Author: gr4c5

I write. I read. I cook. I run. That's me, in a nutshell.

Aquarium on the Hill

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In awe

I like the tucked away adventures. Everyone knows the Bronx Zoo, Sea World, Disney, Grand Canyon… Those are the things people expect you to visit while you are visiting. Locals and I’veBeenTheres will add their two cents, “Oh! Ya gotta go see blahblahblah.” I perk up whenever I hear the word “aquarium.” Doesn’t take much to get me there. Doesn’t matter how big (or small) it is, I’m there. While visiting a friend in D.C. I heard of an aquarium in a basement. We went.
Such was the case in Long Beach and La Jolla. My aunt urged us to see Birch Aquarium & swore we wouldn’t be disappointed. We weren’t.

I admit we arrived a little late. 90 minutes before closing. I worried that wouldn’t be enough time & promised myself I wouldn’t spend too much time in from of the leafies…if they had them. A little background: Birch Aquarium has been around since 1905 and have chosen the butterfly fish as its endearing mascot. One side of the aquarium is dedicated to ever changing, ever thought provoking educational exhibits. When we went the showcase was how species hide (Can you spot the…?) and the tragic effects of global warming on coral reefs. Really devastating to see. The other half of the aquarium is dedicated to permanent displays like the Tide Pool Plaza, an area they allows the young (and young at heart, like me) to touch creatures. It was closed by the time we got there. Most spectacular (of course) is the great hall of fishes with the grand finale being a 70,000 gallon tank complete with kelp forest. It truly is beautiful.

One of the oddest displays was a tank with two eels, a pacific lobster and some kind of crab. I couldn’t tell the species of crab because it was dead. Dead! The eels were minding their own business, looking grim while the lobster…munched on the crab. It was in part fascinating because I had forgotten how complex nature could be, how violent – survival of the fittest and all that. But, here’s the other thing I couldn’t get out of my head: the display was eating the display! Woops. We stood and stared. Mesmerized by the lobster’s untiring efforts to break open the armor of the crab carcass.

Finally, it was closing time and Kisa and I reluctantly moved towards the exits. I bought a shirt to remember the experience. As we were getting in our car a woman stopped us, “Is this the aquarium?” she leaned out of her minivan to ask. “yes, but they are closing” I replied, “come back tomorrow because it’s worth every second.”

Tallest SeahorseIMG_2449IMG_2410

May We Be Excused

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Sometimes, and it doesn’t matter how old you are, you feel like a kid at the adults’ table. At least, that’s what it felt like to me when Kisa and I finally escaped to explore San Diego by ourselves. We were leaving that afternoon to visit La Jolla, Ontario & Upland but wanted to get in a little time in SD before we said goodbye. As the song goes, who knows when we would pass this way again?

My aunt and uncle had raved about the harbor tour they had taken the day before (“best thing we ever did” they vowed) and suddenly it was all I wanted to do, too. I had boat envy. I wanted to be on the water in the worst way. So, we picked a tour and went. We opted for the deluxe version – two hours, both sides of the harbor. It turned out to be a sparkling fantabulous day – like the day before and the day before and the day before. Thanks to Tom, we reached the marina in plenty of time to park, buy tickets, use the restrooms and find front row seats in the bow. It felt like running away.

For two hours we toured San Diego’s harbor, north and south. At times I could barely hear the guide over the wind in my hair and fellow passengers around me. I didn’t mind missing out on the spiel. To me, it started to drone anyway. Instead I enjoyed the military ships, the brown pelicans, hefty sea lions, fellow boaters speeding by, splashing green water, white foam spray and dazzling sunshine.

Maybe You Should Drive

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The name of a Barenaked Ladies album (my favorite as a matter of fact)…or what Kisa heard the night of the wedding. Both, actually.

