Twenty years ago, the Seattle neighborhood of Fremont was a hillside community of old clapboard houses anchored by a commercial crossroads of cafes, vintage junk stores, and artisans' shops. The inhabitants were aging hippies, youthful artists, and everyone in between. I used to go there to hang out for hours over big breakfasts (late in the morning), cheap teriyaki (late at night), and gooey pastries and coffee (all afternoon).
Flash forward. A behemoth natural foods boutique supermarket now stands at the heart of the Fremont universe, next to a condo/office building encircled with gleaming metal trim that resembles high-end barbed wire. A famous software company inhabits a sprawling complex across the street. Many of the people on the street sport the company's security badges. Vintage is gone; reproduction vintage abounds.
If you are in the low-ceilinged, crowded underground parking garage beneath the natural foods shrine (where I was at noon today) you might get the sense that something is wrong in Fremont. Take a deep breath. The air smells of rotting produce and garbage--organic, I'm sure, but decidely unpleasant. Watch out for the pricey sports cars and immense SUVs circling the garage in a hunt for spaces. They are driven by attractive young women wearing up-to-the millisecond fashion or graying, middle-aged ex-hippies wearing expensive dress casual. Everyone is wearing an expression of impatience and disgust as they wait for you to scurry across the road—or don't wait, and zoom right at you. This is not a friendly place.
I'm here for my first lunch with a group of area professionals who gather once a month at a restaurant in the middle of Fremont. I walk in to a high-ceilinged, wood-paneled quasi-Asian bistro. The noise level there is comparable to the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. The waitress points out the professional group, crammed together at four tables without a seat to spare. This is not a place I want to be. I walk out and head back to the parking garage, where I patiently extricate myself from the cramped spot, waiting while the driver of the SUV in front of me indulges herself in a meditative trance in the middle of the exit lane. Then I work my way, block by block, out of Fremont, each intersection gridlocked by a truck or a van trying to get into a parking space or around another commercial vehicle. Perhaps a Bostonian could feel at home here.
Eventually, I'm on Leary Way, headed back home to Ballard. I park on Ballard Avenue, go into Burk's Cafe, order a gumbo with tasso and an iced coffee, and sit in the cool restaurant watching people stroll by on the quiet cobblestone street outside. A Beau Jocque zydeco CD plays in the background. I recognize several of the people lunching in the courtyard. One of the kids from my drumming class comes in and we chat about what they covered in the Tuesday class I missed. The restaurant packs up my leftovers for me, and I head back to the car.
On the way home, I stop at Limback Lumber to pick up a piece of plywood I'll be using to winterize Betaille's outdoor cat shelter. The salesman recognizes me; he goes back and cuts the plywood to the exact size I need. I recognize two of the five contractors who come in while I'm there.
Like a few other older businesses on Leary Way, Stone Way, and Elliot Avenue, Limback maintains a large reader board atop their building. On my way out, I look up and check out the latest.
"Ballard's a-changing," it says. "But we aren't."
Amen.
[FOLLOW-UP NOTE: In summer 2006 Limback took down their reader board, leaving me to wonder if change had caught up with them at last. Fortunately, it was just temporary while the building was re-roofed. -- MT]
Friday, August 20, 2004
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
Pears everywhere
It's hard to walk across our patio without being hit on the head by a big, falling pear.
Whomp! Guess I need to get out there and pick them.
I'm never quite sure what to do with pears, other than slice them and eat them with cheese or poach them in wine. You can't really put them on cereal, pear cake isn't as interesting as apple cake, and I'm not into making elaborate tarts and stuff just to get a few pear slices on top. Pear jam? Pear sauce? Brandied pears?
Tonight I researched pear soup and came up with a surprising number of recipes. Some of them date back to European medieval cookery.
Categories include:
• Sweet, chilled pear soup: usually with other fruits, pureed, seasoned with aniseed, and often served for dessert.
• Savory squash and pear soup. All sorts of squashes, sweet potatoes or yams join pears and onions.
• Pear soup with melted brie: involves chicken broth and sounds pretty good.
• The weird ones: pear soup with broccoli, etc...
• My favorite: roasted eggplant, red pepper and pear soup. The recipe, credited to the Mistral Restaurant in California, makes 3-1/2 gallons of the stuff and involves 14 pears.
Turns out you can stuff pears with cheese (blue cheese, cream cheese, ricotta cheese) and bake or grill them.
And I did manage to come up with a recipe for brandied pears:
Scald and peel the fruit; make a syrup of half a pound of sugar to each pound of fruit; drop in the pears, and, when done, put in jars. Boil syrup a little longer, and allow it to cool; then add one pint of brandy to each quart of syrup, and pour over the pears.
Bon apetit!
Thud.
Whomp! Guess I need to get out there and pick them.
I'm never quite sure what to do with pears, other than slice them and eat them with cheese or poach them in wine. You can't really put them on cereal, pear cake isn't as interesting as apple cake, and I'm not into making elaborate tarts and stuff just to get a few pear slices on top. Pear jam? Pear sauce? Brandied pears?
Tonight I researched pear soup and came up with a surprising number of recipes. Some of them date back to European medieval cookery.
Categories include:
• Sweet, chilled pear soup: usually with other fruits, pureed, seasoned with aniseed, and often served for dessert.
• Savory squash and pear soup. All sorts of squashes, sweet potatoes or yams join pears and onions.
• Pear soup with melted brie: involves chicken broth and sounds pretty good.
• The weird ones: pear soup with broccoli, etc...
• My favorite: roasted eggplant, red pepper and pear soup. The recipe, credited to the Mistral Restaurant in California, makes 3-1/2 gallons of the stuff and involves 14 pears.
