Daily Walk

Traffic

Astoria-Megler Bridge

Missing

I will miss some unique things about where I live when I move away.
Dotted along the roads and highway are little unmanned stands with flowers, curly willow, blueberries and the like. Posted signs tell the price, and a small metal box is attached for payment.
I have never seen this before, as any similar stand would be dismantled and stolen in minutes, even in the "better parts" of LA. Seeing them here made me feel happy, like I felt as a kid when I didn't worry as much about other people.
There is a little restaurant at the airport in Astoria. Yes, there's an airport, albeit a very small one. The restaurant shares the building with the little office where airport business, such as it is, is conducted.
At this restaurant are the best buckwheat pancakes I have ever tasted. They're big as dinner plates, made fresh from stone ground buckwheat flour by the cook/waitress/airport secretary, who's a sweet and charming young woman. Two breakfasts so big that you can't eat lunch are under $10.
There is a beautiful boutique with exquisite art from all over the world in downtown Astoria. It is the place where I display my Vodou art, which is not, by the way, a big seller up here.
The owner of this botique, and another like it farther down the Oregon coast, is Lynn Buckmaster. Lynn is very bright, a former securities analyst. She and her husband, who owns a business that recycles fish parts into fertilizer, are witty, charming, and full of surprising talent.
Both are big hearted genuine lovers of people, and two of the few Republicans in this liberal enclave. Every time I see either of them, I leave with a smile.
The stands, the pancakes and the Buckmasters are all a part of Astoria, where I learned that I'm not yet retired. Thanks for the lesson, pretty little city. It was a beautiful time.

International Symbol for Small Mind

What I Mean Is ...

In the interest of more accurate communication, I am hereby not going to say "Fuck you" when I'm angry, or "sleep with" when I mean, uh..., make love. But that's just the beginning.
I'm also going to have to drop all the "fuck you" accouterments, i.e., no more flipping people off.
This is going to be hard.
As an LA girl who learned to drive on LA streets in LA traffic, flipping people off has digressed from something one did in a fit of pique, to a sort of grouchy hello. Nearly anything can cause it. It's become second nature, even now when I hardly ever see, much less am in, traffic.
Not only is it second nature, but, as with most things that are pervasive, it's lost its meaning. It's like "wow" in the 60's, or "like" right now - said so often, it doesn't mean anything.
What we're really communicating, in sign, when we flip someone off, is that we don't hold them in high esteem. We feel they don't understand how to interact effectively in social circumstances, and they have committed a faux pas.
How then, should that be communicated?
It comes to mind that there could be a signal for small minded people, made by closing the fist, and holding the index finger about two inches from the thumb: horizontally, for an offending man; and vertically, for a woman.
Perhaps the following visualization exercises, while making the signal, would be effective accompaniments.

Horizontal

Visualization Exercise
Best when making "small minded" signal to a man

Vertical

Visualization Exercise
Best when making "small minded" signal to a woman

In Flying Spaghetti Monster We Trust

Touched by a noodly tendril

Hatching Godzilla

Do you think you know the Price/Earnings ratio of the stock market? Bet you don't.
Last time I went back to school, that time for certification as a financial planner, I looked critically at the P/E of the market (its price divided by its earnings).
EXAMPLE: If S&P 500 is priced (or is trading at) 1279, and its earnings are $76.25, the quotient, or P/E is 16.8. One way to interpret that number is, it will take you 16.8 years to recoup your investment at that price, with similar economic circumstances to last year.
A year into course study at UCLA, I realized that I was dividing the current price of the market by last year's earnings. That doesn't make any sense. Then, I noticed that The Wall St. Journal and Barron's did the same thing.
So, I started dividing last year's price by last year's earnings, and the current year price by next year's Standard & Poor's projected earnings. My numbers began to disagree with all but a few rarely-interviewed economists and professors. That was the germination of the spreadsheet godzilla I now use for macroeconomic analysis.
The next thing I noticed was the stock market reacting to every little piece of data..."Oh my GOD! MANUFACTURING IS SLUMPING!! SELL!!!" But, manufacturing was on an uptrend, and this number is; a) likely to be modified, and b) possibly an anomaly. The resulting reactionary little market blip was nothing but an opportunity to buy something, if its price fell enough.
So, I started monitoring Industrial Output, Capacity Utilization, Gross Domestic Product (back when it was called Gross National Product), Employment, Inflation, Output, Consumption and Leading Indicators, to see where we were in the economic cycle without having to listen to screaming young Italian-American floor traders (who, by the way, LOVE pasta. But I digress).
Then, monetary indicators. Then, sentiment. Then,...I had this massive spreadsheet that I used to draw my own macro conclusions.
It is more than a decade old now. If it were a kid, it would be in Little League.
I am reduced to reading only two economists. All the others work with data that differs from mine. Do they do it because everyone else does?
In their allotted 15 interview seconds, do they not have time to discuss that their premises are different from their peers? Is it easier just to do it the way it's always been done?
Critical thinking is becoming a casualty of the sound bite.
And I don't trust anyone but myself (and the Flying Spaghetti Monster).
Ramen.