Kisa had been king driver since day one. He got us from Vegas to Long Beach; from Long Beach to San Diego; from our hotel to anywhere we wanted to go. All without complaint. All without a single utterance of “maybe you should drive.” He drew the line at mall chauffeuring, though. He got us there but refused to sit in a parking lot. It was our last full day in Diego, after all. He wasn’t about to wander a mall no different from the ones we have at home. “Call me when you need a pick-up” he cheerfully offered as we piled out of the car. “Okay.” I was equally as cheerful even though I knew my last day in Diego was going to be spent shopping (I’ve come to the conclusion if you’ve seen one Michaels, you’ve seen them all).

Later that evening Kisa confided to me that he’d had enough of driving. He was looking forward to cutting back on chaffeuring and cutting loose at the wedding. How many times had the groom told him he had a special beer for him? I wasn’t confident it would work out. In a family of drinkers sober drivers are really hard to come by.
Somehow we managed to hitch a ride with an aunt. No driving for kisa. So far so good. Maybe he would get to enjoy himself after all. I know what you are thinking. What about you? Couldn’t you drive? For those of you who don’t know me I don’t drink a drop and get behind the wheel of a car. Ever. Not one sip. Kisa is too kind to deny me a glass of wine at my cousin’s wedding. Having me escort was out of the question.

So, back to the party. The reception was raging. People dancing. People laughing. The music was rocking. We were having a great time. Kisa was on his third or fourth beer of the night. A drop compared to what others can put away. There we were, staring at the black harbor, enjoying the gentle rocking of yachts in the marina. A full glass of beer in Kisa’s hand. We had come out for a breath of fresh air. All of a sudden he feels a tap on his shoulder…”Say,” says a voice, “are you driving us back? Hint, hint.” I could feel Kisa’s defeat as he exclaimed “yeah, sure” and dumped out his full beer. I felt awful (as I was working on wine #2). As word spread “Drink up! J’s driving us home!” people began to approach Kisa to confirm. Each time he responded his speech became more slurred and giggly. He was just messing with them, but it was funny to see their eyes grow wide. You could almost hear their brains working, “is he really okay to drive?”

Of course he was. Kisa always drives.

Polar Bear Antics

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Bucket head

There are times when I visit a zoo, aquarium, wild life park, or some other place where wild animals are caged and occasionally question whether or not the animals are truly happy. If they could converse would they tell me they are content? I can’t think about it too much because it might lead to me doing something rash like trying to unlock gates or smuggle animals out. I don’t know what I would do with a wild boar or black bear, but I would want them free. I know that most places that keep otherwise untamed animals on display are doing it for more than revenue. I realize they are promoting advocacy, encouraging education, even preserving some near extinct species. [Is it possible that the Polar Bear is headed that way? It’s more than possible and impossibly sad to think about.] I learned of more than one animal that no longer existed in the wild, yet was alive and well in captivity. It’s a chance for us ho-hum humans to get up close to spectacular creatures without the Hemingway safari or silly hats.

If anyone were to ask me what my favorite part of the San Diego zoo was I would have to say, without a shadow of a doubt, the polar bear. The zoo boasts of three polar bears but we only saw one. I’m convinced we saw Tatqiq. From the moment we stood in front of her giant tank I knew she was happy. She had plenty of space to swim; plenty of toys to play with (my favorite part was when she put the bucket on her head); plenty of land to roam; even salmon to munch on. I didn’t worry about cramped quarters or abuse. She seemed to even have a smile on her face. We watched her play until she ambled on shore, had a bite to eat and then flopped to the ground for a nap. I could almost hear her snore.

So. Instead of trying to smuggle animals out, in the case of the polar bear, maybe I should be trying to smuggle them in!

Coming at ya

Tom Took Me There

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Tom Took Me There or Which Way to the Zoo?

