small university galleries to get the full effect of Mr. McCauley’s big f-u to 19th century’s more destructive values.

Take, for example, the work pictured here, called “Missionary Gifts” (1994), consisting of  stacked boxes labeled with things like “English language and names” and “conceptions of wealth.” It would be just another ironic commentary on how modern societies reinterpret the cultural values of the past if it weren’t so graceful in its execution — with each box closed snug and packed primly on top of the next as if by the hands of a Methodist minister himself.

The entire collection is like this — fiercely provocative and funny in a really satisfying, intelligent way. But it also struck me as a deeply personal body of work, one that never strays too far into autobiography to be inaccessible.  One work in the center gallery was particularly haunting, capturing the murky depths of stormy lake where four of the artist’s friends once drowned.

But my favorite remains “A Brief History of Monochromatic Painting.” McCauley believes that the roots of abstraction existed in nature long before artist discovered them. He points this out, convincingly, in a portrait of a polar bear whose multi-hued “white” fur is boxed out to create a mini-abstract portrait of its own.

Or as McCauley says it:

“If not careful, one could be examining the color white with a magnifying glass unaware of the general proximity to the polar bear.”

I love it.

Tucked in one corner of the southeast gallery, almost hidden from plain view, the curators have also displayed one of the more stirring and honest artist’s statements that I’ve read. Mr. McCauley is clearly no fan of the gobbledygook masquerading as erudition that many artists try to pass off as a statement.

While some of the placard phrases in the exhibition come across as a tad pedantic, I can say I’ve rarely felt a visual artist speaking so directly at me through words as well as his art.

TIP: THE MUSEUM IS FREE ON TUESDAYS! I suggest that everyone working near the museum take next Tuesday and visit the exhibition during the lunch break. Who needs food when art can sustain you.

Salem Mystery: Solved

Wednesday, June 10th, 2009

IMports

For months you passed by a red building on Center Avenue and 17th bearing the words “LIQUIDATION” and wondered when Aztec Imports might be going out of business. You never stopped, you just relived the drama of another failed small business again and again on your commute, on your way into town, on your way to Word of Mouth, on your way elsewhere.

And then, one day a few weeks ago, you passed by and saw that the sign was painted over. Secretly you cheered inside, you bubbled all up that the market for imports from Spanish-speaking countries was so large as to warrant an entire shop of them at a strange location next to the Cricket, across from Johnny’s, and caddy-corner from H&R Block. Privately your heart soared as you wondered what exactly — other than Che Guevera merchandise — sat in the showcases of Aztec Imports.

But inwardly you were a little bit sad that Salem has lost its equivalent of the Israeli electronics store, the kind that has a “ONE DAY GOING OUT OF BUSINESS SALE” every day of the year.

Here’s what actually happened:

Aztec Imports has been having a sale since Christmas and had chosen to announce that sale with the word “Liquidation.” A little bird told me that the city recently asked the store owners to paint over the sign, which they did, leaving a kind of blotchy red on red wall that also features — if you’re looking for it — a little red-on-red heart above where the liquidation sign uses to be.

As for Aztec Imports. The place has some really awesome finger puppets from Peru that I would have bought if I had had some money on me, as well as a much-anticipated shipment of dresses from Thailand in two weeks. If you go in, be sure to engage the owner, who is awesome, the best kind of proprietor. You know, the kind who is so nice he makes you feel bad when you don’t buy anything.

I am all about sleuthing the Salem mysteries in plain sight. Know of any others?

One Man's Life-sized Do-over

Tuesday, June 9th, 2009

Robin

So I’ve got this little piece on writer Robin Hemley‘s new project Do-Over: In which a forty-eight-year-old father of three returns to kindergarten, summer camp, the prom, and other embarrassments, which is running on a website I started writing for during my time in Iowa City.

All of you literary types will know that Iowa City is the nation’s capital city of literature, even receiving a UNESCO distinction recently to attest to that fact. Yes, it is home to the first-ever Writer’s Workshop, the place where an aspiring group of English teachers first tested the fallacy that good writing cannot be taught. But it is also home to the University of Iowa’s Nonfiction Writing Program, of which Mr. Hemley is the director.

I am continually amazed by writers who can lead full-time writing and reading lives while also teaching at a university and directing entire writing programs. Robin Hemley added another feather to that hat trick when he decided to do-over some of the most embarrassing scenes of his life by reliving them as a 48-year-old man (he is now 50).

You know the do-over: there is something sublimely childish about the very idea of it.  It is the quintessential playground phrase, the line that gets shouted when the ball falls on the line in four square.  It is a phrase ripped from the context of a board game, when the dice fall off the board and you’re just not happy with the outcome.

With a generation of baby boomers having its death grip on youth and a president known to have demanded do-overs as a child having just left office, the do-over is a well-timed cultural force.

And if you keep your ears open for it, you will also find that there are adults in your life claiming do-overs every day of the week.

All of this means that Robin Hemley, a writer who has not languished in obscurity (he is well-known among nonfiction prose writers), but who isn’t exactly a household name, is poised to become exactly that.

He’s a funny writer, but more than that, he’s a thoughtful writer who isn’t afraid to make himself look like a fool to see what insights foolishness might inspire.