Shut Up & Wear Your Sunblock

Ouch! to the 15th Power

Childhood summers playing on the beach at Scotchman's Cove with only an occasional slathering of Sea & Ski on my pale Irish skin have left me with a lifetime of dermatological "freezings." By freezing, I mean burns - big, blistering burns on my face, hands, chest and back to rid me of the sun damage festering its way toward skin cancer.
As a veteran of the burn wars, I know to make my appointment at the end of the summer, when all the crispy little spots who have been creeping epidermally toward the surface since childhood, have spawned anew. I knew this one would be bad - there was a place on my forehead that I thought might even need a scalpel. I'm good at self diagnosis; a cream goes on my face every day that sizzles my freckles like little round Canadian bacons.
Even still, this was a bad one. Fifteen times, Dr. Whoever Drove Out From Portland pointed his little spigot at me and held; "one, two, three (Jesus!), four, and okay. I think we got that one."
Once, I said, my voice shaking with pain, "Let's take a little break, shall we?"
During the conversation that followed (he talking and me, not screaming), he said, "Well, yes, people are always commenting to me how I have this tan, but you know, I'm never in the sun. This is what happens walking to the car at 6 PM. I tan so quickly."
As I glared at him with my watering eyes, I said, "How nice for you."
He then said, "Yes, well, I got this skin, but I also got osteoarthritis. Had to replace both knees, a hip and I've had two back surgeries. Look at my hands."
As I glanced down at his brown hands, I noticed his knuckles were enlarged, and his fingers, crooked.
"Have trouble holding this sometimes," he continued, aiming the cooking device at a particularly sensitive part of my chest.
That he is so arthitic precludes the necessity of me coming home and placing a curse on him. I shouldn't do curses with burns on my body.
I might accidentally overdo it.

Lucky Guy

Tillie

Just after the turn of the twentieth century, a beautiful little Spanish/Irish girl named Tillie quit school went to work in a grocery store to help support her family. Long, dark, curly hair, an hourglass figure, big brown eyes, and a quick wit caught the eye of the store manager. He was smitten.
Very young, and either feining no interest or having none, intelligent, polite little Tillie did her job efficiently, leaving Clyde the store manager little need to interact. Patiently, over the years, little by little he made his feelings known, until finally Tillie accepted his proposal of marriage.
Over the next fifteen years, Tillie bore four children - a boy, and three beautiful girls. Tillie and Clyde were deeply in love.
In the early 1930's, Clyde died, and Tillie, with a broken heart, little education, and in the depth of the Great Depression, marched off to work for the Farmers and Merchants Bank in Los Angeles. Over the years, she raised her children, buried one of her daughters, raised a few of her grandchildren, bought a home, and made many friends, but the cheerful, beautiful little Spanish/Irish girl never remarried.
Not that there weren't suitors.
When little Tillie died in 1980, at 89 years old, her last conversation with me was filled with optimism and happiness. She was a devout Catholic who had no fear of dying. "I miss my husband," she said, smiling and patting my hand.
Tillie was my sweet little Meema, who taught me to tell time, tie my shoes, say my prayers, read, write and speak English properly. She read the entire Encyclopedia Brittanica to me before I started kindegarten, and told me that I was the smartest little girl in the world when I knew a Mandrill was a monkey with a blue butt. She was the light of my life from my first memories.
Clyde was a very lucky guy.

