Maya gets to work on the extraction. Not sure who that other kid is, though.

Maya gets to work on the extraction. Not sure who that other kid is, though.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

"What'll this get me?"

"What'll this get me?"
Originally uploaded by emaggie

The next teeth are lined up already. So keep your hillbilly jokes holstered, thank you very much.

The next teeth are lined up already. So keep your hillbilly jokes holstered, thank you very much.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Finally, someone to pull away that precious title from Jim Belushi

If I've learned anything by moving regularly from the highest of high to the lowest of low brow movies, it is this - Nicholas Cage is the worst living actor on the Planet.  Maybe of all time.  There was a time when "Raising Arizona" earned him a bit of slack to step away from that pronouncement.  But after suffering through a recent Cage double bout of the mental runs, I can no longer afford to give him that much rope.  First of all, "Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans" is a complete sewer of dumped cliches and flushed mental hygiene products.  I give it a strangely-coveted big phat F rating.  Weirdly, it got enough flaky good press that I thought I'd grind through it via Netflix.  Big mistake.  It's not that it's gritty.  It's just bad.  And Cage is by far the worst part of it.  Given that he's on screen in every single scene save a few interspersed short expositions with even less likable characters, well...you've been warned.

Then I moved onto "Kick-Ass" in the theatre.  It's a little "s" success of a movie.  There's enough sweetness layered into the silliness to make it entertaining front to back.  My rating - a very watchable C-plus.  But as much as Nicholas Cage should be hilarious and perfect for the good Dad doing bad things training his assassin daughter, he is just doubly awful.  Much of the time he's vamping Batman including the horrible Christian Bale accent from "The Dark Knight".  But he slips out of the accent enough while in costume to sound more like Adam West from the 60s TV version, and he doesn't seem in control enough to figure out which persona he's making fun of.  He just about ruins every scene he's a part of as a result.  There was a time when I maybe liked him as an actor.  I'm sorry to say that was a few decades ago and I've officially given up on him.  So use that to buck up and do some good work, Nick-o.  I doubt you will, but I don't want to be entirely a downer.

In contrast, one recent small movie that stuck with me for like 10 minutes because of the leading actor's performance (in a good way) was "The Ghost Writer".  It's not Roman Polanski's best.  Or even very close to it - he's got bigger issues than work right now given his extradition and associated legal fight.  Still, in "The Ghost Writer" the political-thriller story is overdone and the humorlessness of most of the action made it feel so cold and dated.  But Ewan McGregor is fantastic.  He adds something to every line and his infectious charm is the perfect counter point to an otherwise downbeat film.  He almost single-handedly earns a recommendation for the film.  Instead, I'll give it a C-Plus and say wait for the rental.  And whatever Ewan's in next, right in line next to me.

Hope your own reviews move you instead way above the mean today.  Rock on.

The new Elliott Bay Book Company on Capitol Hill, as seen from the across the street.

The new Elliott Bay Book Company on Capitol Hill, as seen from the across the street.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

I had to go check out the new digs for Elliott Bay now that it has reopened on Capitol Hill. Short story - I love it. I think a ton of other people will, too. The cafe` is not yet open. It smells like fresh paint. There are no used books. But the space is beautiful. Everyone working there appeared to be stifling a jubilant yell. Hopefully, they'll get the chance to let loose after work. Check it out. My rating - a strong A-minus.

They brought along the old entrance stained glass sign. Classy.

They brought along the old entrance stained glass sign. Classy.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

The weirdest thing I noticed - graphic novels are filed in a section named "Graphica" which is also right up front. Pretty sure that's a big change.

The weirdest thing I noticed - graphic novels are filed in a section named "Graphica" which is also right up front. Pretty sure that's a big change.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

The view from the upper level shows the really strong, open, woody feel of the place.

The view from the upper level shows the really strong, open, woody feel of the place.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

The same Real Change salesguy came along to the new place. It was nice to see that he made the move safely, too.

The same Real Change salesguy came along to the new place. It was nice to see that he made the move safely, too.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

"Lobster attack!"

"Lobster attack!"
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Prepping for Sarah's birthday dinner earlier this week. Two of those pictured above didn't survive the process. The other soon thereafter was no longer freaked out. And quite satisfied.

