Life is a Banquet

The Reluctant Yuppie

Saturday Night Freak and I watched Hotel Rwanda. Few movies have ever moved me more or made me feel so utterly helpless. Not to mention ashamed beyond belief at my status as a white, American female. For me, some of the most haunting images were those of the orphans, their little faces pressed together, holding hands, their gangly limbs betraying their vulnerability. I often make light of my unending desire to have a “United Nations Family” (Angelina, wench, I had the idea first. Mine. Mine. Mine. Oh, and P.S. please send me Brad Pitt too.). But, this movie unearthed emotions much more powerful than just “oh, wouldn’t it be cool.”

Rescue Me, Put Me in Your Arms

A year ago today, we got Caylis. Like every pet I have ever had, she was a rescue. At the time, I thought her circumstances were horrific—abandoned in a box on a busy road with her sister. The humane society was crowded, and was being swept by a kennel cough epidemic. In reality, rescuing Caylis wasn’t too difficult—some kind person brought her in, in a vehicle filled with an abundance of gas, to a humane society with electricity, and plenty of food. We stocked up for our new family member at Pet Smart, getting toys and chow, and we put a lot of thought into where she would sleep most comfortably. But, every spot in our home is warm and dry and well-ventilated. We took her immediately to our vet—no waiting times, and our vet had the necessary (yet expensive) medication to treat her and vaccinate her.  We were, and remain, the luckiest pet owners on the planet, as the universe gifted us with a puppy who pretty much trained herself, who has been happy and healthy, and the best friend I have ever had.

Right, now, we are inundated with stories of the suffering in the wake of Hurricane Katarina. Babies without food or water, bodies in the street, the lack of response in time from agencies, people crammed together, missing people, and the stories of third world (and worse) conditions just continue to mount. And, I am in shock and horrified at the level of need, and my own inadequacy to even process, let alone meet, the crisis.

But the news isn’t really talking about the other victims of the hurricane—the abandoned pets who are, at this point, a low rescue priority. Many families were forced to make a heartbreaking choice between evacuating and staying with their pets. Many, many best friends have died, and so many more are lost. Shelters are without power and supplies and animals have had to be evacuated to

Texas

. There is water, too much water, but most of it is too contaminated for animals to drink. Farm animals are standing in water, hooves and legs suffering. Many, many animals will have to be euthanized, even as rescuers work diligently to try save them. The local humane society is not equipped to deal with this level of tragedy, and the Humane Society of the

United States

is sending in rescue teams.

 

Like everyone else right now, they need our support. Freak and I have sent what we could. We wish we could hop in our car right now, and head out loaded down with the supplies they desperately need, but this is what we can do. Please consider sending what you can to the humane society and putting a link on your blog to help them publicize the need.  

I am overwhelmed right now at how unbelievably lucky I am to be greeted by my best friend in my safe and sound home.

Anna Roland Rocks the Socks Off My New Camera

I wonder how as Americans we can be so connected--too connected almost and yet, be so removed from each other.   I'm sitting at a coffee house in town, texting Freak while the Gas Fast Tour gets going, surrounded by Zen and Scientist, trying not to think about why there's only twenty of us here.  Even as I slide my cell phone out of sight, I'm still apart, one with my camera--metering and balancing, drawn in, instant by instant. 

Anna Roland and Thistle are touring the Northwest by bike (hence the Gas Fast Tour), a political and personal statement about our dependence on oil, a war with no end in sight, and some really amazing folk music.  Anna and Thistle are angrier, nervier Ani's, Alanis long before she sold out, the heiresses-apparent to Joni Mitchell.   Zen knows Anna from St. Louis.  I vaguely know her in the way all of left-leaning St. Louis is never more than six-degrees of separation from each other. Wireboy is beside himself that I get to see Anna.  If he knew I was seeing Anna through the lens of my new camera, he just might wet himself. 

I used to be a biker chic too--tearing up the Kady Trail, yelling with Critical Mass, biking my way to killer hamstrings and glutes.  Long before diabetes, before all the fatigue, before divorce, before bitterness, before Oregon, and Freak, I was a radical righteous babe.  Now, I am never more than a cell phone, an email, a text message away from anyone, never further than my Jeep or Hotwire can take me.   

Yet, I know the real distance.  The radical activist in me hasn't succumbed so much to the suburban buzz that I'm not aware of how far apart we really are these days.  I 've never seen 99% of my food growing, my bargain-clothes come from countries I'm not sure I could locate on a globe, and I know the names of the neighbors on my block and no other.  I can walk in my downtown neighborhood and see no other pedestrians.  The nearest "corner produce market" is four big box grocery stores, 3 miles, and two huge roads away. 

I am so far removed from my life in Vancouver (was that ever really my life?), from Zen's life in China, from the life of my grandparents.   Why is it that this is the first time in two years that I have walked at night to the coffee house?  I live with four other people, and yet, this is our first group outing.   Board games and chess sets sit idle while Ipods and cell phones hum.  Yahoo! shows all four of us online, separately together, alone in our little Internet bubble.  I live in one of the most bike friendly states in the nation, and yet, I still can't trust the cars. 

