Gold Rush!

So, officially I don't think that I have blogged about my brother and his current Alaskan adventure.

I shall do so now.

My middle brother (the one you would EXPECT to have an Alaskan adventure, if'n you know us Dorseys at all) left for Alaska at the end of April. He is there with a group of guys that he met in his Christian-men-who-like-to-hunt-and-fish-and-do-outdoorsy-things organization. They are there to work a gold mine. Yes. A gold mine. No. He doesn't know anything about mining.

The mine is 3o miles from Haines. In the middle of nowhere. Well. In the middle of bear country. But nowhere by people standards.

My sister-in-law and my niece (5 years old) and my nephew (3 years old), joined my brother 2 weeks ago. This is what they have to say for themselves:

Joy is bored.

Ella is playing in the dirt a lot, and she reports that she cannot play in "the backyard" because of the bears.

Hank has a blue sleeping bag.

Ryan doesn't say much--to me.

Now. This might all sound sort of strange, but not maybe extraordinary to you. This is where you are wrong.

Because this whole experience is being taped for a reality show for the Discovery Channel (working title Gold Rush). Oh yes. My brother, sister-in-law, niece and nephew, are poised to become darlings of the reality tv world--probably next year some time. This is completely surreal. Maybe even more surreal to those CLOSE to them. (Because, let's face it, this is sort of par for the course for Ryan and his brood.)

Here are some of the topics of conversation/worry/hope we entertain about the subject:

1. Lots of jokes (in bad taste, clearly) about the possibility of Ella and Hank being "Timothy Treadwell'd". (Yes. He has become a verb.)

2. Ryan or Joy or the kids showing up on The Soup. Or maybe Ryan getting to be a guest on Chelsea Lately. (This would rock my world, by the way.)

3. The potential need for me to change my last name.

4. Which of Henry's wives is married to one of the crew members. (The crew are all native English/Welsh/Irish/Scottish dudes. One of them is married to an actress who plays one of Henry the Eighth's wives on The Tudors. But I don't know which crew member. And I don't know which wife.)

5. Whether these guys are actually going to strike gold.

6. Whether Karen will end up on film. (Everyone agrees that she'd be a good tv character.)

You get the picture.

I'll keep you all posted.

Shout Outs

To my brother: I hear things have been a little rough in the great white north. Don't let the bastards get you down.

To Colorado: Way to be the first rats off the sinking ship, and welcome to the Pac 11.

To Baylor: Guess you guys are conference shopping. Good luck with that.

To Adam, with the adorable floppy hair: I would have been so super psyched if you and your drunk little friends had come to sit with me and my friends when I was your age. Want a piece of advice? Keep "You have to help me out here. I'm out of my element" in your pick up arsenal. You can get away with that for another few years. It's disarming. Have a good time drinking whiskey in Molalla tomorrow night. Happy 21st birthday.

To the Stray Cats: My apologies for butchering your song tonight. It was meant as an homage. Best intentions and all.

Shout outs:

. . . to the Blazers, who, thankfully, took care of business tonight.

. . . to my brother Ryan, or Jimmy, or Rimmy (whichever you prefer) for making it to 33 and celebrating by fishing, snowboarding, kiteboarding, mountain biking, and skateboarding. All in one day. (J-Bro dubbed today "Jimmy's very extreme day") He also did it all wearing a Breakin' tee.

. . . to the interwebs for providing me with this recipe, which, halved, cooked in a loaf pan and topped with chocolate ice cream, strawberries and whipped cream, made a very serviceable birthday cake for said brother.

. . . to Jim Rome for making me laugh out loud by talking about KG's bench antics. Seriously, that is some funny shit.

. . .to Qwanty for bringing the Brain Scientist and her sweet self to PDX tomorrow. Here's to our old haunts and to reconnecting with people we haven't seen in a long time. And to Black Butte Porter and Grilled Cheese Deluxe and DJ Greg. It's going to be super fun to have you here, K-dot!

Rite of Passage

On Saturday morning my 4-year-old niece left a message on my phone, but I couldn't quite make out its purpose. I tried calling back and didn't get her.

