Man convicted in fatal beating of Woodinville teacher
This piece of scum could be out crawling around in the world again in twenty years? How the fuck is that justice?
Monday, June 24, 2013
The Solstice Parade
Every June the town of Eastsound holds its annual Solstice Parade to celebrate art, community, and the start of summer. The procession follows the same route every year, setting off from Odd Fellows Hall down a block of Main Street, turning right onto North Beach Road and eventually curling its way past the farmers market where live music kick off the dancing festivities at the stage on the Village Green.
This year's theme was "Creatures," a term to be interpreted loosely, I suppose, as one boy, accompanied down the street by a flamboyant Elvis impersonator, did little more than stuff his shirt with a pillow. His lackluster effort notwithstanding, this was one rip-roarin' island gaiety. There were belly dancers and stilt-walkers, wagons covered with plastic sunflowers and carrying tiny children dressed all in yellow and waving meekly to the crowd. One man thought the best way to usher in summer was to don a disturbing white mask that looked like the grinning-like-a-buffoon love child of Guy Fawkes and a Kabuki dancer. There were wigs and tie-dye and a guy in a chicken suit. A man in black and yellow with a papier mache bee stinger rode a bike while carrying a kitten that looked to be about four weeks old, poor thing. You name it, there it was.
Other noteworthy sights:
This year's theme was "Creatures," a term to be interpreted loosely, I suppose, as one boy, accompanied down the street by a flamboyant Elvis impersonator, did little more than stuff his shirt with a pillow. His lackluster effort notwithstanding, this was one rip-roarin' island gaiety. There were belly dancers and stilt-walkers, wagons covered with plastic sunflowers and carrying tiny children dressed all in yellow and waving meekly to the crowd. One man thought the best way to usher in summer was to don a disturbing white mask that looked like the grinning-like-a-buffoon love child of Guy Fawkes and a Kabuki dancer. There were wigs and tie-dye and a guy in a chicken suit. A man in black and yellow with a papier mache bee stinger rode a bike while carrying a kitten that looked to be about four weeks old, poor thing. You name it, there it was.
Other noteworthy sights:
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| My lovely and fabulous coworker Penny leading the parade. |
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| The woman next to me couldn't get enough of this lady in the blue. She kept trying to call her over to have a picture taken with her teenaged son. Poor guy. |
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| Of course, it's never summer in the Pacific Northwest without a little rain. |
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| Incredibly creative dragon made from hula hoops connected by strips of fabric. |
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| The dragon made by the Salmonberry School kids. (And can we talk about how precious it is that it's called the Salmonberry School?) |
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| Senor Sasquatch must have been on the verge of heat stroke. |
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| Creepy-ass "Hugging Sun" is a Solstice Parade staple every year. It's a special kind of horrifying when a giant gloved hand is wagging in your face and a disembodied voice booms, "Any more hugs?" |
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| Elvis and inexplicably fat child with sunglasses. |
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| According to Penny, "those women have been flower pots for, like, twenty years." |
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| Bees on bikes: because they weren't obnoxious enough on their own. |
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| These guys were my favorites. There were about six of them and they traveled in rows of two. Every few seconds they would throw up their arms and shout, "Wooooo!" like they were on a roller coaster. |
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Dumb Ways to Die
My friend Meaghin recently sent me this PSA from Melbourne Metro urging passengers to be safe around trains. I'm not kidding when I say this is the catchiest, most hilarious PSA I have ever seen. Have a look-see:
I have been wandering around my apartment singing "Dumb ways to die-ie-ie, so many dumb ways to die!" like a crazy person. I'm worried about my chances of making it through two straight days in the shop without scaring away all the customers.
I have been wandering around my apartment singing "Dumb ways to die-ie-ie, so many dumb ways to die!" like a crazy person. I'm worried about my chances of making it through two straight days in the shop without scaring away all the customers.
Monday, June 17, 2013
Well, THAT'S Not a Goose
Yesterday evening I had just finished closing up the shop and was heading out the door when I heard a deafening squawk from out in the yard. Those effing Canada geese, I thought. Damn nuisances, as my good friend Katie would say. I closed the door to the glaze room and quickly scanned the yard for the intruder. There was another squawk, louder this time, and more discernible. I looked up and found this:
Oh yes. That would indeed be a peacock. I had looked skyward to see this iridescent pheasant just chillin' in the branches of an evergreen tree and all I could think to say was, "Whoa."
