Bad Self-Portraits in Jazz

It’s a bit like shining a flashlight into an old attic: “Oh yeaaah, I forgot that was back here…”  As I wrote out rehearsal times for this week I realized it’s been almost half my life (several more than ten years, anyway) since I practiced music every day.  But after a mere two years of cultivating friends and asking around, the stars aligned and I found some people that like jazz standards.

I happened to walk into the Coffee House one night where a few people were chatting, and a guy strummed guitar off to the side.  I stopped in my tracks and cautiously interrupted to ask, “Are you playing ‘All of Me’?”  Fast forward one week to happy hours of imitating my favorite singers, going over beautiful old tunes, and throwing in some more bluesy-rockers to even out the set, and we’re on our way to something great.  I’ve listened to that Lake Street Dive song at least two hundred times, and got just the right edge of frustration to describe taking landscapes and still lives, taking night classes and making sculptures, and painting bad self-portraits.

The one downside is that I have barely been outside, and haven’t taken any pictures.  And it’s been pretty gorgeous lately; quite cold, but almost windless, and clear clear clear, with fata morgana (inverted reflection mirage) of the mountains in the distance. 

So instead of pretty photos, I’ll leave you with the mental image of a jazz-style cover of Green Day’s “Pulling Teeth.”  (“I’m all busted up, broken bones and nasty cuts, accidents will happen, but this time I can’t get up.”)

Goo Blobs of the Deep

Maybe because the view is so familiar, I keep forgetting to photograph (digitally snap?) my snowy volcanic surrounds.  I did pretty thoroughly document the creatures in the “touch tank,” though, so here you go:

These guys are a starfish and a nudibranch.  When out on business, the divers pick up various harmless undersea blobs for us to *carefully handle* and increase appreciation of science, or something.  It was really interesting to hold them, though I wondered how my really warm hand compared to their typical 29F saltwater environment.

In work-related news, I have wrangled with many a spreadsheet; most frustratingly while trying to update instruction sheets and forms that we display, poster-size, in the warehouse so people properly categorize their packaged cargo.  The pain of formatting everything was redeemed by using the science lab’s giant-ass printer (or “plotter”).  This beast stands almost as tall as me, can print four feet wide, and automatically cuts its fancy paper upon completion.  After witnessing this technological marvel, it was fun to fire up the ol’ Master Lam 72 laminator, straight out of an early-90s elementary school.  It did a fine job, though, and I happily adhered my new posters to the warehouse wall.

Other than that fieldtrip, there have been lots of barcodes and phone transfers.  And then I signed up to shovel snow for two hours on my day off, to hasten the reopening of my favorite hiking trail.  There are some real gung-ho shovelers in this town, let it be known. 

Rough Rider

It seems this throwing up on planes is becoming a thing (thanks for not being openly hostile, LA to Auckland and Auckland to Christchurch seatmates).  My brother, who intercepted a shoe-full one memorable flight when I was about three, will be not at all surprised, but I had thought of myself as a normal, non-airsick person for many years.  Ah well.  A mere two flu-shivery nights in Christchurch later, I was privileged to board this big gray guy and fly down to the Ice once more (didn't throw up on this one!).

Now that I'm back in an office with my own computer, and my boss keeps the TV on (muted), my sense of geographical isolation has diminished.  I also realized how static-y hair gets down here, and, that it is cold.  (-4F not counting wind, for inquiring minds.)  When you're not scampering between ovens and grill tops and heaving hundreds of pounds of trash into bins, an extra sweater becomes necessary.  Even, dare I say, gloves.

There are no deep drifts, but it was blustery and dusk-dark with snow last night.  I had a drink with friends and cringed at karaoke before giving into a firefighter looking for a second person with whom to perform "Rawhide" (you know, that song from The Blues Brothers?).  And so the third season begins...