As it turns out, it wasn't necessary because later that afternoon she burst into the house yelling, "Auntie K, Auntie K! Come here! Auntie K!" When I walked into the room she excitedly kicked her leg up as far it would go so she could show off her new pink Converse. It is her first pair. She was all anxious to tell me about them, because she knows that I have several pair myself (6 currently, although 3 are still in Tejas--including my own pink ones). Even more terrifically awesome, she was wearing Hello Kitty socks with her pink Cons.

I couldn't be more proud.

(Sadly, in addition to great fashion sense, Ells and I also have in common giant, giant feet. These were a size 9, which, if you know kids' shoes at all, is a fairly remarkable size for a just-turned-4-year-old girl to wear.)

My sister-in-law had a gig at Duff's Garage (I love this website, by the way. Don't go to Austin, indeed!) tonight with her "Sentimental Gentlemen." Man, that girl can sing. She's also super cute.

But it's a weird scene. I just don't know what to do with a bunch of adult males (and it was pretty man-heavy in there tonight) who basically dress in costume to go out on a random Monday night. My favorite guy there was this older Japanese guy who had the slicked-back do, and a rockabilly jacket (with embroidered Asian motifs all over it), and Dockers. There was also a guy who looked like he was a 4th place winner at an Iggy Pop look-alike contest, and another one who was a dead ringer for Legs McNeil.

It was a good show. Joy's new lineup is really tight (even though the new bass player looks more like a member of Weezer than a guy in a country-swing band) and she sounded great. If you get a chance you should come see them play.

One more

for Qwanty. (And maybe also for J-Bro, if she's out there somewheres.)

We went to the Delta for a little Portland soul on my birthday. And by "Portland soul" I mean corn and black eyed pea fritters and a lovely drink that was made with Earl Grey-infused vodka and soy milk (over ice). The dinner party was made up of myself, my parents, Ryan, Joy, and my lovely niece and nephew.

They were playing the Beach Boys. This pleased my niece, who loves her some Beach Boys, some Buddy Holly, and some Joan Jett. (Go figure.)

This also led to a startling revelation about my mother, the Kare Bear. Apparently, her favorite Beach Boys song is "The Sloop John B." Weird, huh? I didn't know that this was anyone's favorite Beach Boys song.

That Karen is an original.

Speaking of Grandparents

OK, so have I ever written about the "Hunter's Banquet" (now, I guess called the "Sportsman's Banquet")? I don't think that I have. Which is weird, because the HB is one of the strangest things that is not really exactly a part of my life, but is something that sort of borders uncomfortably on my life. I forget about it most of the year. And then, suddenly, all the men in my family (with the exception of my youngest brother) are making plans to attend this event together and I am reminded again of the fact that this very weird thing is sort of part of my life experience. Let me explain:

For decades, my grandfather has been involved in a yearly event called the Hunter's Banquet. I have never attended this event (more on this in a moment), but here is my understanding of it: a bunch of church-goin' men who like to kill things for sport and have lifetime memberships to the NRA get together once a year for fellowship. They show off their recent taxidermy work, tell tall tales about fishing and hunting, win fishing/hunting related door prizes (everything from scopes, to knives, to gloves), and eat game. (And also bridge mix, which is sprinkled on the tables and is meant to represent--I kid you not--scat. Marvelous.)

The reason that I only have a shadowy idea of what happens at this event is that, for most of my youth, I was not invited because this was a men (and manchildren) only event. Now, it is true that I would not, at any point in my life, have been interested in attending this event. But the absolute exclusion based on my gender never really sat well with me. To make matters worse, I knew that there were women allowed to serve the men at the banquet, but this was the extent to which they were allowed to participate. Think I am exaggerating? Part of the event used to be that there was a bell that someone would ring every time a man mentioned anything about a female--be she a lady, or a doe. Um. Really.

At some point this started to change. I don't know that there are many women who go now, but my niece went this year and it sort of sounds like everyone enjoyed having her here. (How could they not. As any of you who have met her know, she's a damn charming person.) That said, I am sort of ashamed to admit that I harbour some negative feelings toward this event. It represents a lot of stuff that I really hate and that I don't have much of a sense of humor about. On the other hand, it isn't my deal. And I really only have to hear about it once a year, which amounts to nothing more than a mild irritation.

