Category Archives: Photography

Merry Christmas To All!

Season’s Greetings!

Our top 10 favorite Christmas moments of 2009:

Corporate Christmas party, dining at the foot of the mondo kelp forest in the Monterey Bay Aquarium (outside the glass, not in)
Running through the entire length of the Vancouver Airport in clogs at the insistence of a timetelling-challenged ticket agent: the flight didn’t board for another half hour after our sweaty arrival at the gate. The good news? This gave us a chance to practice self-restraint (we didn’t yell at anybody), thereby adding a last-minute check mark on the “good” side of Santa’s ledger
Impromptu gifting over dinner of my maternal great-Granny Lane’s fountain pen to Rick and my dad’s lifetime fountain pen to me, the same one he used to make entries in his meticulously maintained flight logs
Lunch at Sandi’s: fabulous squash and carrot soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, the best on Vancouver Island, and I don’t even like squash
Walking down the quaint 5th Street of Courtenay: a Dickens village meets circa 1960s Main Street in all its holiday splendor, including live Shih Tzus in the shoe store window, up-and-coming Joni Mitchells in the local coffee shop, and a cheery “Merry Christmas!” from complete strangers as we passed by
Christmas carolling with the rellies, complete with Rick’s magical guitar and an ensemble of old white dudes with decent rhythmn on wood percussion frogs, shaker eggs, a dolphin clacker, and a set of silver serving spoons. Who knew Mom could moon walk?
Christmas Eve stroll of the neighborhood lights after the clan left with Dad and Rick (do Chevy Chase AND Tim Allen both live here?)
Delightful Christmas gifts, including matching “Go Canada” Olympic touques and an incredible queen-sized quilt, hand made by a team of loved ones, including one of the top quilters in Canada, Aunt Joan
Chatting with loved ones far away in the afternoon sun on the front deck, and hearing all were calm, all were bright. (Well, most of them are reasonablybright, except for that unfortunate drainpipe-climbing incident, but we’re just not talking about that. It’s Christmas.
Blessings too abundant to count, too rich to expect, and too sweet to bake with

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good flight (wherever your holiday travels may take you).

Cribbage

Rick has discovered two new delights in the past couple of weeks: cribbage and eBay.

This is how we came to be the proud owners of a vintage cribbage board this week.

While technically not a Christmas gift, it felt like one when we opened up the box.

The box has a gently munged corner and a number of scratches indicative of a well-loved game, like the soft I-love-life lines around Granny’s eyes. It also has a substantial yet slightly beaten up gold foil finish and a patina that made me think of the The Wise Men and their original Christmas gifts. It unleashed one of those precious insta-Christmas moments.

Sweet.

The board itself is a beautifully crafted piece of hard wood (maple?), almost of musical instrument quality. The grain is pronounced and thoughtfully positioned. It’s got a good heft in your hand, and the obligatory plastic red and green pegs are robust and slide in and out of the holes with ease.

As fans of good industrial design (see a previous rant,), we are Rick and Kathy, and we approve of this cribbage board.

The longer we studied it, the better it got.

For reasons I won’t go into here, I have spent a surprising amount of time lately contemplating the life and times of Wile E. Coyote. Aside from his arch enemy, gravity*, Wile E.’s greatest downfall was his unbridled passion for buying hope from eBay, except for him, it took the form of ordering the latest crack-pot invention from the ACME catalog company.

Imagine my delight! Which quickly shifted to “Um, the parallels here are kinda freaky.”

Rick… eBay… Wile E… ACME… Coincidence? I think not.

But wait! There’s more!

Time slowed.

I saw a rabbit in a top hat with a large stop watch scurry by, muttering, “I’m going to be late!”

Are you kidding me?! All those dehydrated boulders and rocket-powered roller skates had come from the ol’ Home and Native Land all along? Why don’t they teach Canadian kids the important stuff in school?

Like, spelling, for instance…

The distinction between “compliment” and “complement” is, evidently, a tricky one to master. Or maybe it’s simply a case of shifting spelling convention over time. Let’s just go with that explanation, shall we?

Once the weirdness died down, we took a moment to enjoy the olde tyme instruction booklet.