Turns out you can stuff pears with cheese (blue cheese, cream cheese, ricotta cheese) and bake or grill them.
And I did manage to come up with a recipe for brandied pears:
Scald and peel the fruit; make a syrup of half a pound of sugar to each pound of fruit; drop in the pears, and, when done, put in jars. Boil syrup a little longer, and allow it to cool; then add one pint of brandy to each quart of syrup, and pour over the pears.
Bon apetit!
Thud.
Monday, August 16, 2004
Bad beginnings
I work up around 7:45 this morning to see the white cat slinking guilty off the bed. Sure enough, she had barfed on the blanket. I whisked the blanket onto the floor, rolled over, and tried to sleep for 15 more minutes while the kittens rocketed around the bedroom in pursuit of the white cat. The white cat took refuge on a high shelf, then began moving items on the shelf off the edge and onto the floor to alert me to her predicament. As she worked her way over to a glass candle holder, I got up and got her off the shelf. Confident I was ready to get up and feed them, the three felines thundered downstairs.
I showered, dressed and sat down to work at the computer. At 11:30 I remembered I'd invited someone to lunch. It was not someone I wanted to have lunch with, so the cooking (Mark Bittman's version of salad Nicoise, from How to Cook Everything) was more fun than the actual meal. After the guest left, I remembered the blanket upstairs, took that down to the laundry room, and ran a load of wash before sitting back down to work. At 3:45 I went for a walk. My neighbor Henry was out working in his yard, as usual, and I remarked on his ancient metal trash cans--they really have attained collectible status! As I got back from my walk, my husband called with his daily report and we discussed how to keep the more enterprising kitten from flying, leaping, and slithering out the door at every opportunity. Then it was back to work, which is pretty much tying up lots of odds and ends this week while my boss is on vacation.
This evening I wind up the final phase of our anti-flea campaign, spraying cat tree Number 4 (which is outdoors drying off from being carpet shampooed yesterday) with Adams Inverted Carpet Spray. I haven't found any fleas on the cats for several days, but I want to be vigilant while the weather is still good and I can take the cat trees outdoors to be sprayed.
The kittens are now taking Frontline (the genuine veterinary version), but before they were old enough for that treatment, they managed to infest the house. Fortunately, we have hardwood floors and leather furniture, so I've been able to address the flea problem by washing the cat beds every couple of days and taking each of the cat trees outdoors for washing and spraying. Adams Inverted Carpet Spray (I just love that name) is supposed to be effective for more than 200 days, so we should be safe until next spring.
I showered, dressed and sat down to work at the computer. At 11:30 I remembered I'd invited someone to lunch. It was not someone I wanted to have lunch with, so the cooking (Mark Bittman's version of salad Nicoise, from How to Cook Everything) was more fun than the actual meal. After the guest left, I remembered the blanket upstairs, took that down to the laundry room, and ran a load of wash before sitting back down to work. At 3:45 I went for a walk. My neighbor Henry was out working in his yard, as usual, and I remarked on his ancient metal trash cans--they really have attained collectible status! As I got back from my walk, my husband called with his daily report and we discussed how to keep the more enterprising kitten from flying, leaping, and slithering out the door at every opportunity. Then it was back to work, which is pretty much tying up lots of odds and ends this week while my boss is on vacation.
This evening I wind up the final phase of our anti-flea campaign, spraying cat tree Number 4 (which is outdoors drying off from being carpet shampooed yesterday) with Adams Inverted Carpet Spray. I haven't found any fleas on the cats for several days, but I want to be vigilant while the weather is still good and I can take the cat trees outdoors to be sprayed.
The kittens are now taking Frontline (the genuine veterinary version), but before they were old enough for that treatment, they managed to infest the house. Fortunately, we have hardwood floors and leather furniture, so I've been able to address the flea problem by washing the cat beds every couple of days and taking each of the cat trees outdoors for washing and spraying. Adams Inverted Carpet Spray (I just love that name) is supposed to be effective for more than 200 days, so we should be safe until next spring.
Friday, August 13, 2004
Adieu, Julia
ABC News has a wonderful obituary for Julia Child.
I met her in 1980 when the Meriden Record-Journal assigned me to write about a local chef (from Wallingford, Connecticut) who'd been asked to cook lunch for Julia Child while she rehearsed for a show at Long Wharf Theater in New Haven. I arrived at the theater and was given the brush-off by a snotty young theater employee who left me to cool my heels in the darkened lobby. Suddenly a door flew open and very tall woman peered into the lobby--it could only be Julia Child. I identified myself and explained I was there not to bother her but to write about the local chef. "Marvelous!" she whooped, putting her arm around me and ushering me into the theater. She had a kitchen set up on-stage, and her husband was sitting on a stool, reading the newspaper. Child hustled me backstage to a corner where the local guy and his assistant were freneticly attempting to prepare an elaborate lunch for America's most famous chef on a small table using a couple of electric frying pans.
"Oh, it's going to be wonderful," Child assured all of us. And it was.
Here's a story about all the folks visiting the Julia Child kitchen exhibit (her actual Cambridge, Mass., kitchen) at the Smithsonian to pay tribute to her.