Right?

Oh yeah--

I think that my family now has a group favorite song to sing along to. That song would be "Everyday" by Buddy Holly.

Last night, we actually did sit around singing it together. It might be Ella's current favorite song (and she breaks out it in often. In public.).

After we listened to it I heard her say, to no one in particular, "I just really love his voice."

She's a very discerning almost-4-year-old.

Competiton

As much as I like to believe that I am the best storyteller in my family (immediate family, Marcus. Calm down.), the truth is that I have some competition. The youngest brother can spin a yarn or two, and even Rimmy occasionally can pull out a good one.

But we're all going down to my niece, who at three and a half can tell some whoppers.

If you see her ask her about:

*How Emily doesn't want to be her friend anymore cuz Ella stole the "E" from her name.

*How the little boy with the "black skin" (I think he's actually Indian or something) gave her his fruit snack. (In her defense, she has the most translucent of skin. EVERYONE looks like they have black skin in comparison!)

*About how she was a pumpkin when she was a baby.

*About what she is going to do when she gets older and drives a Toyota like Pal.

Only at your own risk should you ask her why she wants a high chair for Dodie (her stuffed bear) for Christmas. TMI, my friends.

And one more thing

Today is the 17th anniversary of my independent driving life. I have been a driver now longer than I was not a driver. This seems worth noting.

Why would I remember this date? Fittingly, I got my driver's license on my mother's birthday, the year that I was 16. And today is her birthday. (I know, she's a Scorpio. Scary, huh?) I say it is fitting because I might still not have a license if it were not for the fact that she threatened to ground me until I got it. See, because I was a terrible, terrible driver. And I had older friends who all agreed to drive me around. But my parents had to pick up the slack, and apparently they didn't appreciate it so much. So that's why, 9 months after my 16th, she had to take drastic measures.

I passed my test, but I shouldn't have (I turned left off a one way street from the center lane, which should have meant an automatic failure). When I got back, I could see that she was clearly happier about it than I was. She made me drive to my dad's office to tell him and I drove off the parking lot in his old work car--a white Oldsmobile Cutlass which became known as "Bessie" in honor of her cow-like qualities. (Lumbering, slow, a propensity to think for a long time before starting.)

Anyway, in typical Karen fashion she made me a driver by shoving me into it. And I'm better for it. (Let's face it, we're all better for it.) Happy birthday to her.

Doughnut Drama

So, because I know you are wondering how the doughnut experiment went on Halloween night, I am providing you with a little update. They were great. Typically doughnuts are my least favorite of all sweet things--the sweet thing that I am least likely to chase down. (My preferences are as follows, in case you care: Cookies, Pie, Candy of the Chocolate variety, Pudding-like things, Cake without much icing, Doughnuts, Cake with a lot of icing. I don't like icing much.) But I have always thought that it looked fun to make them. And, indeed, it is. Doughnut making includes some of my favorite baking and cooking processes: making dough, rolling out dough, cutting shapes out of dough (in this case with an Easter egg cookie cutter and an apple corer), and FRYING. This frying is foolproof. Heat the oil to 375 degrees, slip in the dough, wait about 30 seconds and flip. It couldn't be easier, really.

They were just plain raised doughnuts with an orange glaze. Not too sweet--since all the sweet comes from the glaze. And they were small and warm. Lovely, really. But, as Marcus found out, you have to be there to take part in the doughnut experience. Homemade doughnuts don't have much of a shelf life, and they really are best experienced right after they are fried.

It sounds great right? I bet you are wondering where the drama comes in. Well--just as I was firing up the fryer, the power went out. Everyone else thought this was really fun. But I was pissed. So we all ran around lighting candles, and the trick-or-treating part of our group returned to the house about 15 minutes later. We had about 20 people over--eating and talking and drinking cider in the dark. Not surprisingly, I sulked and did dishes.

But the lights eventually came back on, and I got to have my fun, and the doughnuts were considered a success, even though Ella thinks that I need to try chocolate.