Rick had bought a 157-page tome on the subject a few weeks ago from Amazon (another of his addictions passions) by one J. T. Best, entitled “Cribbage Simplified: Beginner to Grandmaster.”

It turns out that Mr. Best, while incredibly knowledgeable about all things cribbage, has a real pickle stuck where the sun don’t shine about the game and a dangerously inflated sense of self importance. The short except below will clarify:

“Nuff said.

I’ll bet J. T. Best can pull off one mean “harrumph!” when he gets up a good head of steam.

I’ll also bet he’s a royal pain in the poutine in a before-dinner cribbage game.

Thus, the slim volume that accompanied the game was a relief. Plus, we loved the vintage fonts and the nifty tag line supplied by the Lowe game company.

A few short paragraphs on the basic rules and order of play, a quick pour of the adult beverage of your choice, and you’re all set to engage in the prime directive of cribbage:

And so we did.

* The Road Runner is just Wile E’s straight man. I really don’t think there was much genuine animosity between the two, except for Wile E’s incessant pursuit with intent to consume, and the Road Runner getting off the taunting “beep beep” just before Wile E. plunges, yet again, over the cliff. I have a hunch that off-screen, they were pretty good golf buddies.

An Inside Glimpse: Where The Magic Happens

Okay, so there’s no original magic here today, but dang! What’s more exciting than to see where it would happen if there were?!

It’s been a hard week, what with navigating the new “how to prove you can pay for a house” rules, being brilliant at work, sleep deprivation, etc. Still… the guilt lingers that for this week’s blog, we got nothin’ except for this photo Rick snapped a few weeks ago. I came across it looking for photos of Cheeco*.

This is our, um, “office.” This is where we download photos, telecommute, connect to the internet when the damn wireless doesn’t work, store stuff we haven’t found a home for yet, and so on.

Here’s math I both understand and enjoy: if one computer is good, three are better. In fact, we have five computers and four mobile phones, and this is where the math breaks down. Nine computers are not better than one. I’m not sure what the tipping point is, exactly, but I may have found an answer here to why my eyes are burning more these days. I thought it was allergies.

Rick’s working on a new painting. You have NO IDEA how much fun this painting is. I want him to call it “Happy Bar Mitzvah, Bernie!”

Two old girls, each dozing in their separate universes: the one in black is remembering when she could shake her booty like those young kids on the dance floor.

The one in blue is concerned at the realization that her booty has gone totally numb, and is wondering when THE HELL she will be able to get out of there and peel off the damn girdle. Maybe look into those new Spanx “shapewear” items Mitzie (in black) is always blabbing on about.

The old guy has gone to bed (and possibly died in his sleep) but forgot to go home first. Mitzie is hoping he doesn’t drool on his cummerbund again.

I love crossword puzzles. I don’t actually do them, but I love how much forethought went into the naming of them: “Honey, what’s a four-letter word for “‘O patria mia,’ for example'”? These kinds of questions lead to cross words, often ending in “How TF should I know?!” Even worse, the habit (addiction?) leads to SOME people thinking it’s perfectly legitimate to use “crossword puzzle words” in Scrabble, for instance. (Who knew “ave” would actually be in the Canadian Oxford English Dictionary, dammit! I lost a turn over that challenge.)

But I digress. Crosswords are good for the brain and keep young men off the streets at night.

The fabulous game board behind the computer is one that Rick painted. It’s the playing surface for a game called Rummy Royal, which his grandfather used to enjoy with his Pabst Blue Ribbon beer (“PBRs”) and Lucky Strike cigarettes. One of Rick’s family members found a beaten up copy at a yard sale, too fragile to actually play, so Rick traced the game board, enlarged it, then hand-painted it on to a piece of masonite. He decoupaged on some European-style playing cards, added a coat of varnish to hold it all together, and voila… Bobs Yer Uncle!

Apparently, there is a betting element to the game, so in celebration of our international household, we scotch-taped both a Canadian one-dollar bill (hard to find these days, but one was unearthed from the zipper of a very old jacket) and a US dollar bill in the “pot” in the middle. And darn it, the first time we actually get around to playing, I’m going to win them both. Given my success (not) at Scrabble these days against my formidable opponent, I think we may be giving ol’ Rummy Royal a try soon.