I ran up the steps to my apartment, grabbed my camera, and went out onto my balcony to take pictures. I heard a door close and looked across the driveway where Syd had also come out onto her balcony.
"Maybe it's some kind of vulture?" she shouted.
"If that's a vulture," I shouted back, "that's one incredibly flamboyant vulture." I took a few more pictures and then something occurred to me. "I didn't even know peacocks could fly!" I yelled. Idiot. Everyone probably knew that except me.
"Neither did I!" God bless that woman.
Syd has neighbors down the road who are in the process of starting a farm. A couple weeks ago their dog showed up at the shop and Syd had to call them to pick her up. Last week I was in the packing room and looked out the window to see a goat moseying down the driveway. Three minutes later I heard Syd upstairs (the packing room is in her basement) pick up the phone and say, "Hi, it's Syd. Um...I have your goat." Along the driveway the neighbors have built a chicken coop populated entirely by hens with a thirst for freedom and a no-guts-no-glory philosophy on life. I'll be on runs and see them darting across the driveway or hunched in the shade of a shrub just outside their their enclosure, admiring their own escapes. On top of all that, yesterday Syd told me that she had been on her way into town when she encountered several sheep in the driveway near the road and wound up herding them back through the gap in the fence by driving behind them at two miles per hour. In case it's not abundantly clear, these neighbors, though I'm sure they're delightful people, are fairly incompetent farmers. This is all to say that when Syd and I saw the peacock in the tree with the voice box turned up to eleven, we looked at each other on our respective balconies and one thought went through us.
"Do your neighbors have peacocks?" I asked.
"Let me make a phone call!" she called back.
The whole time we'd been outside the peacock had been squawking and craning its neck as if trying to decode a line of hieroglyphics carved into the tree trunk. All of a sudden we heard another squawk coming from the other side of Syd's house. We headed to the top of the driveway where, through the fence and the trees, we saw this:
The male and female were engaged in the world's most obnoxious game of Marco Polo.
"We need to call the Peacock Hotline!" Syd laughed.
I nodded. "The one time in the history of the universe that anyone will ever need that service."
At this point we had learned that the peacock did not, in fact, belong to the neighbors, but that the neighbor was on his way over because he didn't believe that there was a peacock in the tree.
"So how do we...what exactly do we...do?" I asked.
Syd shrugged. "Maybe they'll shut up if we go inside."
Because we had nothing else to try, we headed for the indoors. I was almost to the base of my stairs and Syd had just closed the kitchen door behind her when the second peacock burst out of the trees, flapped its enormous wings once, twice, and glided gracefully to a branch near its mate.
I watched them for several minutes, hoping to catch a heartfelt reunion, but these two birds were boring. There they remained on their separate branches while I changed my clothes, and there they remained when I left for my run. When I returned, the second peacock had disappeared. By the time I got out of the shower the first one had vanished too.
Maybe Syd had called the Peacock Hotline after all.
Oh yes. That would indeed be a peacock. I had looked skyward to see this iridescent pheasant just chillin' in the branches of an evergreen tree and all I could think to say was, "Whoa."
I ran up the steps to my apartment, grabbed my camera, and went out onto my balcony to take pictures. I heard a door close and looked across the driveway where Syd had also come out onto her balcony.
"Maybe it's some kind of vulture?" she shouted.
"If that's a vulture," I shouted back, "that's one incredibly flamboyant vulture." I took a few more pictures and then something occurred to me. "I didn't even know peacocks could fly!" I yelled. Idiot. Everyone probably knew that except me.
"Neither did I!" God bless that woman.