Because of the nature of the newspaper business – as of this posting, the author doesn’t have any reading tour stops out here – it is unlikely that many newspapers in the Pacific Northwest will run reviews or profiles of Do-Over and its writer. So consider yourself informed.

We can’t all spend our lives reliving our childhood, but I am happy to know there is someone out there who has tried to do just that.

The Ultimate in Manly Sports

Monday, June 8th, 2009

Ultimate

If you’re looking for a chance to run around a field and faceplant into the turf, I’d like to suggest joining the awesome gang of ultimate frisbee players who meet, rain or shine, on the southest end of Bush’s Pasure Park (near the baseball diamonds) every Sunday at 4:30 p.m.

Adam (who cut his ultimate teeth playing intramural for ISUC, the Iowa State Ultimate Club) found the group after some deep Internet searching last December, which is to say that this is a decidedly informal group that doesn’t exactly advertise its existence.

These  are  some pretty under-the-radar folks — and that’s saying a lot for a town where people really do hide in the woodwork. But while some of the players’ hand skillz would fit right in as part of a more ambitious group, they are all pretty welcoming.

So welcoming, in fact that they are even trying to get me to play. (And I really do SUC).

Adam works pretty long hours and doesn’t like working out at the gym, so ultimate is basically a chance for him to vent all of his pent-up dude energy in a short, 3-hour spurt at the end of the week.

I don’t really need that kind of testosterone release, but I sure do watching guys (and a handful of gals!) jump gracefully in the air to catch a flying disc.

It’s like picnic ballet, with some grunting.

Capital Shots: Popcorn landscape

Saturday, June 6th, 2009

Popcorn

And you thought the Cherry blossoms were fluffy.

New job: Writing teacher

Friday, June 5th, 2009

No pic today. This one is all about the words.

As much as I’ve enjoyed my write-at-home existence over the past half-year, I can get a little crazy sitting in front of the computer all day and only interacting with my Twitter friend (great folks! Love ya!) and my cats (as soon as you tweet about your cat, you are out).

So I’ve found a wonderful solution, one that is placing me one step further of living my dream life of being a combination writer/teacher. Next fall, I start teaching feature writing to undergraduates at the University of Oregon. Twice a week, I’ll drive down to Eugene to talk about storytelling, reporting, and the intersection of the two.

If you do the math you’ll realize that I’m going to spend more time in the car than in the classroom. It is totally worth it for me.

I’ve taught this specific class before. I conceived it last summer after graduating from the University of Iowa, and it went swimmingly — despite dealing with a half-flooded campus, despite having a few students who were graduating, and thus didn’t fully capture the be-all and end-all of my perfectly planned course, despite moving all of my belongings to storage mid-semester.

If you do it right, feature writing can be the pinnacle of good journalism. Do it wrong and you’ve got some really long text that no one will read and which would find better use as the poop tray in a parrot’s cage. I like to think that I do it right. But I wouldn’t begrudge anyone a good recycled A1.

So if you know any journalism majors at the University of Oregon who are looking for a challenging but super-fun course — one that treats the journalistic craft as seriously as novel-writing — tell them about me! You’ll be securing my future. And if I can be completely blunt, and perhaps a little undeservedly cocky, you’ll be securing the future of storytelling in the Willamette Valley at a time when newspapers are going to pot.

Norman stormin' Venti's on First Wednesday

Thursday, June 4th, 2009

Ventis

We were pretty lethargic last night until a rousing early summer storm cooled things off and gave us a new lease on Wednesday night. So with verve renewed, we headed downtown to see what this Salem First Wednesday is all about.

Now, in my experience, First [insert day here]‘s can be a sign of a motivated scene that knows about mid-week, post-work impulses to get out and feel like your life is something else. Those are the best events. Or, sadly, they can seem like business-spurring chamber of commerce shots in the dark trying desperately (there’s that word again) to get people to enliven a dead-as-dirt downtown. Those events really suck.

I can safely say that my first-ever Salem’s First Wednesday didn’t suck.

We had a pretty great time checking out a Portland guy Eric Nordby who fronts a band called Norman and who has the more adorable free stickers I’ve seen.  We tend to like our indie/folk rockers a little more pared down and a little more raw, so I can’t say anything for the band he fronts, but we did like the talented Mr. Nordby all by himself, even if he did sing one song that sounded like Death Cab. Also: cutest band  T-shirts I’ve seen of late, including one that looks oddly reminiscent of my very first-ever drawing, circa 1982, of “People in Parachutes” (I was always a Doomsday Girl).

Venti’s just keeps getting better. In the few months that we’ve lived here, we’ve gone on and off Venti’s a couple of times. Four charred falafel balls will do that to you. But this romance is back on with a vengeance. Someone in the kitchen has been taking some plating cues from higher-end establishments because the stuff looks just about as sexy as a pile of hummus can look. It also takes a special kind of masochist to make crunchy hippie stir-fries look like little objets d’arte. But we clearly have some ambitions in the laid-back alternakids working in the back.

Later that night we walked through the closed up corridors of the Reed Opera House after hours. Creepy!  A Wednesday less ordinary indeed.


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