Meanwhile, we have a huge, beautiful, sentimentally rich game board that unfortunately has no wall mounting option, so it sits behind our computers and leans against the wall. This works well, except for the odd time when the arms of the office chair got stuck under the desk and drove forcefully upwards when I dislodged my butt from the seat. This caused the board to bounce forward, knocking both Macs on their faces and scaring the hell out of the neighbors.

Did I mention we’re moving soon? Did I mention why? Well, never mind…

Of course, there is the obligatory mess of computer peripherals, cables, iPods, Elmer’s glue, Sharpies, etc. without which the obligatory mess simply would not exist.

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

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*Cheeco has been a defacto member of our family for almost fifteen years. A cross Shitzu-chihuahua mix, Cheeco was more than a pet for Sandi, my sister. Cheeco was a gift, and Sandi had to lay his poor little tired body down this week. Bye, Cheeco. You were a peach of a pooch.

Stingy Jack… and a Happy Halloween

Welcome to the holidays — that seasonal parade of mixed metaphors and symbols galore that begins when the leaves change color and ends when they return as tiny sprouts in the Spring.

A little of this and a little of that, and how else could it be?

People have been walking the earth for so many millennia and accumulated so many stories and beliefs along the way that no number of holidays could possibly contain them all. So they have to share. Santa Claus with the birth of Jesus. The Easter Bunny with the Resurrection. Cupid with restaurant reservations.

And then there’s Halloween. Celtic roots with a heaping tablespoon of modern commercialism, plus some religiosity v. paganism stirred in for good measure… oh, and lots of folklore for those who relish such diversions.

Like the tale of of Stingy Jack, a lazy yet shrewd drunkard who outwitted the devil on his way to immortality as the original Jack-o’-Lantern. As the story goes, Jack built quite a reputation for himself way back when as a deceiver, manipulator, and otherwise dreg of society. The Devil caught wind of Jack’s evil deeds and silver tongue and, envious of the rumors, he resolved to find out for himself whether or not Jack lived up to his vile reputation.

The two met and Jack ended up tricking and trapping the Devil. With the upper hand, Jack demanded that his soul never be taken into Hell. The Devil agreed and was set free.

Eventually Jack’s lifestyle took its toll and he died. At the gates of Heaven, St. Peter informed Jack that he couldn’t come in due to his sinful ways. Having nowhere else to go, Jack walked to the doors of Hell and begged for entry into the underworld. Fulfilling his promise, the Devil said no — thereby dooming the silver-tongued drunkard to roam the world between the planes of good and evil with only an ember inside a hollowed pumpkin to light his way.

Sucks to be Jack.

Inquring minds wanted to know…

…and now we do.

Yet other mysteries persist…

…like why all the screechy sound effects and scary movies and monsters and skeletons?

…and why do some Wiccans feel that Halloween’s stereotypical caricatures are offensive to “real witches?” Hmmm.

Go figure. We’re just in it for the candy.

Department 56 Pumpkin Heads

Department 56 Creepy Pumpkin Street Lights Lights

Halloween Snow Village from Department 56

Special thanks to Stu Jamison for the excellent Halloween props.
You should see how he does Christmas!

Dog Therapy

A couple of years ago while on a walk around my neighborhood, I was attacked by a pit bull, Lucy. She definitely started it: I wasn’t even talking to her at the time. I merely walked up alongside her and her aged master from behind as he stopped to do up his jacket on the sidewalk. I came away with ripped pants and two ominous holes in my sweatshirt, but other than a modest heroic scratch on my upper leg, miraculously, no blood was shed. (I discovered I can jump like a startled squirrel monkey in heat when properly motivated.) While the physical damage was minimal, the psychological impact has been a little more intense: I get very, very alert around pit bulls.

That is, until I met Bondi at the park by our home last week.

Bondi can fly.

Bondi can also balance at any given moment on her two front paws with her patent-pending gyroscopic-tail-antennae-device. (I suspect she also receives “borrowed” XM-radio signal with that thing.)