Halloween History & Philosophy, Make-Ready Style

It is Halloween y'all. And if you live in the Pacific NW, you know what that means. After a week of lovely, lovely fall weather and unseasonably warm (low 70s) temperatures, it turned suddenly cold and rainy last night--just in time to secure the tradition of big bulky coats obscuring cool costumes, turtlenecks under princess dresses, and dads carrying big golf umbrellas and travel mugs. I know that I am sometimes given to hyperbolic statements, but believe me when I tell you that I can't remember a Halloween when my hopes for decent trick or treating weather were not dashed at the last minute. I remember one year it was so windy that I kept considering the possibility that I might actually blow away. (You know, like Piglet in the Blustery Day story.)

Luckily I was blessed with a mother who downplayed the whole dressing up thing, and played up the getting candy thing, so I was often dressed fairly last minute in a costume that I didn't care very much about. My mom dressed us for comfort and warmth: sensible shoes for maxium distance, layers for optimal heat. Even our trick or treating routes through the neighborhood were carefully planned so that we could do half the neighborhood, come back home and drop the candy we'd received (and maybe have a hot chocolate) and then head back out with a lighter load, but without having lost valuable time or energy due to backtracking.

The costume was never the thing. And so costumes could be functional. And since my parents' planning resulted in fairly large candy stashes every year, my brothers and I were not likely to complain. It was clear that they had a plan for success. This explains why I allowed my mother to dress me, for instance, as a lumberjack (complete with a full black makeup beard) when I was 7, and also why I was never a princess, a bride, a fairy OR a female superhero. It may also explain why I absolutely refuse to costume myself now. The only reason to do it in the first place was to fleece my neighbors of their sweets. Once the opportunity to do that passed, there was never a good reason to do it again. (Well, once. I DID wear a costume for the Spirit Week pep assembly lip synch contest my junior year in high school--devoted readers might remember this story--but that is the only time I have put on a costume since the last time I went trick or treating. When I was 12.)

But don't misunderstand me. I'm not all, "Bah, Humbat" about Halloween. I celebrated by baking cookies for my classes and showing them episodes of Making Fiends. And tonight the family will gather, and Blake will probably carve some pumpkins, and my mom will make some fondue, and the kids will run around and scream and eat too much sugar and stay up too late. And I am going to try my hand at doughnut making--since homemade doughnuts seem like a seasonal kind of foodstuff.

But I'm not passing out candy, whipping up maple frosting, playing with baby Hank (in a giraffe costume, no less!), or eating liquid cheese in a costume. And I'm certainly staying indoors.

Mouths of Babes

Wow. I totally feel like I need to stop complaining about things. Especially weird things. I'm starting to sound neurotic. (I may, in fact, be neurotic, but I don't necessarily want to sound it!)

For a change of pace, I'll tell you the funniest thing that I have heard anyone say in a long time.

It goes like this:

One of the highlights of my trip home was a day at the Kah-Nee-Ta resort, which is on the Warm Springs Reservation, just on the other side of Mt. Hood from Portland. Summer days at Kah-Nee-Ta are a family tradition--my grandmother used to take us when we were kids, and now my mom and I take the kids of the next generation. We go early-ish in the morning with a giant packed lunch, and spend the entire day at the pool--which is huge and warm (from the springs) and in a natural basin, so that when you are in the pool itself, you are surrounded by high desert mountains on all sides. It is sunny there like 300 days a year, which is impressive in Oregon.

The pool complex is made up of three connected pools--the first is only about 3 feet deep, so that you can hang out in it with pretty young kids. The second is about 4/5 feet deep. There are two large water slides that feed into this part of the pool. It's a good place for just sort of hanging out, since most adults can touch the bottom, but are mostly covered by water. This is where there is a lot of teenage action--kids playing ball, and teen couples making out. (I mention this because it is almost pornographic. At one time I counted 7 different couples glued together. It was sort of disturbing.) The last pool is deep--11 feet, I think--and houses the serious swimmers.

We took my niece, the lovely lady E, and my cousin's three kids, (known to some as the M-clones). My cousin also came with us. Because there were so many of us, we were forced to take 2 cars. My mom drove Heath and his oldest boy. Since I already had the carseat in my car, I took E. and the youngest M (because they mostly just wanted to ride together. Those kids have a total mutual admiration society). I also took Miss M (the middle and only girl child), who I think wanted to hang out with me. Which is actually pretty flattering, since she is one of the coolest kids I know.