Balboa Park

Our TomTom is great. Plug in an address and turn by turn, mile by mile, Tom will get you where you want to go. It’s a combination of listening to what he says, watching his display screen and computing what comes up ahead. The line I heard over and over while in California was “ahead keep left; then stay on the left lane.” We heard that a lot. Basically, it was Tom reminding us to stay on 5 every time a new highway was introduced. Or something like that.
We used Tom everywhere we went and only once did he steer us wrong…errr…but really he was right. We wanted the San Diego zoo. We asked Tom for directions to the zoo. Simple enough. He gave us options for “zoo management offices” and something called a wild animal park. Well, in the zoo pamphlet I had picked up from the hotel it mentioned this wild animal park. Thinking it was a section of the zoo (like the wild safari is a part of Six Flags) I told Kisa “pick that one.” We certainly didn’t want to visit the management offices (unless it was run by a bunch of cute monkeys). Tom calculated the miles as my family piled into the car (Kisa was chauffeur for 90% of all outings, I should add. More on that later…). Soon we were off, passing wineries, ostrich farms, palm tree nurseries, fruit orchards, lots of interesting things. 30 minutes later Tom announced, “you have reached your destination” as we paid for parking.
Once we started walking around we realized we weren’t at the right place. The wild animal park was part of the zoo but in a completely different location. Something wasn’t right. Sooo…Back in the car we went; traveled the 30 minutes back to where we started and eventually, finally, found the right zoo. Monkeys and all.

 
Stalker

Citizen of the Galaxy

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Heinlein, Robert A. Citizen of the Galaxy. New York: Ballantine, 1991.

I have a confession to make. I have never settled down with a good science fiction book because I love science fiction. Because I don’t prefer science fiction. There. I said it. My father-in-law’s first book was a sci-fi thriller with the main character named after the family pet. Go figure. Luckily, he’s never asked me to read it. Otherwise, I couldn’t wouldn’t refuse and would diligently struggle through it.

I didn’t struggle through Heinlein’s Citizen of the Galaxy, though – much to my surprise. Armed with the “rule” that I could quit after the first 50 pages I attacked it with relish, thinking I would put it down after the first 50 pages in. When I stopped reading that first night I was on page 110, again, much to my surprise. It’s highly enjoyable for a genre I usually do not go out of my way to enjoy.
Thorby is a slave and in the opening scene he is “bought” by a beggar who turns out to be more than what anyone, especially Thorby, bargained for. His master hates slavery “with a cold passion” and releases Thorby and instead adopts him, training him to be a beggar and thensome. Soon Thorby is learning different customs and family structures as he travels from planet to planet. Life as he knew it is never the same again especially after he meets his real family on Earth.

Some interesting points: In Jubbulpore (capital of Jubbul) “slave” is a legally recognized status & “beggar” is a licensed profession (p 20 & 21).
“The Sargon’s police operated on a concept older than justice; they assumed a man was guilty, they questioned him by increasingly strong methods until he talked…” (p 48).
And…my favorite line:
“A Losian would come zipping toward Thorby on the wrong side of the street (there was no right side), squeal to a stop almost on Thorby’s toes, zig aside while snatching the breath off his face and the heart out of his mouth – and never touch him” (p 116). Sounds like a scene out of Star Wars.

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter “Robert Heinlein: Too Good To Miss” (p 109).

Surfing the Words of Others

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I wanted to title this blog, “write something damn you!” But, I decided that was a little harsh…You see, I have friends who blog. WordPress people. When I added them to my blogsurfer I thought, “cool. a new and different way to keep in touch. awesome.” Not so awesome. Only a few people actually write with regularity. I get bored. So, I started the hunt for new and interesting people. That in itself has a curse attached. I found Frogshake. Added the blog to my “list.” Soon after the words stopped coming. Same with someone else. And someone else. Huh. Started (again!) searching for other words; other people with interesting things to say. Added them to the surf. The words rolled to a stop. Flat calm seas. Again. What, exactly, is going on? Am I cursing the blogging universe by wanting to read them on a regular basis?  

I like words. I like them even better when they are strung together in thought-provoking, insightful, even funny sentences. Best is when they are from people I adore. John Mayer is good with words. I’d read him more often if he gave up the silly singing career and devoted his time to putting pen to paper…like that’s gonna happen! That’s not to say I don’t enjoy his music or his lyrics…he’s just good with the words no matter how he gets them out.