I met her in 1980 when the Meriden Record-Journal assigned me to write about a local chef (from Wallingford, Connecticut) who'd been asked to cook lunch for Julia Child while she rehearsed for a show at Long Wharf Theater in New Haven. I arrived at the theater and was given the brush-off by a snotty young theater employee who left me to cool my heels in the darkened lobby. Suddenly a door flew open and very tall woman peered into the lobby--it could only be Julia Child. I identified myself and explained I was there not to bother her but to write about the local chef. "Marvelous!" she whooped, putting her arm around me and ushering me into the theater. She had a kitchen set up on-stage, and her husband was sitting on a stool, reading the newspaper. Child hustled me backstage to a corner where the local guy and his assistant were freneticly attempting to prepare an elaborate lunch for America's most famous chef on a small table using a couple of electric frying pans.
"Oh, it's going to be wonderful," Child assured all of us. And it was.
Here's a story about all the folks visiting the Julia Child kitchen exhibit (her actual Cambridge, Mass., kitchen) at the Smithsonian to pay tribute to her.
Thursday, August 12, 2004
San Jose airport, revisited
Stuck in the San Jose airport tonight and not sure when the plane, scheduled to take off 11 minutes ago, will arrive. I'm connected to the internet using the Wayport WiFi service ($6.95 a day), and wondering why airline terminals are filled with people with laptops but pretty much devoid of electrical outlets for recharging them. I remember writing about this problem 12 years ago for my Mac user group newsletter; it's appalling there's been no noticeable improvement in the interim. I suspect that people who commute more often than I do simply carry a spare battery (about $100 for most laptops) with them.
The 5 p.m. to Phoenix is now boarding (more than 2 hours late) so that doesn't bode well for our flight.
Now they moved us to another gate....
The 5 p.m. to Phoenix is now boarding (more than 2 hours late) so that doesn't bode well for our flight.
Now they moved us to another gate....
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
Yet more alarms at night
When I babysit, my favorite story to read to kids is James Thurber's "The Night the Bed Fell," in which the visit of hypochondriacal cousin Briggs sets off a chain reaction of nocturnal disasters in the already volatile Thurber household.
We've had a couple nights like that here this week. Monday night someone exploded fireworks on a barge anchored in Shilshole Bay a few blocks below our house, terrifying the cat who sleeps at the head of our bed so that she pounced, snarling, across my pillow on her way out of the bedroom.
Last night I was awoken by the crash of pottery down in the living room. Sheba, the deaf white cat, spends the night racing between various first floor windows, "guarding" the house from racoons, possums, and neighborhood cats. Something on the front porch scared her badly enough that she leaped onto the fireplace mantel, displacing a Mission-style yellow vase that shattered on the hearth below. I went downstairs and found Sheba, purring in terror, under the coffee table. All the racket had awoken the kittens, who sleep in the basement, and they were meowing and scratching at the door of their room. Betaille, the cat from the head of the bed (who had been hiding under the bed in case of more fireworks) came tearing down the stairs to be let out the front door. By the time I got Betaille out and Sheba comforted, and went back to bed, the fun had just started. Alaska Airlines, which has a flight path directly over our street, seemed to be staging an invasion of Sea-Tac airport. Then the seagulls started up, and the train went by, and the newspaper delivery person, who must be earning money to afford a new muffler, roared down the street thwacking newspapers onto the porches. My husband began snoring softly, with overtones that sounded like a phone ringing far, far away, though not quite far enough.
I knew better than to complain. A bleary sleeper is no match for those who are abroad in the night. In the Thurber essay "A Succession of Maids," Mrs. Thurber wakes in the wee hours to hear Gertie, the family's housekeeper, coming in from a night on the town, crashing into chairs and tables as she makes her way to her room. "What are you doing?" Mrs. Thurber shouts inanely. "Dusting," replies Gertie.
We've had a couple nights like that here this week. Monday night someone exploded fireworks on a barge anchored in Shilshole Bay a few blocks below our house, terrifying the cat who sleeps at the head of our bed so that she pounced, snarling, across my pillow on her way out of the bedroom.
Last night I was awoken by the crash of pottery down in the living room. Sheba, the deaf white cat, spends the night racing between various first floor windows, "guarding" the house from racoons, possums, and neighborhood cats. Something on the front porch scared her badly enough that she leaped onto the fireplace mantel, displacing a Mission-style yellow vase that shattered on the hearth below. I went downstairs and found Sheba, purring in terror, under the coffee table. All the racket had awoken the kittens, who sleep in the basement, and they were meowing and scratching at the door of their room. Betaille, the cat from the head of the bed (who had been hiding under the bed in case of more fireworks) came tearing down the stairs to be let out the front door. By the time I got Betaille out and Sheba comforted, and went back to bed, the fun had just started. Alaska Airlines, which has a flight path directly over our street, seemed to be staging an invasion of Sea-Tac airport. Then the seagulls started up, and the train went by, and the newspaper delivery person, who must be earning money to afford a new muffler, roared down the street thwacking newspapers onto the porches. My husband began snoring softly, with overtones that sounded like a phone ringing far, far away, though not quite far enough.
I knew better than to complain. A bleary sleeper is no match for those who are abroad in the night. In the Thurber essay "A Succession of Maids," Mrs. Thurber wakes in the wee hours to hear Gertie, the family's housekeeper, coming in from a night on the town, crashing into chairs and tables as she makes her way to her room. "What are you doing?" Mrs. Thurber shouts inanely. "Dusting," replies Gertie.
Monday, August 09, 2004
Geek lifestyle
Popular Science writer Larry Smith spent the first 10 days of 2004 using no technology less than 50 years old. Ironically, much of his article is still about chasing technology. Only instead of checking out the latest iPod, he's visiting old technology shops buying typewriters and black and white TVs. I think he missed the point that there weren't enough geeks around for there to be a geek lifestyle in 1954. Had he been a genuine 1954 geek, he'd have been putting together a ham radio operation, or building a Heathkit stereo or television.
