I'm not a proponent of smoking dope. It just doesn't appeal to me. Seriously, though, the last person to pose a threat to anybody is someone who's stoned. What are they gonna do? Say "Dude!" too much?
Likewise, the state of Washington's police departments resolved to direct fewer resources to marijuana busts to focus on other things: violent crimes, alcohol-related crimes, methamphetamine busts, etc. Now they've been ordered to follow suit.
Eight years ago, I rode my bicycle from Seattle to the hamlet of Vader, Washington, with some friends. We spent the night and rode to Portland for a total of 200 miles (320 km) over the course of two days. I had caught the bug that has kept this annual event, the Seattle to Portland Bicycle Classic, going since 1979.
This year, for the (I think) eighth time, I finished the "STP" ride yet again but in just one day. As one can imagine, it was an eventful ride.
M. John Harrison might be my favorite writer. For a long time I was totally enamored of Tom Robbins' whimsical imagery and his ability to weave unrelated ideas together. Robbins' novel Jitterbug Perfume, for example, builds a common thread among beet pollen, perfumerie, and eternal youth.
Not that such a connection naturally exists. Robbins just makes it happen with some great storytelling. What he lacks, though, is lyricism. Harrison's ideas are great and so his words and his turns of phrase. You can read it out loud, and it just sounds... cool.
In any case, he also has a really cool blog. Way cooler than mine. One of his entries, it's about one of his dreams, got me to thinking.
A few weeks ago, I woke up literally gasping for air. No, it wasn't asthma. It was a dream about water skiing. It seems that I was dreaming about skiing behind a boat on very choppy water. I skied right up on a big wave thinking, "This can't be real." Then it hit struck home: I'm dreaming.
This has happened to me before. It's called lucid dreaming when you take control of your own dreams. Some people do it regularly, some never. This time, I was calling the shots and started flying a hundred feet above the ground because I wanted to. Then it got weird. I hit the water and plunged deep down. Suddenly I was breathing underwater and thinking, "This doesn't make sense." Then the panic set in. The gasping started and got bad enough that it woke me up.
Fortunately, a couple of weeks later, things weren't making sense again: another lucid dream! This time, it wasn't happening near the water so I conjured up a lake, jumped in, and started breathing normally. It didn't last because the alarm went off. Still, it was a great experience. I can't wait for it to happen again!
Lightning is one of the great unsolved mysteries because we can't observe it directly. It's nearly impossible to know what's happening in the middle of a roiling, black cumulonimbus cloud without being right there. And that carries some inherent risks. The most promising explanation today involves cosmic rays, radiation from supernovas. Granted, this theory has its supporters and its detractors.
Not that it matters what causes lightning, so much as what keeps it from happening more often here in Seattle. For all the rain it gets, this city sees precious little lightning. That leaves me pining sometimes because I grew up in an area with plenty of thunderstorms. I especially miss them at night because the rolling thunder puts me to sleep. (yawn!) I'm getting tired just thinking about it...
The other night, contrary to climatological convention, we had a gorgeous thunderstorm that merited a video on a local paper's website. Enjoy!
Three weekends every summer, I work at a camp for disabled adults. This will be my fourth year. The campers run the gamut of syndromes and developmental disabilities. Some of them are described as "high functioning": they have a good grasp of language and can learn some new skills. Others are stagnant in their cognitive abilities.
While the latter group is restricted in their intellect, they're equally unrestricted in their emotional abilities. They really do love you unconditionally. Well, some of them do. Others are more independent, shall I say. We had a big scare with a chronic "wanderer" on Sunday afternoon.
A little before noon Sunday, one of the counselors looked around doing the usual headcount every five minutes or so. Then she posed an unsettling question. "Where's Melvin?"
This is actually a commercial for the Washington State Lottery. I don't see the connection between it and playing the lotto, but it's still a very cool commercial. My favorite part is the penguin waddling excitedly through the grass. Ya gotta love the music, too.
I'm working at home today. It's warm and sunny, no deadlines. It harkens to one of my favorite songs, by the most famous unknown Memphis band. When you live in Memphis, whose name locals pronounce "Meffis," two things are in your blood: great food and great music. Some of the best music was by a group named Big Star.
Some of the most influential artists of the modern era made Memphis their home, even if they weren't originally from there. Elvis Presley was a native of Tupelo, Mississippi, but spent most of his life in the River City. It has also been home to W.C. Handy, B.B. King, Isaac Hayes, among them.
These are all easily recognized artists, each with a solid foundation in the blues and gospel music. Most fans, however, probably aren't aware of the two most influential acts in alternative rock: Big Star and Television. The latter formed in New York City in 1973, working with the other founders of punk and new wave.
Big Star, who took their name from a local grocery store, formed in Memphis in 1971. Their first album hit the stands in 1972 and likely was an influence on Television's own sound. This seminal distinction defines their status: mythic figures among modern musicians. Outside of their hometown, few folks know them as a band, despite knowing some of their music.
Today's laid back atmosphere reminds me of the first song, Thirteen, the rest are tunes that other bands have covered or that I just like. Enjoy!
I was reminded of this song today. I have NO idea exactly how it came to my mind, but there it was.
In 1986, this song from the album Saint Julian was a cult hit thanks to M-TV. It never became a huge hit, probably for the same reason that R.E.M. and U2 were only also-rans at the time: the majority of the music-buying public were just interested in hair metal bands with names like Ratt and Poison.
That, and Cope was just ahead of his time.
It's remained a resilient hit among musicians for its lyrics and layered sound, both emblematic of Cope's eclectic style. So, here goes, World: Shut your mouth, cuz Saint Julian says so!
We headed down to Sunset Hill the other night for a picnic. And why not, with this view?
On a clear day, you can see Vancouver Island, i.e., Canada. This was a clear day, with an international view. Being Americans on a picnic, we ate (organic) fried chicken, among other things (like ricotta cheese cake!). Though the picnic was typical, the setting was not. Only half a dozen other people were there.
Sunset Hill is usually overrun with parkgoers. It doesn't even have to be warm, just a tolerable temperature with a lack of precipitation. This particular Saturday evening, though, was far from tolerable; it was perfect. Still, only a dozen or so other people were around.
So why were so few people present? The wedding party, or just its foreshadowing, probably scared them off: tables with giant flower bouquets, a few dozen white folding chairs, a balalaika player, and a handful of smartly dressed people conversing in Russian.
Over the next hour, the wedding crowd grew, and my knack for conversing with complete strangers came in handy with a passerby. I never got his name, just his life story. A Norwegian immigrant, he moved to Ballard, Seattle's famously Norwegian neighborhood, in the early 1970's in search of an education and a career. He found both and thought about moving back to Norway, but life happened - wife, kids, a fish processing business in Alaska.
After hearing all that and tales of Ballard's Norwegian glory days, a racing green BMW rolled up with the bride in back. Feeling innocently voyeuristic, we just sat and watched a brief, bilingual, secular ceremony: the officiate read vows in English, the translator read them back in Russian.
The whole ceremony was all of ten minutes long. We didn't hang around too long afterwards. Canada, Russia, Norway, and the US of A - four countries were enough for one night.
and thinking, "This doesn't make sense." Then the panic set in. 
The gasping started and got bad enough that it woke me up.
Still, it was a great experience. I can't wait for it to happen again!