Syd has neighbors down the road who are in the process of starting a farm. A couple weeks ago their dog showed up at the shop and Syd had to call them to pick her up. Last week I was in the packing room and looked out the window to see a goat moseying down the driveway. Three minutes later I heard Syd upstairs (the packing room is in her basement) pick up the phone and say, "Hi, it's Syd. Um...I have your goat." Along the driveway the neighbors have built a chicken coop populated entirely by hens with a thirst for freedom and a no-guts-no-glory philosophy on life. I'll be on runs and see them darting across the driveway or hunched in the shade of a shrub just outside their their enclosure, admiring their own escapes. On top of all that, yesterday Syd told me that she had been on her way into town when she encountered several sheep in the driveway near the road and wound up herding them back through the gap in the fence by driving behind them at two miles per hour. In case it's not abundantly clear, these neighbors, though I'm sure they're delightful people, are fairly incompetent farmers. This is all to say that when Syd and I saw the peacock in the tree with the voice box turned up to eleven, we looked at each other on our respective balconies and one thought went through us.
"Do your neighbors have peacocks?" I asked.
"Let me make a phone call!" she called back.
The whole time we'd been outside the peacock had been squawking and craning its neck as if trying to decode a line of hieroglyphics carved into the tree trunk. All of a sudden we heard another squawk coming from the other side of Syd's house. We headed to the top of the driveway where, through the fence and the trees, we saw this:
The male and female were engaged in the world's most obnoxious game of Marco Polo.
"We need to call the Peacock Hotline!" Syd laughed.
I nodded. "The one time in the history of the universe that anyone will ever need that service."
At this point we had learned that the peacock did not, in fact, belong to the neighbors, but that the neighbor was on his way over because he didn't believe that there was a peacock in the tree.
"So how do we...what exactly do we...do?" I asked.
Syd shrugged. "Maybe they'll shut up if we go inside."
Because we had nothing else to try, we headed for the indoors. I was almost to the base of my stairs and Syd had just closed the kitchen door behind her when the second peacock burst out of the trees, flapped its enormous wings once, twice, and glided gracefully to a branch near its mate.
I watched them for several minutes, hoping to catch a heartfelt reunion, but these two birds were boring. There they remained on their separate branches while I changed my clothes, and there they remained when I left for my run. When I returned, the second peacock had disappeared. By the time I got out of the shower the first one had vanished too.
Maybe Syd had called the Peacock Hotline after all.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Cleaning Out My Closet: Orcas Edition #1
I was working in the shop last week when a young woman, probably about my age but I'm horrible at guessing age, picked out a bowl and brought it over to me. I reached for my pen and started writing the receipt. I'd barely finished writing the date when the woman exclaimed, "Oh, you're left-handed!"
Does the planet's entire population of left-handers vacation on Orcas Island? I wondered. What I said, though, was "Yes. Yes I am."
"I am too!" the girl squealed, as though this were the best news she'd received all week. Then she stared at me so purposefully that I looked down to see if I'd accidentally spilled something on my shirt. "What's your name?" she asked.
Is this... I thought. ...Are you hitting on me?
"Um," I answered, "Olivia?" I felt like I needed to ask, in case she knew something I didn't.
"Does your last name start with an O?"
"Um...no?"
"I ask," she said, "because my boyfriend and I have started a club of left-handed people whose first and last name start with the same letter." She then proceeded to name off a string of around ten people whom she'd already recruited--a merry band of alliterative left-handers collected during her travels.
"That's something," I replied, smiling and judging the shit out of her while simultaneously wishing I'd thought of it first.
My mom has been on the island for the past week doing firings in the gas kiln at Crow Valley Pottery with her potter friend Sharon. Because Sharon and her husband Mike have a guest room in their house that my mom adores--seriously, I think she loves this room more than she loves me--she always stays with them when she's here, nevermind that her daughter is also here, all alone and starved for affection in her apartment in the woods.
The other night I went over to Mike and Sharon's house for dinner. As we were preparing the meal the conversation turned, as most of my conversations do, to literature. I casually (by which I mean I had to work to hide the desperation in my voice) mentioned that the Orcas Island Public Library does not house any of the Anne of Green Gables series. "We have it!" Sharon exclaimed, and she led me into the basement and motioned toward the bookcase. "Take your pick."
It would be an understatement to say that this bookshelf was magical. Some of the books, Sharon explained, had belonged to her grandfather when he was a child. Dusty, yellowed hardbacks of Treasure Island and Robinson Crusoe, entire collections of Rudyard Kipling and George Eliot with red spines embossed with gold. It was incredible.