Sarah wanted to see whether her new haircut could properly withstand gale force headwinds. Success.

Sarah wanted to see whether her new haircut could properly withstand gale force headwinds. Success.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

We ran a half marathon on Whidbey Island this weekend with a group of friends. Maya led the enthusiastic cheering squad. Good times were had by all. A few pics from the weekend follow. Rock on.

The ferry out to Whidbey Island didn't require a Tootsie Roll Pop. But why not.

The ferry out to Whidbey Island didn't require a Tootsie Roll Pop. But why not.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Hunting for shells along the eastern shore of Whidbey Island.

Hunting for shells along the eastern shore of Whidbey Island.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Maya offers up her congrats post race.

Maya offers up her congrats post race.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Riding the ferry back to Mukilteo.

Riding the ferry back to Mukilteo.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Even though Randy Jackson tries so hard every week to do so...

 

We spent last weekend in Chicago.  It already seems like months ago.  I truly admire that city - it's one of those vertical places that just draws your gaze upward more often than not.  Included in that short trip was a full-on gorgeous Hindu wedding (bride side), with some strong Jewish themes (groom).  Mazeltov for a counterpoint to the Easter Bunny and all the sugary bunk that he brings with him.  Also included in the weekend was a long run along the stunning Lake Michigan shore, with the looming buildings of downtown beckoning us forward all the way to and around the beautiful individual draws of the larger Museum District.  Round it all out with a chance to visit the Art Institute, which I've only been through a few times. It still lives on as one of my favorite museums in the world.  The special Matisse exhibit was interesting, but I'm not a huge fan.  I was maybe more inspired by a disdainful walk around the really recent American art rooms.  Thank gawd for pretentious artists and the descriptions of their work offered up to explain, for example, a room with bad wallpaper and bags of kitty litter scattered about.  Otherwise, how could a rube really laugh with purpose at what would otherwise be impenetrable.

Back here in little ol' Seattle, I had a few larger thoughts that I want to share quickly.  First of all, "American Idol" is dead to me.  Everyone seems to be saying that the singers this time around are not that impressive.  Maybe so.  But if you really want to know what happened, I think it boils down to one person.  Adam Lambert.  He killed "Idol".  He killed it with his talent that the viewing public just couldn't handle (hell, he couldn't handle his own talent, as evidenced by what he's done since finishing as the runner-up last year).   But, more uncomfortably, Adam Lambert killed "Idol" with his gayness.  Gayness that I totally support.  I love his gayness.  It was liberating and cheesy at the same time.  And it just plain pushed the show flailing madly over the proverbial shark chomping below with the lowest of expectations for a new Carrie Underwood, or some sort of Daughtry-type tater.  The "Idol" shall intrigue this generally great land no longer.  Y'all had a good run.  Now go away.

Secondly, I am wondering why no one has come up with the sport of summer biathlon.  Seriously.  As someone who is getting a huge kick out of running regularly and who misses the Winter Olympics events that no one really cares about for 3 years and 50 weeks in a row - where is the summer version of long distance run/ski/bike/grass-dogsledding and rifle shooting?  I'd like to offer free use of the following un-trademarked event name to those persons who will begin promoting it mercilessly - "duablastathon".  Either that or "sunandfungunning".  Regardless, I'm convinced this one's a winner.

Hope your own random thoughts today also bring to light unidentified societal blindspots.  Rock on.

You Should Run. Too.

We're heading off to Chicago tomorrow for what should be a fun family wedding.  Given our muddled American mutt heritage, an Indian wedding on Easter Weekend sounds like the right spice to add to the stew.  Especially since I've done such a lousy job on Passover this week.  It all started last Friday when I was packing preschool lunch for Maya.  She was having a special pre-Passover break seder with her classmates, so a lunch was gilding the lilly.  Still, I asked Maya if she wanted a tuna sandwich.  She quietly withdrew into her own shell while still seated at the counter for breakfast.  When I finally noticed and asked her why she was upset, she told me that bread wasn't allowed for Passover.  I corrected direction as best I could and apologized to for not knowing the drill - she's really a good kid who so dearly wants to follow the rules.  Oh well.  At least I hadn't asked if she wanted a pulled pork sandwhich or a shrimp po' boy.