So. Here’s a request. Tell me your favorite blogs. Do you have one I haven’t read? Where do you go for words? I know someone who stalks a weasel. But, what else is there? Email me. call me. text me. comment me. write on my wall. whatever. You will be doing me a huge favor. I won’t add them to the surf or the roll, though. I wouldn’t want to jinx anything!

ps~ a word on my links, speaking of blogs… You may have noticed a change in favorites. Yes, this was deliberate.
Sometimes, you outgrow a life. Sometimes you just grow up. I think I did a little of both.

Lost One of the Nine

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On the way from Long Beach, California to San Diego I gave up one of my nine lives. I was going to call this blog I Hate Penske Trucks but decided against slamming an innocent company when really, it’s their reckless drivers I should be blaming.
We were somewhere between here and there and traffic was heavy. Kisa was driving (of course). Tom was his copilot and I served as a hood ornament for all my uselessness. There we were, in the farthest left lane (in other words, what should have been the fastest), when all of a sudden we came upon a Penske truck. Traveling in our lane. Hazards on. Going at least 15 mph slower than everyone else. For awhile Kisa hung out behind Penske, careful not to tailgate. But, no matter how hard he tried he continuously crept close to Penske. Too close for me. Until finally I, the backseat driver that I am, blurted out, “go around him!” Moving over one lane didn’t offer us much comfort. To the right of us, behind us and directly in front were three large 18-wheelers all chugging along at a comfortable 80mph. We felt like a HHR sandwich. Penske (still flashing hazards) sped up and continued to hang to the left of us. We were surrounded by size on all sides. And going 80 miles an hour.
That’s when it happened. Without warning Penske started to drift into our lane. We couldn’t speed up, slow down or move over to accommodate this moving truck that seemed determined to move into our lane. Kisa leaned on the horn. I yelled. Penske swerved, sped up and somehow got in front of us, then on the other side of us. The driver waving frantically “sorry, sorry!” Sorry my azz. You just made me give up a life!
It’s not Penske’s fault but I will always growl when I see one of their trucks!

For Smiley with thanks!

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When it comes to friendship age has no consequence. Color has no connection. Gender shouldn’t be a guiding factor. These are the rules I try to live by when it comes to friends. Simple as that.

Last Friday such a friend came to East Greenbush, N.Y. with me. It was a reckless adventure. No real address. Didn’t know what to expect. No real plan other than to hear great music. We had 90 minutes there and back to talktalktalk and believe me, we did. When we got to the restaurant it looked as though we had found Funky town. Weird mix of bikers, bouncy houses and a bizarre cover band. Definitely not what I bargained for. With a shrug we went inside the restaurant to eat. Clean eating be damned, I was sick of salads and ordered a bad burger and lemonade – unheard of for me. Sometime later I realized we hadn’t seen or heard the music we came for. Confused I sent a text to a friend. A knowledgeable, computer-ready, cool friend who looked up where we were supposed to be…right where we were sitting. How bizarre. Thanks, Bri. Even though you confirmed our confused state, you rock.

In the end we found our music and figured it all out. It was an adventure to remember. We met cool people, heard great music – the music we came for, saw five towns worth of fireworks, and decided “fireworks are a lot like parades…a lot of anticipation with little payoff.” Despite all that, I was glad she was with me for the adventure. Doing this trip alone would have tapped my ability to unhinge my security of self. So, thanks.

ps~ S~ this is the pic that made me think of you…how could I NOT take a pic?!

Finding Caruso

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Barnes, Kim. Finding Caruso. New York: Peguin Putnam, 2003.

Within the first two chapters of Finding Caruso I found myself calling Kim Barnes a favorite author. Despite the fact that the first chapter started off raw and violent; as shocking as a bucket of ice cold language, I loved the way she described the landscape, the emotion, the family structure. A mother timid and protective, a father despairing and drunken, brothers bound by love and loyalty. After a tragedy the brothers make their way to Idaho. Music is what keeps them going, but brotherly blood is what saves them.
It’s also the bittersweet tale of sibling rivalry. One brother being the older, better looking, the more talented, the one used to getting everything while the other looks on, burning with jealousy, brimming with pride. But, what happens when the tides turn and baby brother gets a stroke of luck, wins out?

