News Brief: Cleaning Gross Things, Part 9 of 17

                                                                                                  Kelley Street ca. 1979

I have identified the home renovation equivalent of dicing bell peppers -- it is chipping tile.  A hammer creates the same callus as a chef knife, the repetitive motion exerts the same force on your wrist, and while it only requires 10% of your brain you must be careful not to obliterate the fingers of your non-dominant hand.  Though it would be fun to just smear a layer of concrete over the shitty old tile and go blithely on from there, it wouldn't be structurally sound; and so, we chip.

I washed ten-year-old, ten-year-old boogers off a wall.  And scraped, like a fine balsamic vinegar, 14-year-aged fridge goo from the floor.  But after steaming off the wallpaper and painting, the desperation that previously saturated every cubic foot of the place has ebbed away.  Once I wash the mold off the (never opened?) windows and new carpet is installed, we will have recovered the house from its midlife (geriatric?) crisis.

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*Background note: Mom and dad are fixing up our old house, which they've rented out ever since we moved, in 1990.  The front half (500 sq. ft. or so) was built in 1940, utilizing several tree stumps as footings.  Twenty years or so later, someone dug a basement, most of which is cinder block, but one side just disappears into the earthy gloom beyond.  The street remained unpaved until the mid-80s, and the driveway through next month.  It's located very close to popular downtown as well as the beach, yet the neighborhood languishes on the cusp of gentrification: seedy middle-aged men leer from their porches at all hours, and we think the house across the street is either a rehabilitation home for pedophiles or Mormon group living.  It is also near my favorite donut shop.

Maybe We'll Do In a Squirrel or Two

Pourquoi non? Who knows what we'll do?

Anything can happen.  The day may come when you find yourself, for the fortieth time, cadging a meal at a graduate school reception (despite never having attended any quaternary education)...or you stop off for a pork belly taco at a bougie cafe in Mississippi (guilt mounting for having expected crumbling infrastructure and Deliverance locals)...or you resignedly chew a stale bagel (your last MRE, woeful sustenance) to withstand endless, soulless, artificial, McMansion-stuffed suburbs a dozen miles outside Denver.

These happenings are neither tragic nor that bizarre, but you get the idea.  Plans change; but happily, your wonderful, strikingly tattooed friend welcomes you into her home, makes sure you have plenty of cabbage and cauliflower, and not only gets you on your feet but takes you on some great hikes.

So I missed a few states and many miles, but I was a temporary resident of Boulder before flying back to lots of nephew-kiddie-pool-time and wall washing with my parents.  And there's a few weeks to dream of all the cheeses I will stuff in my backpack when I get to Paris.

Training Day and the Big Game

I went on a sort of proto-roadtrip throughout New York City before embarking on the real one.  It's rather disorienting visiting the place you spent pretty much your entire adult life (14-Year Club Member), feeling as though you're just returning from another trip, but no -- you're not here to stay.  Shout-out to Alex for meeting me fresh out of the airport and calming my outsider status with colorful drinks and plantains in gentrified Harlem; to Katie for fabulous cheesecake and reminiscing that transported us from Utica back to the city; to Ted and Faye for a comfy couch and cooking in my own Union Square; to Shengning for the best bucolic skyline view in Sunset Park; to Matt for the first oyster I actually enjoyed; and to Julien and his endearing family for garlic butter and peace and quiet on the Upper East Side.

And then just as I was starting to elbow people in the subway again, it was time to go.  Past the industrial battlescapes of New Jersey, just a quick stop in Baltimore, and into that land amorphously referred to as the South.  Huh...Virginia looks a lot like the rest of the east coast.  Richmond, anyway, was cool, rainy, and full of trees.  And pretty brick buildings, some with patrician columns.  We wandered and partook of barbeque with fellow Antarcticans.  We stumbled upon the grave of Jefferson Davis.