If you've caught wind of another blog I started last week, I hope you will check back as I look toward some upcoming goals.  For those totally unaware, I'm training for a half marathon in little more than a week.  And then a full marathon in early October back in Minnysoda (the Twin Cities Marathon on the 3rd).  My new project ("You Should Run") is envisioned as a runner's blog that hopefully will add a bit more zazz than just running shtick to the daily posts.  Please check it out if you want to track whether this not-so-long-ago big ol' load of a feller can pull it together for a full marathon given another six months of training.  Not that it matters, but ages ago I ran my one and only marathon (Seattle in late '96) well enough to qualify for the Boston Marathon.  But I trained so poorly and so ruined myself in the process that I had to skip Boston that following Spring.  This time around, I'm trying to show that I'm a decade and a half smarter about the grand arc of such an endeavor.  I know, I know - silly me.

Hope your own loops are new and tree-lined this weekend.  Rock on.

Meanwhile, as the RNC debates how much to tip for a lapdance...

Reactionaries on the Left are lining up to take shots at the latest news from the Obama Administration.  Expanded offshore drilling along the East Coast and off the North Shore of Alaska.  People are shocked, SHOCKED, by the about-face on this ("he campaigned against it, for the love of crepes!").  I, however, must offer up what I've been thinking we've begun to see in policy practice from the Obamanauts and assuredly see here.

Obama is more than just moving the goalposts - he's rolling out a plan to redesign the whole stadium.  This is all part of a plan that was in place back during the campaign.  Because every campaign had a plan of what to do if they won.  And every campaign in the future will.  Even Sarah Palin would put together a similar list of initiatives, albeit one with startlingly different aims.

Anyone who takes the time to ponder the field of play will recall that Bill Clinton did the same thing.  So-called "welfare reform" being the bumpersticker example that to this day drives the GOP off their collective nut.  But there was a whole host of plays that Clinton stole (for lack of a better word) from the traditional playbook of Republicans.  Fast forward to Obama getting his big save with successful passage of health care reform.  He then moves quickly to knock things off of what I believe constitutes their big ol' "to do, to them" list hanging on the fridge in the White House breakroom.  Recess appointments.  Talking tough publicly and privately with Afghanistan.  Opening up energy exploration.  Next up, I expect the list of Administration initiatives will cause even more heartburn for the Left.  Social Security.  Terrorism prosecutions.  War powers undertaken in Pakistan, Yemen, Somalia, and even along the border with drug lords from Mexico.  I wouldn't be the least bit surprised by a very moderate pick to replace the soon to retire beloved lefty Justice John Paul Stevens on the Supreme Court - most likely a Senator or Governor meant to tie up those pre-ordained to object during confirmation hearings.  Long story short, Obama plays 3D chess.  The GOP, on the other hand, collectively couldn't look one move past yelling "King me!" after Scott Brown won a special election against one of the worst Senate candidates I've ever seen.  

What we're seeing with this offshore drilling headline nugget is a long-planned move in a larger serious game.  Can the GOP now take shots at Obama's energy policies, in anticipation of the climate change legislation debate about to heat up?  Sure, but DAMN did the Obamanauts take the legs out from under that GOP position.  Unfortunately, this "game" does have major impact on the environment and millions of jobs and just about every facet of our society.  I say "unfortunately" only because it has to be played like a game in order to win anything worth claiming as a trophy.  The truth is, I'd rather have Obama "playing" than any other leader in my adult lifetime.  Because even while he's changing the rules and where the dugouts are and how many vendors can sell gawddamn redhots from the stands, I believe this guy is smart enough to be thinking ahead to a whole wide world of what's next.  Obama says it himself - he's a better political strategist than his staffers tasked with that portfolio.  And he's right.

Hope your own perception of crisis presents an opening for expanded opportunities today.  Rock on.

Every generation looks back, some better than others.

This weekend featured an intentional movie double-feature of new releases.  Turns out that they very much focus on the same subject.  Turning 40.  And trying to turn back the clock to rectify doing so.  With very different results.