I could have quoted the entire book for the wonderful lines that jumped off the pages at me, but here are a few of my favorites:
“The ballads were my mother’s favorite, and we let her lead, our boys’ voices blending in a harmony that had been in us since the moment our parents came together and planted the music in our bones” (p 7).
“Those nights my father disappeared down the road, I felt the house itself let loose its breath” (p 11).
“‘It’s not that I’m thirsty. It’s the memory that tastes good'” (p 50).
“‘Don’t ever think you know something of me without asking'” (p 111).

This book was definitely a favorite. The writing was sparse yet as fluid as the mountain streams Barnes describes in Finding Caruso.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter “Idaho: And Nary a Potato To Be Seen” (p 122).

Kobe Pizza

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We won

It’s hard to be a Laker fan around my husband. Especially during the finals. Especially when it’s the do or die game for Kobe and the gang. Unfortunately for Jason’s aunt she’s not only a Laker fan, she had to watch the Celtics demolish the Lakers…in front of Kisa. She was a good sport, though. She didn’t have to be – it was her house. She could have kicked us out. Instead, she donned her Red Sox gear and yelled at the tv almost as loud as her nephew. Whenever the Celtics scored she yelled, “Go Red Sox!” cracking everyone up. But, that didn’t last long. As soon as it was obvious the Lakers were giving up the fight she was cursing Kobe instead. We had pizza and alcohol and the Lakers for dinner. I can’t say much for the Lakers, but when it comes to food Californians are different. Californians are cool about their cuisine. Their pizza comes on whole wheat crust with a fresh, lovely green, healthy salad on the side. Yummy.

The Celtics had the Lakers for dinner, but I had something better. I will miss California pizza!

Seaweed Queen

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 SeaWeedQueen

I have always been a seaweed queen. When I was a child I would crouch down over tidal pools, push the algae aside and watch for minnows. I was never afraid of the slime green vegetation. When the tide moved in it was fun to watch the long, dark, bumpy strands of seaweed sway along the shore. To me, it was a forest of brown dancing under the waves. Mermaids hair as they hid among the rocks just out of reach. On luckier days after hurricanes giant strings of leafy kelp would wash up onto the beach and suddenly my friends and I had skirts from the sea. Wet and slimy, wrapped around our bodies and staining our clothes. We were queens of the ocean come ashore to live in landlocked exile. My imagination took me to an underwater world that continues to fascinate me to this day.
When I grew older (and bolder) I learned seaweed was actually edible and began drying it as a kind of vegetarian beef jerky. Adding it to my diet of raw periwinkles and mussels, crab apples, sour clover, and blackberries I ate like royalty foraging all day long.

I’ve since stopped watching for mermaids. I no longer wear kelp for fashion. I’ve lost the taste for the salty sea. But, I will always, always be a seaweed queen.

Finding Sean

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The slightly negative imagery is the only way for me to explain what has been happening. While this sounds bad it’s not. It’s a good thing. Honestly.

I’m getting tripped up in Sean Rowe’s music. Here’s that awful analogy – it’s like trying to escape from a sticky situation and finding yourself more and more entrapped & entangled. It’s starts off uncomplicated, of little consequence until it’s all consuming. I know I’m not making sense but I can’t explain it. For the longest time I was fixated on another kind of music. Some say obsessed. I’d say they weren’t that far off. It took getting over the addiction to open my ears to something else. And that something else led me to Sean Rowe. Here’s another analogy – being stuck in a room full of smokers, choking on fumes, unable to find the door. Fumbling, stumbling until I can open a window and breathe. The fresh air is the new music I am craving. 

Everyone knows I am locked in by lyrics. Anything beyond Ooh Baby Baby, anything with an ounce of thought gets my attention. I can remember sitting with Melanie from the band sirsy and listening to her explain the research behind Mercury. Before even hearing it the song became a favorite. Why? Because there was some intelligence in the process. There was some thought to the theme.