Smith's article holds few surprises--quite the opposite of "And the Dish Ran Away with the Spoon," Paul Di Filippo's mind-blowing, and wildly amusing SF story about quasi-sentient 21st-century household objects that gang up on their owners. You can find this gem online (scifi.com), and in The Year's Best Science Fiction, 21st Annual Collection.
Smith's article holds few surprises--quite the opposite of "And the Dish Ran Away with the Spoon," Paul Di Filippo's mind-blowing, and wildly amusing SF story about quasi-sentient 21st-century household objects that gang up on their owners. You can find this gem online (scifi.com), and in The Year's Best Science Fiction, 21st Annual Collection.
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
Life with kittens: Insect phase
The kittens have entered their insect phase: They have long legs, spring like spiders, and are definitely pests. This morning I opened the front door to let Sheba out and, like most adult cats, she paused on the threshold to ruminate about life. Meanwhile Kaylee, the smaller kitten, launched from the staircase, crossed the livingroom in three sproiings and flew right over Sheba out onto the porch. Kaylee was temporarily stunned when she landed, enabling me to grab her--which is why I'm writing this rather than crawling around in the neighbors' shrubbery cooing "here, kitty, kitty, kitty."
Zoe is still busy collecting and shredding credit card receipts. MBNA called this morning, trying to upgrade me to something, and asked if I was "the primary card user." Zoe trotted by with a receipt and I considered letting the sales rep talk with her.
I set up the Panic Mouse and let them play with that while I was working. But eventually Kaylee came in and got interested in the cursor on the screen. I decided to amuse her by playing a QuickTime movie, and Googled "kitten movie." To my surprise, the third result I clicked on was the kitten movie I'd made of Kaylee and Zoe, so Kaylee ended up watching her younger self rip apart our diningroom curtains and wrestle with Zoe. I grabbed the new digital video camera and quickly taped her pawing at her own screen image...yes, this is getting ridiculous.
Zoe is still busy collecting and shredding credit card receipts. MBNA called this morning, trying to upgrade me to something, and asked if I was "the primary card user." Zoe trotted by with a receipt and I considered letting the sales rep talk with her.
I set up the Panic Mouse and let them play with that while I was working. But eventually Kaylee came in and got interested in the cursor on the screen. I decided to amuse her by playing a QuickTime movie, and Googled "kitten movie." To my surprise, the third result I clicked on was the kitten movie I'd made of Kaylee and Zoe, so Kaylee ended up watching her younger self rip apart our diningroom curtains and wrestle with Zoe. I grabbed the new digital video camera and quickly taped her pawing at her own screen image...yes, this is getting ridiculous.
Monday, August 02, 2004
Cats' past lives
On my bulletin board is a copy of the famous New Yorker cartoon showing a couple and their horrified guest as they come upon the family cat savagely attacking an upholstered chair. The resigned owner explains cheerfully "We believe that in a former life she was an editor."
I'm sitting here watching our kitten Zoe as she selects a credit card receipt from the bowl on my file cabinet and carries it off to the livingroom to be shredded. When she finishes with a receipt, the ink is invisible and the paper is perforated to limpness with thousands of tiny pinpoints of claw marks. Then she comes back and carefully selects another. I check the name of the store as she goes by to make sure it's nothing I need to save.
Her sister Kaylee cares nothing for finances, but appears to be planning an assault on the bookcase. Lightweight and powerful, Kaylee is able to go halfway up the flat surface of a door before losing momentum.
I'm sitting here watching our kitten Zoe as she selects a credit card receipt from the bowl on my file cabinet and carries it off to the livingroom to be shredded. When she finishes with a receipt, the ink is invisible and the paper is perforated to limpness with thousands of tiny pinpoints of claw marks. Then she comes back and carefully selects another. I check the name of the store as she goes by to make sure it's nothing I need to save.
Her sister Kaylee cares nothing for finances, but appears to be planning an assault on the bookcase. Lightweight and powerful, Kaylee is able to go halfway up the flat surface of a door before losing momentum.
Saturday, July 24, 2004
Hot
Hot. Hot. Hot. Hot.
The fan on my iMac was running unusually loudly this afternoon. I realized it, too, was hot. It's now 9 p.m. and 88 degrees in our livingroom, even with both the front and back doors open and a fan running. The upstairs, a converted attic, is unspeakable. The basement TV room is about 78.
Perfect weather to listen to a ballgame on the radio. The Mariners are leading Anaheim 3-2 in the 7th...
The fan on my iMac was running unusually loudly this afternoon. I realized it, too, was hot. It's now 9 p.m. and 88 degrees in our livingroom, even with both the front and back doors open and a fan running. The upstairs, a converted attic, is unspeakable. The basement TV room is about 78.
Perfect weather to listen to a ballgame on the radio. The Mariners are leading Anaheim 3-2 in the 7th...
Friday, July 23, 2004
Perhaps it looked good on paper?
Everytime I battle my way into one of the ladiesrooms in the Southwest terminal of the San Jose airport, I expect to encounter a group of architecture students taking notes on the utter idiocy of the bathroom design. It must be a textbook example of how not to design a public restroom.
The doorless entrances are twisting, narrow corridors that put luggage-toting women entering the room on a collision-course with women who have washed their hands and trying to find the paper towel dispensers. The two towel dispensers are positioned at the far ends of the long counter lined with sinks. Anyone who has used one of the five sinks and needs a towel must back away from the sink, hands dripping, leave her luggage blocking access to the sink, and clamber over the luggage of every other woman at the counter before colliding with the incoming stream of travelers entering next to the towels. Dripping, leaping and exhausted, the handwashers look like Pacific salmon heading upstream.