"Hot Tub Time Machine" features the best/worst full-story title since "Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead".  And some of the early reviews were actually quite positive.  Suckers.  We saw it opening night at a fairly crowded downtown Seattle multiplex.  While I was telling Sarah a scintillating story about buying socks at Nordstrom's (I wish I was joking), a big group of goofballs in their early 20s showed up in 80s-themed costumes.  Many of them were dressed way too generally (preppies, long-haired "Poison" rockers, blah blah blah).  I dearly wanted to give them credit for the effort, even though I would have chosen to show up as Max Headroom drinking New Coke.  Which would have also sucked.  Even more sadly, the reality is that they were just like the movie - funny to begin with as a derivative joke until the lameness creeped in and harshed everyone's buzz to the point of regret.  Although I expect the people behind the movie sincerely hoped for a good time to be had by all, they couldn't help but let their own neuroses seep in.  Everyone knows the set-up.  A bunch of childish adults try to go back and use a do-over to set everything right.  "Hot Tub Time Machine" lets them do so with out ill effects or anything like story editing required.  See it if you're a total douche or just plan to drink heavily either before or afterward.  Everyone should be required by law to come up with their own version of the story.  You couldn't do any worse.  My rating for this movie is a big fat D.

"Greenberg" was meant to be the indie counterpoint to "Hot Tub Time Machine".  And judging by the crowd, a polite gaggle of middle-aged Seattlites shared that impression going in.  I'll just get it out front - my rating is a widely-varied C.  Could've been a B-plus, felt more like a D.  The actors are all serious about what they do - Ben Stiller takes risks, Greta Gerwig is appropriately vague and fearless (her initial sex scene with Greenberg is stunning in the hilarious discomfort it causes), Rhys Ifans proved yet again that I'd go to see him in anything or even just hanging around coffeehouses that I frequent talking and smoking and generally looking like that cool-as-Sean Connery bedraggled burnout that sold pot in everyone's dorm sophomore year.  Where was I?  Oh, yeah.  The movie.  Man, it's just not there.  Greenberg is meant to showcase another form of 40-year-old angst - looking at back at what could have been.  But this time, from a place where your mind is damaged goods and you know it.  Aside from all that, there's one extended scene that effectively became the climax (before the actual climax of the movie).  I'm not spoiling anything here, trust me.  The set-up is quick.  Greenberg is housesitting at his brother's place and their oldest kid comes home from college at Spring Break.  She throws a party.  A bunch of entitled, probably cool-enough characters show up.  They give Greenberg drugs.  And you...wait.  You expect him to explode or run crazily off the rails or dissemble into a pile of rags that had once been a person with real promise.  What happens, I won't spoil.  But that scene and what comes after are the best acted riffs I can think of in recent memory.  Too damn bad it takes an hour and a half to get anywhere near it.

On second thought, see "Greenberg".  That whole party is worth the price of admission.

But if you want to really see something worth much more, I must recommend with my highest regard "The Pacific" on HBO.  It's a 10-part miniseries.  The first two parts were a slow burn, and I wasn't committed.  Then, Part 3 aired this weekend.  The main characters are safely off Guadalcanal, allowed to somewhat rest and barely recover in Melbourne as heroes.  They're greeted by, among others, some very horny Aussie women.  Or, more importantly, love-starved.  That love burns both sides - the civilians and the soldiers.  I won't give anything away here either.  Catch it if you can.  My rating is at this point a solid A.  My heart still hurts after Part 3.  If things go where I think they'll go in the upcoming chapters, I may need to get a full work-up to make sure no true damage was done.

Hope your own confused 80s nostalgia gets you nowhere near a movie starring Shannon Tweed today.  Rock on.

"Do you have the audio version of these? With or without the laugh tracks."

It's been a long while since a picture on the front page of the NYTimes made me laugh.  But seeing Obama enjoying a moment holding up both Mitt Romney's and Karl Rove's latest cheese screeds at an Iowa City bookstore induced more than a few yuks this morning.  I'm sure wonky folks all across 'Merica this morning are spitting up a bit of soy latte when they catch the implied meaning of that shot.  Kudos are due for that one, BigCity PaperPeople.  Even if they do hate our freedom, they're pretty goshdarn clever.

Speaking of which, that bookstore (Prairie Lights Books) must be stoked.  Obama bought three kids books there after giving them a shout-out during his health care reform event.  Some lucky staffer surely dug doing that advance location scout.  I'm sure his whole staff was loving the campaign throwback theatrics of it all.  Obama even got to field a heckle about paying for his books with taxpayer money.  In effect, that is true.  So kudos to the heckler, as well.