Surprise: a roadtrip involves a lot of sitting.  In a car.  Luckily Julien is a good conversationalist and has lots of music.

All Over the Place

How would you like to read about a five-week car ride through lots of sparse south-and/or-western states?  Cool!  Here we go!

First I'm stopping in New York, because some reasons and beloved people, and that's where my friend with the car is.  Julien the fireman/Frenchman/drummer/fellow-fan-of-gin and I will eat barbeque and think esoteric thoughts while gazing at endless wheat fields.  So stay tuned for VA, NC, GA, TN, OK, NM, CO, UT, and CA.

And I have to admit I'm not the most doting of aunts, but isn't this guy pretty cute?  It was fun smelling flowers with you, Lori.

Driving On the Left!

Whoa, hey -- I can do this from my phone...oh magic phone, is there anything you can't do these days?

Maybe I've had too much sunshine, or maybe the utter and complete silence of the deserted landscape around me is just a little too quiet; anyway, bear with the sleep-time thoughts and auto-correct typos.

So far New Zealand has delivered like a boy with a new paper route.  The weather is perfect late summer, and from the Christchurch Botanic Gardens to the sparkling coves of Diamond Harbor to the flawless views from majestically named Roy's Peak I am embarrassed by a wealth of natural beauty.  Throw in all the plums you can eat from a ripe tree, a host's kitten, and a friend with a functioning credit card, and you've got yourself a great vacation.

Hmm, yes, I didn't think I'd be driving on these narrow, sideless roads this time around, due to some lack of adulting resulting in me not having access to credit.  Luckily my roomie needed to tackle a certain mountain for the third time, and was happy to be dropped off at the trailhead, a mere 30km down a gravel road with several creek fords.

He reluctantly allowed this photo to be taken, wherein he displays his really long rope and cool solar charger:

PENGUIN PHOTOS

I know I've dangled the promise in front of you for months, and here they finally are!  These two showed up a few days ago to molt, which means they just stand in one place for a few weeks, not really flinching unless you get closer than eight feet.  FEAST YOUR EYES:

Words I Never Thought I'd Say

No, not like that. :)  For many years, I'd been hard-pressed to dream up circumstances in which I'd be willing to sing "My Heart Will Go On."  But then, against several odds, Corndog Addiction became a reality.  I've wanted to have a band that plays the Dead Kennedys' "Holiday in Cambodia" for years, and McMurdo's underground punk scene needed a shot in the arm.  But it turns out punk music isn't always as easy as it sounds.  So we settled on some manageable tunes and punkified some others, including "Time After Time."

I decided not to go into a lengthy disclaimer about Jello Biafra's overblown paranoia concerning left-wing fascism, and just went for it -- instructing people to "come quietly to the camp," and describing how "you'd look nice as a drawstring lamp," then building to peak furor:

Now it is 1984
Knock knock on your front door
It's the suede-denim secret police
they have come for your uncool niece...
you will croak you little clown
when you mess with President Brown

*That's past and current California governor Jerry Brown.  Watch out for that guy, he might really mess things up one day.

Because we only had five songs under our belt, Corndog Addiction played a smaller venue, for a select audience (the band room; twenty friends.)  It was pretty great.

Last week, my former coworkers really outdid themselves.  The galley folks set up a little theater and presented an original play/series of monologues, and then turned around the next night to put on 80s prom.  There was teased hair; there was helmet hair; there was crimped hair; there was a pregnant cheerleader; and I hung out with a friend who was actually of an age to be at prom in the 80s and said the verisimilitude was uncanny.

Perhaps best of all, though, I finally got together with my coworker who's shy about playing guitar.  He played some pretty flamenco stuff, and then mentioned he had compiled a bunch of Beatles and pop charts.  Turns out the acoustics of the chapel are perfect for "Don't Stop Believin" as well as "The Lion Sleeps Tonight."

So, it was about forty minutes between "a-wheem-a-way" and "suede-denim secret police."