The toilet stalls are obviously the work of the same clueless designer. They can accommodate a toilet, you, and your luggage—but whoever designed them did not take into account the fact that the user would need to open the door to get herself and her luggage in and out of the stall. (Perhaps they though she'd heave the bag over the top, or push the bag in and vault over it?) I admit that I take the risk and leave my luggage outside the stall door. My bag is large, and my reasoning is that anyone trying to make off with it would get stuck in the bottleneck at the towel dispensers long enough for me to flush, get out, and reclaim my bag.
The looks on the faces of women as they try to get into those stalls range from grim determination (frequent fliers, they've been there before) to horror and panic--that usually from women who must try to figure out how to squeeze in with both their luggage and their squirming kids.
The restroom entrances are dog-leg bends without any doors, so the exterior signage for "Men" and "Women" must be posted elsewhere (such as high above the doors). Since the restrooms for "Men" and "Women" are right next to each other, it can be tricky to differentiate between the two. At least that's my explanation for what I witnessed a few weeks ago. I was sitting in a Southwest waiting area, facing the restrooms, and noticed a male business traveler clearly looking for the facilities. In his hurry, he turned one entryway too soon. There were shrieks from a herd of female towel-seekers; he emerged red-faced and hurried down the concourse, headed in the direction of the International terminal where, one hopes, they have normal restrooms.
The doorless entrances are twisting, narrow corridors that put luggage-toting women entering the room on a collision-course with women who have washed their hands and trying to find the paper towel dispensers. The two towel dispensers are positioned at the far ends of the long counter lined with sinks. Anyone who has used one of the five sinks and needs a towel must back away from the sink, hands dripping, leave her luggage blocking access to the sink, and clamber over the luggage of every other woman at the counter before colliding with the incoming stream of travelers entering next to the towels. Dripping, leaping and exhausted, the handwashers look like Pacific salmon heading upstream.
The toilet stalls are obviously the work of the same clueless designer. They can accommodate a toilet, you, and your luggage—but whoever designed them did not take into account the fact that the user would need to open the door to get herself and her luggage in and out of the stall. (Perhaps they though she'd heave the bag over the top, or push the bag in and vault over it?) I admit that I take the risk and leave my luggage outside the stall door. My bag is large, and my reasoning is that anyone trying to make off with it would get stuck in the bottleneck at the towel dispensers long enough for me to flush, get out, and reclaim my bag.
The looks on the faces of women as they try to get into those stalls range from grim determination (frequent fliers, they've been there before) to horror and panic--that usually from women who must try to figure out how to squeeze in with both their luggage and their squirming kids.
The restroom entrances are dog-leg bends without any doors, so the exterior signage for "Men" and "Women" must be posted elsewhere (such as high above the doors). Since the restrooms for "Men" and "Women" are right next to each other, it can be tricky to differentiate between the two. At least that's my explanation for what I witnessed a few weeks ago. I was sitting in a Southwest waiting area, facing the restrooms, and noticed a male business traveler clearly looking for the facilities. In his hurry, he turned one entryway too soon. There were shrieks from a herd of female towel-seekers; he emerged red-faced and hurried down the concourse, headed in the direction of the International terminal where, one hopes, they have normal restrooms.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Music for the Mariners
I went to my annual Mariners' game last night—seats behind third base for a Red Sox game were my gift to my mother for her 86th birthday. (And, yes, seats in a decent section are worth $120 each.)
It was about as good as baseball gets. Both teams are having lousy seasons, characterized by weak hitting in the bottom of the order for both. But it was a tight game, with lots of runners on base and full counts. It went extra innings, displayed a total of 10 pitchers (!), and included stolen bases, errors, hit batters, brilliant line drives, sacrifices, bunts, home runs, and a grand slam. About all we were missing was a manager yelling at an umpire and stomping on his hat--but they probably don't do that on the West Coast.
Pitching ranged from excellent (Boston's Arroyo went 7 innings, allowed only 1 run, and got Ichiro to strike out looking in the 6th) to wild (Seattle's Villone and the Sox's Foulke, who each hit a batter). I'd never seen the Mariner's reliever Mike Myers pitch before--his pitch appears to be underhand, quite fast, and, with two out and a runner on second in the top of the 11th, saved the game by befuddling Johnny Damon into flying out.
Safeco Stadium is a great stadium, well lit without glare, outdoors yet sheltered, and very "retro" in its feel. The fans were for the most part well-behaved. Though I think it's rude to depart in the 7th inning just because your team is losing at that point. And, as it turned out, it was stupid as well.
Initially I was appalled by the snippets of loud rock and pop music (not organ versions, but the actual tracks) that blast over the loudspeaker after every play. I fantasized that if I were Paul Allen I'd pay to have an evening in which the only music would be the traditional ballpark organ (the Mariners have a good organist). But I had to admit that the DJ programming the tracks was pretty damn sharp. After a runner was caught between first and second, he (she?) played The Clash ("Should I Stay or Should I Go?"); as the coaches huddled to discuss yanking a beseiged pitched, it was the Dave Clark Five's "Do You Love Me?"
If you've lost touch with baseball, this season with the Mariners could be the time to get back in the groove. Safeco Field is probably one of the best fields in baseball (terrific food, including the suishi bar featuring the Ichiro Roll, and Hebrew National hot dogs). And, if you haven't seen the brilliant fielding and selfless batting of Ichiro Suzuki, you haven't seen baseball as an art form.