So, she was the one who made the HILARIOUS comment. We were driving, and she was telling me about a boy that she sort of likes (enough said, I don't want to give too much of her personal life away here. I'm exploiting her for the sake of the blog, but I don't want to exploit her.) Anyway, as we discussed her elementary school love life, she mentioned that she thought this boy liked her as well. I told her that this was not surprising to me, since she is a particularly beautiful and smart girl. Here was her response:

"Well, I am the second smartest girl in the class. K______ is the smartest. But she is like a genius."

I replied that I had a hard time believing that anyone outsmarted Miss M, but she quickly assured me that she was correct,

"No, really Kristin, she's the smartest." And then there was a pause. At which time Miss M added, without irony, "Of course, she did pee her pants in class a couple of times this year. But she is still a genius."

When I was done laughing, I told Miss M that I thought that peeing your pants in class automatically took you out of running for the smartest kid in the class, no matter what reading group you were in.

I also realized that I am now so old that I can't even remember the days when anyone peed accidentally in public, and where everyone knew about it. I vaguely remember someone throwing up on their desk in 3rd grade, and that being a big deal all year, but I don't even remember who it was. Only the sympathy I felt for the poor bastard.

As Miss M turned around to try to start some kind of game with the younger kids, I found myself thinking about how simple life is in elementary school. I felt a longing for that simplicity (not surprising, given the number of adult concerns that I'm struggling with right now).

And then I gave myself a mental slap. As miserable as job hunting, dating, real estate, moving, health concerns and everything else that goes along with being an adult may be, worrying about public wetting of oneself, or of others wetting themselves in public, is definitely worse. It's symbolic of the lack of control--real or perceived--you have as a kid. And as much as I hate making decisions on my own (and trust me friends, I DO hate that), I'd much rather have options than have to ask for a bathroom pass.

Word Made Flesh

OK, so I'm not some kind of hippie or anything--I'm as much of a skeptic as anyone you are likely to meet--but sometimes I do have to admit that there does seem to be a relationship between speaking something and having it come to pass. That is--sometimes it does feel that you can talk something into being.

Just a few mere hours ago, I spoke of the legendary and mighty Space Room, and lo! That is where I spent the last 3 hours, quite happily. For those of you who have enjoyed the pleasures of the Space Room, I invite you to lean back and recollect the wonderful times that you have had there. For those of you who have not been initiated, I say to you, come visit me here tout de suite so that you can begin making memories of your own. I will pick you up at the airport and deliver you immediately to the Space Room.

I've been frequenting the Space Room since I turned 21. The last time I was there was about a year ago. I'm always afraid that it will not be as good when I go back. But tonight I went with my cousin, and his lovely boyfriend Sean (who is also a colleague of mine) and it was everything that I remembered: the drinks were strong and cheap, the waitresses sassy, the jukebox filled with Neil Diamond, Patsy Cline, Elton John, Johnny Cash and the Beatles. My Bloody Mary glass was filled with the inexplicable sesame seeds. We were bathed in black light and surrounded by florescent paintings of Mt. Hood, downtown Portland, and Haystack Rock.

In a word, the Space Room is always, always reliable. And that reliability provides the backdrop for great conversation, memorable occasions, and all-around good times. And lest you think that I am just (once again) being biased in favor of PDX, let me tell you what Sean said about it: a) that as soon as he walked in he felt like he was on the set of a movie and b) by the time he left, the Space Room was his new favorite bar ever.

God bless Sean, and God bless the Space Room.

Golden Evenings

Friday night I was out working at a coffee shop and my parents called me and asked me to meet them at Acapulco's Gold for dinner. Which was awesome.

My parents love Acapulco's Gold, which is sort of weird, because it isn't really a "parents" kind of place. But they have (according to my mother) great chicken nachos and the strongest, cheapest, and most easily drinkable margaritas I've ever had. The margaritas taste sort of like lemon-lime crystal lite, but with a kick. That sounds disgusting, but it is actually sort of marvelous.

Further, all the servers are heavily tattooed and pierced, there are always a couple of tables of gay boys, and the restaurant is all the way over in deep NW--a long drive from the Happy Valley compound.