Hope your own job lets you spend copious time browsing in bookstores today.  Rock on.

Sorry, Elvis. You too, The Beatles. Oh, and Bob...well, I never really "got" poetry.

 A little game Maya started playing last night got me thinking about what makes a good pop song.  After dinner she was running upstairs to downstairs - from me to Sarah - asking us for a song to sing to the other.  We started simple and really only gave her a chorus.  “Beat It”, “Who Let the Dogs Out”, “Mmm-Bop” – just a taste from the universally recognized collection of super cheese.  We came up with the cliches floating atop the brain pan, then passed them along for her to go sing.  All we gave her was one quick whisper of the chorus.  She grasped almost all of those songs immediately, and repeated them without worrying how accurate they sounded.  We laughed, she danced – total dorkfest family fun.

Then this morning, I listened to Slate’s “Culture Gabfest” while running as they touched on music criticism (thanks to a horrible article in the Boston Globe) and Alex Chilton’s passing.  In effect they were posing the eternal question of what makes a good pop song and if that really matters.  Or at least that's part of what I took away from the conversation.  I've always thought a good pop song requires a hook, a cleverish title, something to pass along that’s memorable.  It brought me back to last night, and how too often people that claim to be knowledgeable about their music are so often posing when they try to pick and choose stuff that’s unique.  When actually people, no matter how old they are, generally come back around to the stuff that’s universal when they’re pressed for a tune or a song at a moment’s notice.

I only bring this up because I then admitted to an answer I’ve been searching for going on just over a decade.  This is my blog so I’m allowed to be indulgently self-referential, mmm’kay?  I’m looking back to a typically way late night in New York City with a few of my best friends that both then lived here in Seattle.  I was living in Dallas, and we all had congregated to visit friends hosting a broadly random Passover seder.  On that particular night we were doing what people do in nameless, timeless bars in Greenwich Village from somewhere between 2am and the time you get motivated to finally spill back out onto the street.  Talking, too.  And the question was posed – what’s the best song ever?  Broad as hell, presumably asked by every human bean at some point in their life, usually in a similar deep-conversation hole.  To this very day I’ve always lamented the fact that I wouldn’t answer.  I wasn’t shy about looking uncool.  Plenty of things came to mind.  Many of them obscure, some of them dorky, a select few possibly inspired.  But the point is that I didn’t answer and just kept on blathering about other things.  I'm sure everyone else forgot about this conversation that same fuzzy morning.

Well, I’m ready to answer now.  The best song ever is “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen.  Load my pizza up with cheese, people.  This is the one for me.  Thanks, Maya.  You got me to admit it, at long last.  Now if only I could teach you the chorus, whatever that may be.

Hope your own moments of delayed clarity mean a little something to someone other than yourself today.  Rock on.

Orange you glad this came to light?

So after all that sturm and drang, Obama gets a health care reform bill.  Sure, the Senate still can throw some blood from the grandstands in hopes of undermining the hoopla.  But this really is a big deal.  Not even Biden can fully toss this moment under the bus with the overstatements to ill effect (even though he tried).  I'm convinced that McCain and all the haters that are throwing "repeal" around haven't really tested what they're talking.  This will hurt the Dems in the Fall, although they were bound to get spanked for looking so completely rudderless regardless of what they did on health care.  What will happen to the GOP is the big open question.  Actually, I expect them to soon begin gushing a reversal of accusations.  They'll pivot 180-degrees to say that the delay required to test many of the provisions of this legislation is too long and that they should all be rushed to market so as to shock the system.  Still, the upcoming period of debate will see many new surprises.  Anyone that claims they can predict those upcoming surprises, however, is totally full of snot.

One surprising bit of hilarity that I didn't see in all the reporting beforehand was that indoor tanning studios will see a 10% increase in taxes as early as this summer as a minor part of the bill.  How have this Nation's comedians not used that to further color John Boehner's clownish appearance?  Granted, I'd read long ago that he actually uses one of the those vanity tanning lights in his office that went out of style in 1963 - not some new-fangled tanning salon.  It matches his chosen brand of cigarettes (Boehner smokes Barclay's).  He really is the joke-writer's gift that keeps on giving.