"I'm going back upstairs," Sharon said. "Take your time."
I was so mesmerized I hardly heard her. "You probably won't see me again," I said as she turned to head up the stairs. I heard her open the door to the kitchen and announce to my mom, "I just showed Livvy the books." My mother, bless her heart, didn't miss a beat. "You probably won't see her again," she said.
For the past few months I've been trying to remember a specific word that has been agonizingly elusive. I wanted to use it the other night, but it was as though it had disappeared entirely from my vocabulary, leaving behind nothing more than the clue that it probably, but not definitely, started with a P. I lost close to an hour of sleep searching the dusty shelves of my brain for that damn word, but all my mind kept giving me was "presumptuous" and "precocious," both of which I know and neither of which were even close to being in the vicinity of right.
The next morning I rode my bike over to Crow Valley Pottery to visit my mom and Sharon while they glazed. "I've been trying to think of this word," I told them, "that describes someone who tries to impress people with their intelligence, who tries to act way smarter than they actually are."
My mom, who I thought would shout it out immediately and thus end my months-long misery, stared at me blank-faced.
"Oh!" Sharon exclaimed, "I know exactly the word you're looking for...but I can't think of it!"
I asked Michael, the owner of Crow Valley, and he apologetically offered "pompous" and "poser."
Dejected, I sat down in the grass with my book, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, and tried to ignore the word that was both everywhere and nowhere. I'd been having issues with the book, as I'm sure those of you who have read it will have also experienced. It caters to the highly intellectual--it is, after all, a Pulitzer-winner--and its elitism irritated me. This book, I thought, is just so goddamn pretentious. PRETENTIOUS! THAT'S IT!
"Pretentious!" I shouted, and rolled onto my back in relief.
"Ohhhhh," my mom and Sharon replied in unison. "Of course!"
"Pretentious pretentious pretentious," I said. "I should get that tattooed on my hand so I don't forget it again.
My mom laughed. "Most people get tattoos of skulls or hearts with women's names inside them," she said. "My daughter gets vocabulary."
Does the planet's entire population of left-handers vacation on Orcas Island? I wondered. What I said, though, was "Yes. Yes I am."
"I am too!" the girl squealed, as though this were the best news she'd received all week. Then she stared at me so purposefully that I looked down to see if I'd accidentally spilled something on my shirt. "What's your name?" she asked.
Is this... I thought. ...Are you hitting on me?
"Um," I answered, "Olivia?" I felt like I needed to ask, in case she knew something I didn't.
"Does your last name start with an O?"
"Um...no?"
"I ask," she said, "because my boyfriend and I have started a club of left-handed people whose first and last name start with the same letter." She then proceeded to name off a string of around ten people whom she'd already recruited--a merry band of alliterative left-handers collected during her travels.
"That's something," I replied, smiling and judging the shit out of her while simultaneously wishing I'd thought of it first.
My mom has been on the island for the past week doing firings in the gas kiln at Crow Valley Pottery with her potter friend Sharon. Because Sharon and her husband Mike have a guest room in their house that my mom adores--seriously, I think she loves this room more than she loves me--she always stays with them when she's here, nevermind that her daughter is also here, all alone and starved for affection in her apartment in the woods.
The other night I went over to Mike and Sharon's house for dinner. As we were preparing the meal the conversation turned, as most of my conversations do, to literature. I casually (by which I mean I had to work to hide the desperation in my voice) mentioned that the Orcas Island Public Library does not house any of the Anne of Green Gables series. "We have it!" Sharon exclaimed, and she led me into the basement and motioned toward the bookcase. "Take your pick."
It would be an understatement to say that this bookshelf was magical. Some of the books, Sharon explained, had belonged to her grandfather when he was a child. Dusty, yellowed hardbacks of Treasure Island and Robinson Crusoe, entire collections of Rudyard Kipling and George Eliot with red spines embossed with gold. It was incredible.
"I'm going back upstairs," Sharon said. "Take your time."
