The Blog I'm Not Writing

Last weekend while working at the zoo, Belle dropped her iphone in the toilet. Her Facebook account of the event:  In these trying times, please, send your prayers and keep us in mind.

I had to remind her that whenever the Lord closes a toilet lid he opens a port-o-potty door.

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MH and I went Tree hugging last weekend, with, apparently, a Guinness World record setting number of fellow huggers, ion an event organized by Hoyt Arboretum.  I normally avoid those kind of affairs [1] (“most false moustaches worn by a crowd in the city plaza”), several of Hillsboro’s The Committee In Charge of Spontaneous Wacky Fun Planning city has organized the past couple of years to do once a year (let’s set the record for most false noses….”), as I find the forced jocularity of it all rather discomforting.  Hey, but this was for the trees – and for the editor of a Journal That Shall Not Be Named, who, many years ago, requested an author’s photo from contributors with the specific stipulation that the photo not be of the author “hugging a tree.”

There was much organizing at the meeting spot, with participants allotted into groups of 50 or so. We hiked a ways up in the arboretum; our fearless leader led us to the designated section for the “L” group.  Which was a slope.  A steep one.  The more accessible trees on the slope were quickly claimed, and it was quite the climb for MH & I to find an unoccupied, hug-worthy tree (we gave up our spot on a lower tree to a couple who were having a hard time ascending the slope).  On my way up, grasping at nearby stumps and praising the traction of my Keen sandals, I saw something bright shiny cobalt blue amidst the pine needles and underbrush.  It was a condom wrapper, intact.  “I am so relieved,” I said to our leader and MH, “to see that we’re going to practice safe tree hugging.”

We huggers assumed our position, a signal rang out, and we had to hug our trees for one minute, during which the groups’ leaders had to scurry about their sections and video all members in their group. The resulting documentation would be turned over to some dweeb resentful summer intern responsible person at Guinness for world record verification.  Oh, and for the record, the tree and I were just good friends.

I am writing this instead of doing what I should be doing, which is packing for my Quickie to Palo Alto, an overnight trip I scheduled when I recently reconnected with friend JK.  JK and Belmont friend LH and I are meeting for dinner at the Flea Street Café .  I was delighted to find the café is still in business, and still with the coolest chef/founder with arguably the coolest chef name ever .[2]  The Flea Street Café was a favorite special occasion/splurge spot for JK and I, back in our days as co-workers in a medical practice.  Also, San Francisco buddy LMW and I had a couple of marvelous meals with the Fleas, toasting each other and commiserating re how much we hated Valentine’s Day…and then MH had to go and propose, on Valentine’s Day, at the Flea Street Café, which put an end to that particular celebration.

The trip was scheduled too quickly to schedule TMQ “events”, or so I was told, so I’m schlepping a copy of The Mighty Quinn plus sell sheets [3] from Scarletta Press to give to three bookstores.  You gotta love Palo Alto – and I do, even though I left it 22 years ago for Oregon – if for no other reason than, as independent, fiction-stocking bookstores across the country are struggling and/or closing, within a 1.4 mile radius of downtown Palo Alto the city has three excellent ones: the venerable Kepler’s Books (no longer hosting Joan Baez and the Grateful Dead gigs,[4] but still hip),  Books, Inc. and Bell’s Books .

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The Return of the Lone Asshat

No, it’s not yet another over budget, overblown, underwhelming Disneyfied movie (although if I had a paquillion bucks lying around I’d pay Johnny Depp to star in it).  There have been so many worthy nominees among those occupying the current events venue, I’ll just go for the one I find most entertaining:  summer isn’t over yet, there is still time to get your legs in beach viewing shape with Rep. Steve King (R, Iowa) and his Drug Mule workout.

As per this article from The Atlantic Wire, the colorful conservative politician has this colorful comment re immigration reform:

“In a recent interview with the conservative site Newsmax, King said that sure, some kids who would be able to stay in America under the DREAM Act are upstanding citizens brought into the country by their parents — but just not enough to make the law worth it. “Some of them are valedictorians, and their parents brought them in,” King said. “For everyone who’s a valedictorian, there’s another 100 out there that weigh 130 pounds and they’ve got calves the size of cantaloupes because they’re hauling 75 pounds of marijuana across the desert.”

Calves the size of cantaloupes.
Binders full of women.

There are some images that are made to last.  Rep. King, may this Asshat be a perfect fit for your (melon-sized?) head.

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Apropos of nothing: I love this song.

Still do.  It meant a lot to me in the 70s, and I played the album over and over.  My friend Steve Glasser (RIP my dearest, “minty” buddy) [5] also confessed – and for a guy, it was a confession – to loving Helen Reddy’s entire album (we both especially enjoyed the under-rated track, “Peaceful“).

And not exactly apropos of nothing; there was a catalyst. Scarletta Press was preparing to nominate The Might Quinn for an Amelia Bloomer Project booklist, [6] and their publicist asked for my input on this question on the ABP application: Please explain why this nomination represents significant feminist content.

My kneejerk reaction: Because I am woman (hear me roar).

Happy weekend to y’all, and may the roaring never end [7] and the hijinks ensue.

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!