But Bruce and the Kare Bear love it.

There are two strange consequences of this for me:

1. Many of my adult family memories actually take place at the Gold. My parents have taken all my out-of-town guests there (Laura has an especially good story about the night that we went there). We've celebrated family birthdays there. Dr. Awesome and I took our parents there together. AND, the Gold is where my brother and sister-in-law told us that they were having a baby. (Not just any baby, it turns out, but rather the lovely Lady E.)

2. Because so many of my family memories take place at the Gold, but also so many of my 20-something memories happened there too, I have some serious cognitive dissonance about the place. After all, I also have memories of going there with Anita and Katie (Katie got so drunk BEFORE dinner that she spent most of the meal outside throwing up). And of the time that I walked there with Emily after work at the pharm and we split 2 pitchers of margaritas (which could easily kill a horse) and then walked back to the pharm and, because I was still drunk, I had to take the # 15 bus down Belmont and call my dad to pick me up. And there have been lots of nights there with Qwanty (when she dated the bun-wearing guy) and Dr. Awesome and my brother and who knows who else.

I don't mind Acapulco's Gold as a crossroads for my youthful memories and my family memories, but shoot me if I ever start hanging out at the Space Room or BOG with my parents--it'll be all over then.

Speaking of Baby Boomers

This should be funny to those of you who know my mother.

Today, as we were crossing over Mt. Hood on our way back from the chalet, she made this completely ridiculous statement:

"Usually I pop in some Rod Stewart or Rolling Stones, and I just fly home."

Rock on, Karen.

"You didn't tell me you were a hippie"

So my dad (known to and loved by most of you as "Bruce") was really excited to take me to this fairly new restaurant chain called "Cafe Yumm!", which has evidently become sort of a phenomenon in the Eugene/Springfield area. There are currently five here, and one in Bend, and one coming to Corvallis. My mom and I were fairly skeptical about this culinary experience, but several hours later I'm starting to fear that Cafe Yumm!'s food is a little like crack in a bowl, covered in Tillamook cheddar. Now that I've picked up the bowl, I might not ever be able to put it back down. (My mother stuck with a turkey sandwich and has not been won over by the Yumm!)

So what is it? You may ask. Well, to quote Monkey James, "I am glad that you've asked that." Yumm! Bowls (the exclamation point is part of the trademark) are bowls of rice with some kind of bean, cheddar, diced tomato, fresh avocado (which I forgo, as I am not a fan of the avocado), sour cream, black olives, cilantro, and some mystery condiment known as "Yumm! sauce." I don't know what "Yumm! sauce IS, exactly, other than that it IS delicious.

So this is a fairly simple concept, but the actual execution is waaaaay better than you could imagine. It shouldn't work, actually, since there are lots of competing flavors. But it is marvelous. I had the "Smoky" bowl which is brown rice and vegetarian chipotle chili and salsa. I also had one of their barbecue tofu skewers.

This is another great reason to move to Eugene.

After dinner we made the traditional pilgrimages to all the Dorsey-related Eugene haunts--my mom's freshman dorm and my dad's seedy basement apartment. We talked about movies they saw (I think all of them in 1970) here, and we tried to find a particular Dairy Queen that my mom remembers (but that seems to be gone now). And, of course, we went up to Hendrick park so that we could pay homage to the corner where we lost Pre (bow your head for a moment of silence and think about what Pre has done for you).

We also went through the university so that we could look at the outside of Mac Court, Hayward Field, and so that my dad could show us where he parks when he comes down for the Oregon boys' basketball tourney every March.

Eugene is a totally charming town. And, for the record, I prefer forest green O's to burnt orange longhorns any day of the week.

Feels Like Vacation

I'm having a slightly hard time with the transition from Austin to Portland. It's hard to go from 95 and sunny to 62 and rainy (even if you LOVE the rain, as I do). I went to pick up Mikey for drinks tonight (on Foster--THAT is awesome) and he made fun of the fact that I was wearing flip flops.

The truth is, I didn't even get out of bed for most of the day because every time I tried, I nearly froze. It turns out that the air conditioning was on in the house. On accident. It was seriously cold, but it was also a good excuse for watching back-to-back episodes of Nanny 911 while curled up in a quilt, eating toast with strawberry jam.