A nice place to follow the games is on the Major League Baseball section of the well-designed Sports Networks site, where you can see plenty of game info absolutely free: Previews, Matchups, Lineups, a wonderful narrative Log, a Wrap, and the Box Score.
For tickets, try the official Mariners site, which will lead you to TicketMaster, or, for good seats, go to the Mariners section of Stub Hub where you can pick up tickets that season ticket holders are selling. The closer you get to game day, the cheaper the ticket prices.
It was about as good as baseball gets. Both teams are having lousy seasons, characterized by weak hitting in the bottom of the order for both. But it was a tight game, with lots of runners on base and full counts. It went extra innings, displayed a total of 10 pitchers (!), and included stolen bases, errors, hit batters, brilliant line drives, sacrifices, bunts, home runs, and a grand slam. About all we were missing was a manager yelling at an umpire and stomping on his hat--but they probably don't do that on the West Coast.
Pitching ranged from excellent (Boston's Arroyo went 7 innings, allowed only 1 run, and got Ichiro to strike out looking in the 6th) to wild (Seattle's Villone and the Sox's Foulke, who each hit a batter). I'd never seen the Mariner's reliever Mike Myers pitch before--his pitch appears to be underhand, quite fast, and, with two out and a runner on second in the top of the 11th, saved the game by befuddling Johnny Damon into flying out.
Safeco Stadium is a great stadium, well lit without glare, outdoors yet sheltered, and very "retro" in its feel. The fans were for the most part well-behaved. Though I think it's rude to depart in the 7th inning just because your team is losing at that point. And, as it turned out, it was stupid as well.
Initially I was appalled by the snippets of loud rock and pop music (not organ versions, but the actual tracks) that blast over the loudspeaker after every play. I fantasized that if I were Paul Allen I'd pay to have an evening in which the only music would be the traditional ballpark organ (the Mariners have a good organist). But I had to admit that the DJ programming the tracks was pretty damn sharp. After a runner was caught between first and second, he (she?) played The Clash ("Should I Stay or Should I Go?"); as the coaches huddled to discuss yanking a beseiged pitched, it was the Dave Clark Five's "Do You Love Me?"
If you've lost touch with baseball, this season with the Mariners could be the time to get back in the groove. Safeco Field is probably one of the best fields in baseball (terrific food, including the suishi bar featuring the Ichiro Roll, and Hebrew National hot dogs). And, if you haven't seen the brilliant fielding and selfless batting of Ichiro Suzuki, you haven't seen baseball as an art form.
A nice place to follow the games is on the Major League Baseball section of the well-designed Sports Networks site, where you can see plenty of game info absolutely free: Previews, Matchups, Lineups, a wonderful narrative Log, a Wrap, and the Box Score.
For tickets, try the official Mariners site, which will lead you to TicketMaster, or, for good seats, go to the Mariners section of Stub Hub where you can pick up tickets that season ticket holders are selling. The closer you get to game day, the cheaper the ticket prices.
Sunday, July 18, 2004
10 good things this weekend
1. Free lunch. I had lunch at a local breakfast/sandwich place, family owned. When I went to pay, the fellow at the register asked me how long I'd been a customer. "Twenty years," I said. He smiled and said "I thought so," and said that many years ago, when he'd been working on the kitchen weekends and learning the business from his uncle, he'd seen me jump up from breakfast and bus tables to help a swamped waitress. Now he owns the place--and he wouldn't let me pay for my lunch!
2. Free beret. Every summer a 60-something woman who lives a few blocks from us has a huge yard sale. It's very cool, and a little scary, because it's obvious she has a house just overflowing with items: Vases, boxes, candleholders, baskets, rugs, kitchen items, etc. The sale is on tables all over her backyard, amidst a garden with beautiful flowers, shrubs, and vines. At the back of the garden is a shabby chic garden shed with strange metal items hung all over the exterior and all sorts of treasures inside. It's clear she'll never get rid of it all, no matter how many yard sales she has. I bought a hooked rug, and then noticed a purple sequined beret. She went in the garden shed, got me a mirror, and we agreed the beret was just right. And she insisted on giving it to me! I felt like I was being officially initiated into the cult of Crazy Old Bats. It could be worse. I could become one of those uptight old gals with astroturf on the porch stair, black wrought-iron railings, plastic ducks on the lawn, and plastic pots with bright red geraniums and bright purple lobelia.
3. Kittens. The kittens, now named Zoe and Kaylee (after the characters in Firefly) are 11 weeks old. They have the sweetest dispositions, and want to curl up in your lap and get petted.
4. Salad. I bought two enormous bags of gourmet salad greens at the Cash and Carry for a party we had Thursday. Now we are living on leftover greens. They're so delicious you don't even need to put salad dressing on them--just a few drops of vinegar.
5. Quail eggs. Ken brought us a half-dozen quail eggs Thursday. I can hardly wait to make French toast.
6. Karam's garlic sauce. While planning a huge salad for a potluck this evening (those salad greens!) I remembered Karam's garlic sauce. Fortunately, the QFC still carries it. Outrageous stuff. I used it, tempered half and half with vinaigrette, as the dressing for a Greek salad.
7. The storage locker. Every time I visit our storage locker and imagine all the stuff in there (30 boxes of Stanglware, a trunk full of vintage comics, the original boxes for all our computer gear, a dozen framed paintings we don't want on our walls, and extra pieces of our vinyl flooring, marmoleum, and Corian) cluttering up the garage instead, I want to get down on my knees and bless the person who invented storage lockers.
8. My husband. Who let me weasel out of going to the potluck this evening.
9. SF collections. So I can read without getting so wrapped up in a full-length novel that I stay up until 2 a.m.
10. Sheba, our deaf white cat. She has stopped attacking the next door neighbors' cat. The means we can now let her outside without hearing the bloodcurdling screams of her victim--and the victim's owners.