Such is Sean’s music. The last time I saw him I called ‘Jonathan’ creepy. I was worried I would offend, but truly it was the only way to explain how the lyrics moved through me, pausing to strangle my heart and moving on to choke my emotions. It was creepy the power this song had (and still has) over me.

This last time to see Sean was something else. This was the first time hearing covers. This was the first time I had to shut out the obnoxious barflies who simply wouldn’t shut up. I shut my eyes and concentrated on the words. I had to shut down the urge to kill the useless conversations around me.
I still like ‘Wet’ best. It’s like a beauty born out of tragedy.
‘Trademark of Fools’ is still amazing as is ‘Alone.’

We thought that July 11th might make for an interesting trip, but I have carrots with my name on them. I think 8/1 is the next fix. I’ll wear my new shirt 😉

Scavenger Hunt Antics

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If you attended my wedding you know two things about me. I have never been one for tradition (what? no cake?) and I like to play a game called Photo Scavenger Hunt. It’s simple. One camera. One list of things to take pictures of within a certain time frame. At the wedding every table got a camera and a challenge to take pics of various people and things (like the head chef in the kitchen). That way I didn’t get a bunch of butt pictures! This time the time frame was simply “while on vacation” and I cheated. I had two cameras.
But, that’s beside the point. Here’s the list:

From the Plane:

  • puffy white clouds (piece of cake)
  • the desert
  • a mountain, any mountain

Las Vegas:

  • View from the hotel
  • A live flamingo
  • some sign or plaque of Benjamin Siegel
  • an outdoor slot machine
  • a living statue
  • “money”

Long Beach:

  • view from the hotel
  • a brown pelican
  • the Pacific ocean/ some seaweed
  • Kisa’s great aunt
  • a cactus

San Diego:

  • view from the hotel
  • a palm tree
  • a gorilla
  • my cousin’s flowers
  • proof for Ruby I wore “the dress”
  • someone’s feet
  • a bow tie

Ontario:

  • View from hotel room
  • something related to the Closer
  • a sunset
  • someone in the pool
  • the elusive cousins

I got nearly all the pictures I wanted. Here’s the set. I didn’t find the outdoor slot machine (big surprise) and the gorillas at the San Diego zoo had gone in for the day. I forgot all about a bow tie. I found something Closer related on the first day which was huge because I never made it to L.A. Also, I found three different Chipotles so that was a nice bonus. I even got everyone together for the dreaded cousin picture. Grand total: 859 pics on one camera; 362 pictures on another… 87 on a seperate memory card. 1,308 pictures.

Blackwater

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Ekman, Kerstin. Blackwater. New York: Doubleday, 1993.

Ekman’s Blackwater is possessive. It grabs you and you can’t put it down. It’s dark and gritty – peppered with angry scenes of violence and meaningless, lust driven sex. Like a maze with many twisting passages Blackwater has a community of dark stories to tell. Each tale is tangled with another and at the center, common to all, is a double murder. While everyone knows about it and is touched by it, no one can solve it for twenty years.
In the beginning Annie Raft follows a lover to Blackwater to his out-of-the-way commune. On her first day in town Annie stumbles across the murdered bodies of two tourists camping in the backwoods of Blackwater. For twenty years she is haunted by the face of the man she thinks did it until one day that face comes back in the form of her daughter’s newest boyfriend. The mystery, along with a whole host of secrets, start to unravel.
The landscape is such an important element in the novel I would have enjoyed a map, something that illustrates Annie getting lost in the forest, how far away from town the commune was, where the well was that Johan was tossed into in relation to where the murders took place, etc.

These are the really great lines: “The silence was violent after the noise of the cars” (p 10).
“He felt strangely empty inside, a green jumble of oblivion, and his skin felt licked by eyes” (p 136).
“You cannot live in the world without living off it” (p 177).
“She had lived a cautious and parched life” (p255).
“It had been an open question between them, whether you can see into your own darkness and whether it actually is your responsibility to do so. Or whether you evoke the darkness and make it into your own by toying with it” (p 422).

 

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter “Crime is a Globetrotter: Sweden” (p 59).