Tomorrow I'm heading to Eugene--my dad's there to see a track meet this weekend--and then my parents and I are going to the chalet, and Ryan, Joy and the kids will meet up with us there later in the weekend. Good times.

I brought my niece, the lovely Lady E, two pairs of hello kitty socks (I like to have something in my carry-on to bring her when I get into town). She was really excited about them, and told me that she, "loves hello kitty" and has a new hello kitty toothbrush.

I am so proud.

That's about all the news. If you can even call it that.

I'm Woman Enough

to explain J-Bro's last comment. She sent my brother this you tube clip of scenes from The Notebook set to the the song "Right Here Waiting" and then he sent it to me and to Mikey J. I didn't watch it for awhile, but when I did, it made me cry.

Ok, listen, I'm not proud of that. But the song came out my freshman or sophomore year of high school and it reminds me of being 13 and of dances (because I still went to school dances then--it was before I "graduated" to hanging out at Red Robin after games with friends who drove). And it is a truly emotionally manipulative song to boot.

Also, for the record, I have never seen The Notebook, because I have sort of a policy against films made from NYT bestsellers. It's almost never a good idea. BUT, Ryan Gosling also makes me cry. As J-Bro is well aware, I couldn't even watch the end of Half Nelson because I was so upset and disturbed by it. I saw Lars and the Real Girl 3 times in the theater. But the thing that really gets me is The Believer--in which he plays a self-hating Jewish neo-Nazi. (If you know me well enough you probably understand why this is one of my favorite movies ever.)

Bottom line: I can't take Richard Marx AND Ryan Gosling at the same time.

And, really? Blake actually likes G. E. Smith? For all these years I thought he was being ironic. When we were kids we'd watch SNL and he'd get really excited when they would show G. E. Smith playing on the outros. He'd get even more excited if G. E. Smith was actually in a scene (which would happen every now and again).

God, we are a family of people with really bad taste.

Reply to Uncle Moo

Ok Marcus. I could swear that I told you to shut your trap about If Lucy Fell. I'm not SJP's greatest fan or anything, but I love that film. Get over the fact that you watched it on my recommendation and hated it. That Eric Shaeffer guy is interesting. I like the stuff he does. And I do think that Bwick Elias is a good Ben Stiller character.

Now that I am done being pissy with you--one thing that is interesting about your comments on my blog is this: you often challenge my own sense of what the editorial policy of The Make-Ready is and should be. #1: you asked me to write on a specific topic (that piece of crap movie Legends of the Fall). Do I take requests? I have decided that I do. This has proven to be a hard post to write, because I have come around to your way of thinking on the matter. I am going to have to watch the film again in order to do the topic justice. And that is NOT something that I look forward to. Additionally, Qwanty has registered some mild objections to this topic, because she knows that I can't talk about the film without talking about her. The writing that I have already started on this subject does indeed discuss the circumstances under which I saw it, which does implicate Qwanty. I'm still working through this. But rest assured that I have not forgotten the request, and I will fill it at some point in the future.

Challenge #2: This has been brought up by your last post. Do I allow comment-ers to plug their own sites or posts? I've decided that, yes, I do. But I will also state here, for the record, that I have not yet read Marcus's contest blogs, and thus cannot recommend them. So, while I will allow you to drum up interest, I will not authorize or legitimize the product. I think that this is a reasonable policy going forward. (Of course, I will indeed read these gems. We are family, after all.)

In closing, Secretary as Christian allegory? Hmm. I may not think about that too hard. It sort of ruins the effect for me. Is that what you were trying to do? Is this some kind of perverse psychology trick? If so, you are a bad, bad preacher man. I invoke the voice of Beavis here (and I do think it is both apt and appropriate) when I ask, "Butthead, why do you have to ruin everything that is good in my life?"

(By the way--I'm TOTALLY in "training" and I hope that by the end of the summer I'm up to actually taking a run with you. I finally finished Bowerman and the Men of Oregon and it totally inspired me. Have you read it yet? If not, borrow my dad's copy and read it. It will make you proud to be a freaking Oregonian!)