2. Free beret. Every summer a 60-something woman who lives a few blocks from us has a huge yard sale. It's very cool, and a little scary, because it's obvious she has a house just overflowing with items: Vases, boxes, candleholders, baskets, rugs, kitchen items, etc. The sale is on tables all over her backyard, amidst a garden with beautiful flowers, shrubs, and vines. At the back of the garden is a shabby chic garden shed with strange metal items hung all over the exterior and all sorts of treasures inside. It's clear she'll never get rid of it all, no matter how many yard sales she has. I bought a hooked rug, and then noticed a purple sequined beret. She went in the garden shed, got me a mirror, and we agreed the beret was just right. And she insisted on giving it to me! I felt like I was being officially initiated into the cult of Crazy Old Bats. It could be worse. I could become one of those uptight old gals with astroturf on the porch stair, black wrought-iron railings, plastic ducks on the lawn, and plastic pots with bright red geraniums and bright purple lobelia.
3. Kittens. The kittens, now named Zoe and Kaylee (after the characters in Firefly) are 11 weeks old. They have the sweetest dispositions, and want to curl up in your lap and get petted.
4. Salad. I bought two enormous bags of gourmet salad greens at the Cash and Carry for a party we had Thursday. Now we are living on leftover greens. They're so delicious you don't even need to put salad dressing on them--just a few drops of vinegar.
5. Quail eggs. Ken brought us a half-dozen quail eggs Thursday. I can hardly wait to make French toast.
6. Karam's garlic sauce. While planning a huge salad for a potluck this evening (those salad greens!) I remembered Karam's garlic sauce. Fortunately, the QFC still carries it. Outrageous stuff. I used it, tempered half and half with vinaigrette, as the dressing for a Greek salad.
7. The storage locker. Every time I visit our storage locker and imagine all the stuff in there (30 boxes of Stanglware, a trunk full of vintage comics, the original boxes for all our computer gear, a dozen framed paintings we don't want on our walls, and extra pieces of our vinyl flooring, marmoleum, and Corian) cluttering up the garage instead, I want to get down on my knees and bless the person who invented storage lockers.
8. My husband. Who let me weasel out of going to the potluck this evening.
9. SF collections. So I can read without getting so wrapped up in a full-length novel that I stay up until 2 a.m.
10. Sheba, our deaf white cat. She has stopped attacking the next door neighbors' cat. The means we can now let her outside without hearing the bloodcurdling screams of her victim--and the victim's owners.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
Need DayDoubler for OS X
A useful Mac utility called DayDoubler was mentioned in the MailBITS section of a 1994 issue of TidBITS. Does anyone know if it's now available for Mac OS X? I didn't try it at the time, but I think I could use it now. Here's the description of the original version:
I tried contacting the fellow who reviewed the product for TidBITS, but mail to his halycon.com email address bounced.
DayDoubler is a new product from Connectrix that gives you those extra hours in each day that we've been asking for. Using sophisticated time mapping and compression techniques to double the number of hours in the day, DayDoubler gives you access to 48 hours each day. With the shareware hack MaxDay, you can easily stretch your day to 60, 72, or even 96 hours! Connectrix warns that at the higher numbers DayDoubler becomes less stable and that you run the risk of a temporal crash in which everything from the beginning of time to the present would come crashing down around you, sucking you into a black hole.
Should this occur, be sure to reboot with the shift key down.
I tried contacting the fellow who reviewed the product for TidBITS, but mail to his halycon.com email address bounced.
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
Turquoise moth (test)
Every night there is a small bright turquoise moth in our bathroom, visiting our cat, who seems very excited to see it. I searched the internet for information on turquoise moths, but all the information was about mottled, pale turquoise moths. This one is plain, bright, turquoise--verging on a blue-green.
Any ideas?
Any ideas?
Sunday, July 04, 2004
The revolt of the machines
I'll bet there's a "law" of some sort describing the tendency of household appliances to malfunction in groups of threes. I've always referred to it as "the revolt of the machines," and it seems to happen every couple of years. It's happening right now: First it was the coffeemaker (flooding); then the toaster oven (powering on and off at will); and finally the ancient fax machine (choking when I tried to fax a multi-page fax).
It was only after replacing the fax machine and discovering the problem was not with the old machine but with my employer's fancy fax server (it was accepting the first page of our faxed expense reports, then cutting off the connection) that I came to the chilling realization: Somewhere in the house, there is a third appliance getting ready to fail.
While ironing in the laundry room tonight I heard a tell-tale screeching from the washing machine. It sounds as though a belt or some such is in dire distress. Oh no! That machine has got to hold out until the gas company runs a line to our house in the next month or so and I can get a washer/dryer set with a gas dryer.
Maybe the cheap clock radio would like to sacrifice itself?
It was only after replacing the fax machine and discovering the problem was not with the old machine but with my employer's fancy fax server (it was accepting the first page of our faxed expense reports, then cutting off the connection) that I came to the chilling realization: Somewhere in the house, there is a third appliance getting ready to fail.
While ironing in the laundry room tonight I heard a tell-tale screeching from the washing machine. It sounds as though a belt or some such is in dire distress. Oh no! That machine has got to hold out until the gas company runs a line to our house in the next month or so and I can get a washer/dryer set with a gas dryer.
Maybe the cheap clock radio would like to sacrifice itself?