I was so mesmerized I hardly heard her. "You probably won't see me again," I said as she turned to head up the stairs. I heard her open the door to the kitchen and announce to my mom, "I just showed Livvy the books." My mother, bless her heart, didn't miss a beat. "You probably won't see her again," she said.
For the past few months I've been trying to remember a specific word that has been agonizingly elusive. I wanted to use it the other night, but it was as though it had disappeared entirely from my vocabulary, leaving behind nothing more than the clue that it probably, but not definitely, started with a P. I lost close to an hour of sleep searching the dusty shelves of my brain for that damn word, but all my mind kept giving me was "presumptuous" and "precocious," both of which I know and neither of which were even close to being in the vicinity of right.
The next morning I rode my bike over to Crow Valley Pottery to visit my mom and Sharon while they glazed. "I've been trying to think of this word," I told them, "that describes someone who tries to impress people with their intelligence, who tries to act way smarter than they actually are."
My mom, who I thought would shout it out immediately and thus end my months-long misery, stared at me blank-faced.
"Oh!" Sharon exclaimed, "I know exactly the word you're looking for...but I can't think of it!"
I asked Michael, the owner of Crow Valley, and he apologetically offered "pompous" and "poser."
Dejected, I sat down in the grass with my book, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, and tried to ignore the word that was both everywhere and nowhere. I'd been having issues with the book, as I'm sure those of you who have read it will have also experienced. It caters to the highly intellectual--it is, after all, a Pulitzer-winner--and its elitism irritated me. This book, I thought, is just so goddamn pretentious. PRETENTIOUS! THAT'S IT!
"Pretentious!" I shouted, and rolled onto my back in relief.
"Ohhhhh," my mom and Sharon replied in unison. "Of course!"
"Pretentious pretentious pretentious," I said. "I should get that tattooed on my hand so I don't forget it again.
My mom laughed. "Most people get tattoos of skulls or hearts with women's names inside them," she said. "My daughter gets vocabulary."
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Turtleback Mountain
Most mornings when I wake up the sky and the water are the same shade of gunmetal grey. Waldron Island and Vancouver to the northwest are the only indications of where the clouds end and the waves begin. It takes a few hours, but by the time the shop opens at 10 the sun has burned its way through the fog.
A few days ago I woke up to unspoiled blue. I got dressed, ate my breakfast, watched my requisite episode of Planet Earth, then pulled my bike out of the basement and rode to the south trailhead of Turtleback Mountain. It's a breathtaking ride, following Crow Valley Road along the upper lip of the valley past rustic inns and pastures with grazing cattle, past roads with names like Plum Tree Farm and Honeysuckle Lane. Turn right at the West Sound Cafe and you curl around the eastern edge of Massacre Bay (which was clearly named by someone profoundly disenchanted--perhaps the neglected, unaccomplished twin of the person who christened the abovementioned roads). The trailhead sits at the top of Wildrose Lane. I parked my bike, not even bothering to lock it to the stand, and headed up the mountain.
This was my day:
A few days ago I woke up to unspoiled blue. I got dressed, ate my breakfast, watched my requisite episode of Planet Earth, then pulled my bike out of the basement and rode to the south trailhead of Turtleback Mountain. It's a breathtaking ride, following Crow Valley Road along the upper lip of the valley past rustic inns and pastures with grazing cattle, past roads with names like Plum Tree Farm and Honeysuckle Lane. Turn right at the West Sound Cafe and you curl around the eastern edge of Massacre Bay (which was clearly named by someone profoundly disenchanted--perhaps the neglected, unaccomplished twin of the person who christened the abovementioned roads). The trailhead sits at the top of Wildrose Lane. I parked my bike, not even bothering to lock it to the stand, and headed up the mountain.
This was my day:
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| West Sound |
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| West Sound Cafe |
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| Turtleback Mountain trail |
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| Casey, I couldn't help but notice that we don't currently live on this farm. Can you explain this to me? |
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| Looking west from Ship Peak |
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| The San Juan Archipelago from the top of Turtleback |
Monday, June 3, 2013
My Days in Photographs
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| "FREEDOM!" |
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| Canadia at 10pm |
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| My fixer-upper |
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| This is Emmy. She doesn't like me very much. Probably because her name's not actually Emmy. |
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