Hope your own pursuit of the glow keeps you on the golf course rather than in a tanning bed today.  Rock on.

Another Whitehurst begins the longest possible march toward History

 I don't usually have much to say about the Seattle Seahawks.  They're an increasingly irrelevant organization with a largely witless crowd that I've seen make complete fools of themselves up close and impersonal at Qwest Field on a few occasions.  But they've just done something that makes me feel a weird, sentimental attachment to them.  Tinged with knowing sadness.  They traded for an unproven quarterback that some of the more especially uninformed are calling their future starter.  Charlie Whitehurst.  Son of David.  Yes, Packer fans - that David Whitehurst (occasional starting QB from '77 to '83).  As far as I know, David was a mute.  Maybe even borderline mentally handicapped.  That's not to say that he was a terrible quarterback.  He was just, well, bad.  Yet apparently his offspring is worth $10M for 2 years, even though he's 28-years-old and has never thrown a pass in an NFL regular season.  When I mentioned to Sarah this morning that he was born in 1981, she rightly noticed that he's "old" for a young quarterback.  In fact, he was drafted in 2006.  Did he spend a few years before college in prison?  That's my guess.  I realize that there's no salary cap this year (which will lead to a work stoppage next year if contracts like this continue for free agents this off season).  But, seriously, who is holding Paul Allen's purse strings for the Seahags?  On one level, I hope Charlie succeeds so I get the chance to see David dug up and asked to speak with the media about the utter absurdity of his son's ascendancy.  But on all other levels...well, like I implied, I feel kind of sorry for them.

One minor fresh recommendation - the newly-released album by Titus Andronicus - a clear-sounding, punky, anthem-driven band of clevermeisters from New Jersey.  A concept album ("The Monitor") derived from Civil War narratives might sound pretty unlikely to anyone but Ken Burns.  The comparisons of their sound to The Replacements, The Hold Steady and just about everyone from Jersey aside from the cast of "Jersey Shore" make them a slam dunk worth at least a cursory listen from my point of view.  But I've found them seriously growing on me over the past few days.  My rating - a solid B thus far.  Maybe further ascendant, especially if I see them in a few weeks here in Seattle (playing at the tolerably all-aged venue, The Vera Project on 3/30).  Regardless, if you search for such things, you can do a helluva lot worse.

Finally, I didn't do a single NCAA men's basketball tourney bracket this year.  And I've actually got plenty of horses in this field.  So I'll offer up my Final Four here - just between you and me.  Georgetown, Butler, Wisconsin and Louisville.  Georgetown over Louisville for all the shiny marbles and immortality following the most surprising tournament in history.  No, no - don't thank me.  This is just what I do.

Hope your own longshots also aren't the least bit influenced by Obama's picks today.  Rock on.

The Epic that is Mammoth

Mammoth.  The word, the ski resort, the idea of vast high altitude coolness. It all goes together.  We're back after a solid week at Mammoth Mountain in California.  And we can hardly wait to go back, even if that means a whole year before being able to do so.  For those like myself (up until little more than a week ago) with no exposure to that resort, I'll give a brief thumbnail to accompany my special gold-plated A rating.  Rest assured, there are deeper, more challenging reviews of Mammoth out there. But maybe none are as fresh as this untracked powder.

Dave McCoy founded Mammoth Mountain when he put up the first rope tow in 1955 and thereafter managed things for 68 years.  McCoy was a hydrologist that took snow pack readings in the Sierra Nevadas, where Mammoth is located on the Eastern range (about 30 miles from the entrance to Yosemite).  So he, more than maybe anyone,  knew what to look for in a location for a new Western resort.  Like most premier resorts, there have been periods of expansion and cycles of boom and bust.  But the family appeal is central to Mammoth's success.  The ski school for Maya was exceptional.  They dig old skiers, although you now need to be 80-years-old to ski for free as a pleasantly disgruntled 77-year-old told us one glorious sunny day riding up the chair lift.  And there is truly something for everyone, including some of the best terrain park snowboarding in North America with a SuperDuper-Pipe (22-feet-high).  Since I returned to skiing in earnest just this season, Mammoth gave me plenty to warm up on.  Then tons to challenge me like never before.  By the end of a week, we all were skiing better.  Most impressive though was Maya, who had never skied before heading to Mammoth.  She now can comfortably lead anyone through an easy run and makes her way pleasantly down intermediate ones.  I certainly hope she'll be a skier for life.  Seeing her start off this way at Mammoth makes that seem like a distinct possibility.