Wednesday, June 30, 2004
Why Senn stinks (hint: look at her record)
Attorney General candidate Deborah Senn says all the right things about being the consumer's friend in government, but try turning down her blaring audio and taking a look at her record as state Insurance Commissioner. She managed to chase most major health insurance providers right out of the state of Washington and virtually eliminated any competition among the few surviving institutions. For consumers in many parts of the state, there isn't even a choice of healthcare insurance plans any more--it's one-size-fits-all, and the fit is tight and skimpy.
Seattle Times columnist Bruce Ramsey does a great job of analyzing Senn's modus operandi on today's editorial page. I urge you to read it if you plan to vote for an Attorney General candidate this year.
Seattle Times columnist Bruce Ramsey does a great job of analyzing Senn's modus operandi on today's editorial page. I urge you to read it if you plan to vote for an Attorney General candidate this year.
Friday, June 25, 2004
Hot...on the trail
My mother brought me the July 5 issue of The Nation because she thought I'd like the cover (that's an essay in itself--my mom's criteria for judging things) and I started to leaf through it. "Sex and the Stepford Wife" by Katha Pollitt is a real treat. Pollitt is up there with Calvin Trillin as one of the most stylish polemicists around, and this essay is an absolute gem. Her light touch softens you up, as she describes the shop windows in upper West Side Manhattan ("where the standard femine garb has for decades been Hot Sicilian Widow") sudden being filled with "frilly getups straight out of a Stepford shoppe."
Then Pollitt goes in for the kill. "Women have learned to describe evereything they do, no matter how apparently conformist, submissive, self-destructive or humiliating, as a personal choice that cannot be criticized because person choice is what feminism is all about. Women have become incredibly clever at explaining these choices in ways that barely mention social pressures or male desires."
While I agree with her, I also feel strongly that she's seeing things through an upper West Side, or at least an East Coast, lens. Out here in Seattle there is no Hot Sicilian Widow look on the hiking trails or at the home improvement stores—but there are plenty of women, and far more than you'd have found there 40 years ago.
BTW, have you checked out the game all the Democrats are playing? Sign up (free) to play Republican Survivor.
Then Pollitt goes in for the kill. "Women have learned to describe evereything they do, no matter how apparently conformist, submissive, self-destructive or humiliating, as a personal choice that cannot be criticized because person choice is what feminism is all about. Women have become incredibly clever at explaining these choices in ways that barely mention social pressures or male desires."
While I agree with her, I also feel strongly that she's seeing things through an upper West Side, or at least an East Coast, lens. Out here in Seattle there is no Hot Sicilian Widow look on the hiking trails or at the home improvement stores—but there are plenty of women, and far more than you'd have found there 40 years ago.
BTW, have you checked out the game all the Democrats are playing? Sign up (free) to play Republican Survivor.
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
Getting (rid of) your goat
My friend Barclay sent me this excerpt from a recent posting on eBay:
I think most of us have a green goat or two of our own around the place. Mine is a rooster. Specifically, a Restoration Hardware silverplated rooster cocktail shaker someone gave us as a wedding gift. A few years ago, I was rummaging around in the basement, preparing for a yard sale, and found the cocktail shaker, still in its original box. "Do we want to keep this?" I asked Brady. "What is it?" he asked. I explained, and for a moment we both tried our damndest to imagine that Bertie Wooster might come over for dinner and we'd need it to make martinis. No luck.
The silver rooster cocktail shaker was sitting happily on the table at the yard sale when my sister-in-law's car pulled up. A few moments later I noticed she had picked up the shaker and was waving it around under my husband's nose. Since there was no gin it it, and it didn't seem, from her tone, that she was planning to buy it, I figured we were about to find out where the rooster had come from.
Rats! Back it went into the house, and into our little china cabinet--where it has yet to be used for anything. Though my current plans are to migrate it gradually back down into the basement.
Featured by my auction house is a ART DECO World War II STANGL Goat Ram Unicorn looking vase . THe history of this vase is that it was in my grandmother's house since the War, and my father says he always remembered seeing it around. Now this is what happened. When my father married my mother, the mother in law, Evelyn, gave the green goat to my mother, Hilda. But Hilda always hated the green goat but knew since it was her husband's mother that she was stuck with it because every time Evvie came to visit she was asking where she was placing the green goat unicorn in the house. So Hilda always had to have it displayed in some fashion around the house, and it served as like a migratory goat all over my mother's house since she could not throw it out.
So you are asking why is it on Ebay?
Well, now that Evvie is up in New Jersey, and now she is in an assisted living facility, my mother is now free and in the clear to get rid of the goat. She is cleaning out the house of all the stuff she could not stand but which she did not want to offend Evvie. WE ARE IN THE CLEAR!!! EVVIE WON'T FIND OUT!!
I think most of us have a green goat or two of our own around the place. Mine is a rooster. Specifically, a Restoration Hardware silverplated rooster cocktail shaker someone gave us as a wedding gift. A few years ago, I was rummaging around in the basement, preparing for a yard sale, and found the cocktail shaker, still in its original box. "Do we want to keep this?" I asked Brady. "What is it?" he asked. I explained, and for a moment we both tried our damndest to imagine that Bertie Wooster might come over for dinner and we'd need it to make martinis. No luck.
The silver rooster cocktail shaker was sitting happily on the table at the yard sale when my sister-in-law's car pulled up. A few moments later I noticed she had picked up the shaker and was waving it around under my husband's nose. Since there was no gin it it, and it didn't seem, from her tone, that she was planning to buy it, I figured we were about to find out where the rooster had come from.
Rats! Back it went into the house, and into our little china cabinet--where it has yet to be used for anything. Though my current plans are to migrate it gradually back down into the basement.
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