Note the incredibly buff shoulder muscles on this poochette. This was a critical aspect of Bondi Therapy for me as it validated that, yes, yes indeed… this is a breed that could shred pants, sweatshirts, and tender necks willy nilly, should she take a mind.

When one can see veins popping on an unleashed pit bull like a testosterone-super-charged gym rat, you can be excused for a little sweat on the upper lip. The reality was, though, that Bondi didn’t seem even remotely inclined to shred anything, much less anything to which I was personally attached. What she REALLY had in mind was for her owner to throw the pink thing.

And that’s when I noticed how beautiful she was.

Rick was on the business end of our new D90, and with his considerable experience playing catch with a talented pooch, he had the timing down perfectly. This left me free to slip quietly behind him, relax, and observe.

And this is what I observed: Bondi could NOT CARE LESS about me or my neck. Let me tell you: in close proximity to a breed that has scared the bee-jeebers out of you, the very best situation to hope for is to find yourself effectively invisible.

Bondi loves her skeet launcher. Bondi loves the pink skeet thing, and …

… Bondi loves to fly.

I hope to meet Bondi again some day.

Any dog who smiles this profoundly and plays so hard she has grass stains on her elbows has to be worth another encounter, regardless of mis-behaved relatives… oui?

And is it coincidence that these are the next two books on my night stand?

Home, For a While

Rick and I lived in a community throughout 2009 that can best be described as “Silicon Valley High Tech Eclectic.”

Cultures from every corner of the globe live here.

We emerge at dusk from our fluorescent cubicles, skip-a-generation childcare responsibilities, and ESL classes to form this unlikely village of the newly immigrated, from Kansas to Irkutsk to Calcutta.

They even let Canadians in.

For the children, it’s where they will remember crafting sidewalk chalk masterpieces, until the lights came on and Granny made them come in for bed. Or where Mom was willing to make an extra turn around the commons so they could finish their story about Mean Sheila and the paint-station incident in preschool today.

It’s a real community, made up of courageous people.

Everyone here has made a leap of some kind. We’re all optimists, in transition from where we were to where we will be.

For some, the dreams are very big.

For others, it’s very focused.

And for some, the dream is not for them but for their children and grandchildren.

Some are here so that their unimaginably bright and potential-rich olive shoots can bloom in a more well watered hothouse.

Some are brought here so they can be supported and loved in a softer place for their declining years.

The luckier ones find a way to take the pinch out of intense homesickness…

… and some walk alone, far away from home.

It really is a beautiful place.

It’s an impromptu bubble party, just waiting for any passersby to join in the game…

… and new life just waiting to get out and play with all the other kids at impromptu bubble parties.

Some are waiting to cruise with a best friend…

… and some already do.

Ask any resident here how they feel about living at North Park Village Apartments in San Jose.

On average, we’re all pretty happy.

Men’s Fashion Choices (and Where are the Women Who Claim To Love Them?)

You may have noticed that I have a somewhat morbid fascination with the fashion choices people make and how they choose to present themselves to the world.

Was it the palpable salt-of-the-earth confidence evident in sticking with the tried-and-true coverage of the classic overall that got me in this situation?

Perhaps.

I think the irresistible urge to capture his image for posterity was also rooted in the visual patterning of his own bay window set against the barrels behind him, the impressive size of those forearms and fists, and the serene confidence I had in the stalwartness of those side buttons. Plus, I had been wine tasting all afternoon, and snapping photos of the most unpretentious wine schlepper I had ever encountered seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do.

I never know what will move me.

Sometimes, I’ll admit, it’s just flat-out curiosity.

Case in point above. Why? Just because he can? Is it fun to watch people stare at it waggle while he’s ordering a burger? Is he bald under that hat and there’s something compensatory going on here? Is it a bet?

So many stories, so little time…

Sometimes you’ll see one of those classic accessory choices that’s SO classic, you don’t see it around much anymore, like the “dog on a leash an’ a billfold on a chain” look. It’s instantly recognizable, yet worn today by the only true “bad boys” left among us. Sad, really.

Of course, “bad boy” is all in the eye of the beholder. Does having the courage to wear detachable spurs on a perfectly clean set of boots mean that THIS dude is the bad one? (I wasn’t buying it: not enough cow pie.)