Another 911

Lower 911

While we trudge through pervasive 9/11 memorials today, I'd like to propose another interpretation of that infamous number.
Dr. John's band, the Lower 911 (pronounced "lower nine-eleven"), was named for the section of the Lower 9th Ward in New Orleans where both bassist David Barard and drummer Herman “Roscoe” Ernest III called home, before Hurricane Katrina eradicated them.
This band, a rich gumbo of funk, R&B, jazz and gospel, has backed Dr. John for more than 30 years, and recently released an album called "Sippiana Hericane." All proceeds go to worthy New Orleans charities from sales of this touching homage to their dear drowned city.
To give you an idea of the level of the devestation caused by this unspeakable tragedy (that was 26 times the size of the twin towers). my beautiful New Orleanian friend Sylvia recently wrote,

"...last night we went around the corner to the R bar for some free oysters and got into a stimulating and heated conversation about bureaucracy. Today we helped a friend paint her classroom and we discovered how, because of FEMA orders, everything in the schools had to be thrown away. We are talking about at least 3 schools that I know of personally (that) had this mandate. One school, NOCCA had new instruments, new books, totally undamaged and the staff was told they couldn't take anything!!!!! If they took anything out of the garbage they could be arrested. It just made me sick. So much is being thrown away and all because of bureaucracy. An order was made and everyone had to follow it. Today I saw computers being thrown away. My friend, Cathy is a 1st grade teacher. Today was payday and she didn't get her check. School is suppose to start on Monday, but not by what I saw. Although the building was not flooded, perhaps one window pane was broken, they took out cypress cabinets, wooded desks and chairs. It is such a waste! Lusher was the same way - parents couldn't be called upon to volunteer over the summer because FEMA had control of the building. Everything is new. No recycling. Nothing.
Lusher started a week late, and now the parents are being asked to help finish the building because FEMA apparently does not do trim, so all the trim has to be done.
Dysfunctional, challenging, and not a dull moment around here but I still wouldn't live anywhere else in the world (yet) the music is great! Stevie Wonder jammed with Walter Wolfman the other night at d.b.a. next door."

I can add nothing to her eloquence, other than amid tragedy and incompetence, New Orleans still manages to produce some of the most spectacular music and food in our country, served with Southern charm and gentility.
You can click the link called "Pushin' Loose on the Keys" for names of New Orleans charities that won't waste your money, or buy the "Sippiana Hericane" CD and all proceeds from your purchase will go to these charities. And, you'll hear some great New Orleans "fonk" besides.
When you think 911, think of the Lower 911, too.

Vodou Priest says "Pass the sauce!"

The Last Supper

Ima Gonna Take A Hostage

Last Sunday, my brother anonymously said "The reference to (Lord) Buckley's "honest absence of faith" nudges me to say how annoyed I get when people shove their presence of faith in my face. Why are they so proud of their beliefs? Belief is easy, knowledge is hard. I think the faithless (a condition I aspire to) are far too easy on the faithful. If they don't start keeping it to themselves, Ima gonna take a hostage."

Apparently, he stomped on a Christian nerve...

Trio Accused of Gunpoint Prayer Session
From Associated Press September 08, 2006 10:20 PM EDT
ATHENS, Ala. - A woman and two roommates are accused of holding her brother at gunpoint as she prayed for his repentance, even firing a shot into the ceiling to keep his attention.
Randy Doss, 46, of Athens said he fled the house when his captors got distracted and later went to police, who were skeptical at first because his story was so bizarre. But police said it checked out, including the bullet hole in the ceiling.
"We found where they patched the hole with caulk," said Sgt. Trevor Harris.
Police said the sister, Tammie Lee Doss, 43, Donna Leigh Bianca, 37, and Ronald David Richie, 45, who live at the Athens house, were charged with unlawful imprisonment, a misdemeanor. The two women were also charged with menacing, a misdemeanor. All were released on bond.
Harris said Randy Doss went to the house about 7 p.m. on Labor Day and at some point got in an argument with the two women about religion. When they prayed for him, he laughed.
"They both got upset and pointed pistols at him," Harris said. "They wouldn't let him leave. Bianca fired one round in the ceiling in the hallway a few feet from the victim's head."
Harris said the women tried to get Doss to admit things he did as a child.
"She claims the brother wronged her years ago when they were kids and she just got the truth out of him and apparently wanted revenge," said Harris. "He says they would not let him go. The sister says she was just trying to scare her brother."
The three suspects denied they held Doss against his will.
"The door was never locked and he could have walked out that door any time he wanted to," the sister told the News-Courier of Athens. "We never held him against his will."
Harris said Richie did not have a weapon but is accused of blocking the door to keep Doss from fleeing.
Doss said he escaped the house about 1 a.m. Tuesday.

After much consideration, I feel that as profit (prophet, if you're a gun-totin', three-named Christian) for the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, I am inspired to make my third FSM Encycical (an infallible message to me directly from the Noodly Master, you pagan).
'Sacred' is just 'scared' with a transposition. Our pirate costumes shall not include real guns.
Go in peace.
Ramen.