I want to tell you how amazing Anna Roland's music is, how you must go see in Corvallis (Interzone, Tomorrow, August 19th) or in Eugene (Mystic Pizza, August 26th), how she'll silk screen her logo right on the shirt you wear to the concert, how her CD's are a mere $5 (which didn't stop mine from getting lifted from the ladies room), and how Thistle is starting a community in Iowa.  But, all I can think about is how I'm not doing enough, how I'm sitting in a circle of plastic chairs, the intoxicating odor of tobacco and apple pie sedating us, and I'm talking the radical talk, and I keep thinking, "This is not my life, I'm not really here." 

But, I am here, and this IS my life.  I'm doing so much, and yet, still not enough.  My garden died a horrible death sometime in July, recycling and composting are sporadic events in our house, and I give too many of my dollars to silliness, and I have to work too hard to do the common sense things that should be second nature.  All these "Big Ideas" rolling around in our heads, and to 90% of the world, it's so simple, it's laughable.   We need each other.

The weirdness of Reno

Reno is a weird city.  Reno is a buffed, polished guy.  You know--the body-builder type, whose complete lack of a personality leaves you cold, but still you can't help but look? Yup, that's Reno. Reno is tan, and taut, no wasted colors on this town of beating sun and gleaming metal.  Any available square foot or item of historical  interest is given over slot machines.  Seriously--pump gas & play Slots at 711.  Get an ice cream cone & play a little video poker.  It's all about ONE thing:  Money, money, here.  Like the body builder whose just about muscle, Reno has no further depth. 

Our hotel is a concrete oasis of 27 floors, and several hundred thousand square feet. It has a Casino (Of Course!), a mall, a dozen restaurants, a video arcade, go-karts, and more.  But, it started to feel like a cruise ship after a few days, and Friday we were ready to jump ship. 

Armed with the local Indie paper, we headed off in search of Thai food.  The first place gave new meaning to hole-in-the-wall: a windowless enclave in the middle of a sketchy rent by the hour motel.  We didn't slow down.  The second place on our list had two fire trucks, an ambulance, and a police car in front, lights flashing.  We kept driving.  We ended up at Claim Jumpers, a western chain that looks just like a dozen others around the country, and whose food was interchangeable with that we had at the hotel. 

While eating, the sky opened up, and being true Oregonians, we barely noticed.  Native Reno chicken littles, however, ran around declaring the end of the world, wringing their hands over a half hour of flooding (due to their lack of drains), and driving like they were being recruited for "Day After Tomorrow 2." 

We took refuge from their SUV water-skiing antics in a Borders.   I can't believe I'm typing this, but I was a little burnt out on books, having had books, books, and more books for three straight days.  Then, it hit me as I wandered around--I KNOW her, and oh! That one! I saw HER too, and Oh! I heard HER speak! Imagine the thrill of seeing so many books of people I've met at the conference!  Suddenly Reno didn't seem so bad . . . .

We All Park Together

On a rare moment, I will suddenly be struck by how incredibly lucky I am.   It hit me today, as with the gorgeous Oregon sunshine streaming down, I parked my car in the last available spot on the roof of the parking garage where I park.  As I walked the long row of cars, cars I have seen nearly every day for two years now, it occurred me how completely ordinary and yet, completely wonderful all those cars, side by side really are. 

We have "W" is for Women" stickers, "Bring Big League Baseball to Portland!,"  "Kerry/Edwards,"  "Support Our Troops"  "No War"  "No on 36"  "One Man, One Woman"  and a host of other causes adorning beaters and BMW's, SUV's and hybrids.  We all park together.  We all go off to do the work of the people every day.  We make the state agencies run, we answer questions, we are union and non-union, and we are all unique. 

How completely ordinary and wonderful.  I am so blessed to live in a place where I can work for the government, maintain my own beliefs and identity, park my message-laden automobile among others with opposing viewpoints, and not worry about keying and car bombs, job loss or retribution. 

Tis days like today that I truly appreciate how wonderful this country is, why it's still worth  protecting and fighting for, why these little ordinary, wonderful things must be treasured.   

What small ordinary, wonderful things did you encounter today?

An Open Letter to My Veteran

I know you don’t consider yourself a hero. You tell me Navy stories for entertainment, not out of any great pride at having served. But still, when I think of you, at 18, fresh out of high school, signing up, I think of bravery. In my role as a indignant liberal, I spend a lot of time bashing on the military, bashing our foreign policy, and generally avoiding overt demonstrations of patriotism. But, I do have a deep love for this country. More than that, though, I have a deep respect for those who choose to serve and this is what this day is all about.

It’s not about wars we disagree with.  It’s about you, and the thousands like you. It’s about men who have worn the uniform with honor. And there’s something about a man in uniform . . .

I am a Patriot

I’m addicted to the Olympics. I seriously think I will experience withdrawal next week. No annoying diving commentators, no Elfie and Tim giving better marks than the Gymnastics judges, no Bob Costas monotone to lull me to sleep at night . . . I love watching the unknown, who train in anonymity surge forward and fulfill lifelong dreams.  I love weeping team rowers, and rowdy beach volleyball fans. And if I’m honest with myself, I love the United States winning. I love red, white, and blue leotards, I love seeing Kerri Walsh slam one down Brazil’s throat for gold, I love hearing the star spangled banner, and seeing our flag go up.

Read more to see what kinda drug I'm on . . . . . .