But a post on skiing cannot ignore the primary downside of the activity.  Money, most importantly.  It's a crazy expensive thing to do.  The relative lack of others out there on some absolutely perfect days (more than 400 inches of snow thus far, fresh powder, temps heading up above freezing, the occasional lack of winds all the way up at the Top of the Sierras) provides the best evidence that most people have an awfully hard time justifying the luxury at this point in time.  Still, if you can find a way to pool together your sheckels and are looking for an incomparably worthwhile place to do so with your whole family, Mammoth gets my vote.  Like I've said, I can hardly wait for my next time.

Until then, real life has more in store for us.  Like the leaky water heater we discovered the day after we returned.  Better the day after than while we were gone, I'll agree.  Doesn't mean that the cost of a new direct-vent gas heater is any less shocking, though.  Hope your own appliances don't smack you on the calves with a karma chairlift today.  Rock on.

Maya's first approving look at the rental gear.

Maya's first approving look at the rental gear.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

We've had a fantastic week skiing at Mammoth Mountain in California. And while a point of this trip was to introduce Maya to skiing, we never expected she'd love it so much and take to it so readily. What follows is just a taste of her new life on the slopes. Expect more commentary soon.

"Yea sure, I'm a beginner. But my legs ain't noodles."

"Yea sure, I'm a beginner. But my legs ain't noodles."
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Everyone's gotta start somewhere.

Everyone's gotta start somewhere.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Maya preferred to dress for skiing like a colorful version of Kenny from "South Park"

Maya preferred to dress for skiing like a colorful version of Kenny from "South Park"
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Maya's updated pink and purplicious style choices for the slopes.

Maya's updated pink and purplicious style choices for the slopes.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Posing before a family run on an absolutely gorgeous day at Mammoth.

Posing before a family run on an absolutely gorgeous day at Mammoth.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Heading toward the intermediate stuff off of Chair 8 at Mammoth Mountain.

Heading toward the intermediate stuff off of Chair 8 at Mammoth Mountain.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Maya takes a trailside break with Sarah, Auntie Katie and Auntie Becca.

Maya takes a trailside break with Sarah, Auntie Katie and Auntie Becca.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

If you're smiling like this on the gondola ride back to the condo, skiing is something you'll do again, and again, and again.

If you're smiling like this on the gondola ride back to the condo, skiing is something you'll do again, and again, and again.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Canadian intrigue. On ice.

 

I joined in the fun last weekend watching the Winter Olympics gold medal hockey game.  Living as close to Canada as we do, I feel more secure knowing that their national pride was bolstered even if they don't have nukes (as far as we know).  But maybe more interesting than seeing Canada get a national chubby is how first draft stories of this great moment in hockey history are coming out.  Such as how Sidney Crosby's stick, one glove and the game-winning puck went a-missin' after the game.  Somewhere out there, I imagine a crime novel being lived in the underground transfer of these incalculably worthy items from fan to fence to hood.  I can picture a high-level boss of the BackBacon and Toques mafia rubbing his bejeweled, maple-syrup-stained fingers over his new, prized possessions, pondering his childhood dreams on the clean, yet still rather harsh streets of Montreal.  

And then in publishing, there's a minor story about how two competing publishers were rushing to get a book out THIS WEEK encapsulating and hoping to take advantage of the Canadian triumph.  The fact that a book like that can be cranked out so quickly makes me wonder what the world record for publishing turnaround might be and if it is threatened by this project.  I imagine World Series Champs books get pumped through the sausage press every season.  But this has to be close to some sort of record. 

Obviously, this level of distraction shows I'm focused on things other than my own work.  I'll blame it on a good thing - we leave tomorrow for a week of skiing and associated wintry fun at Mammoth Mountain in California.  It seems crazy to compare the more than 400-inches of snow they've received this year with the early cherry blossoms in Seattle.  But I damn well look forward to doing so.  Maya's game to try some classes.  Or at least that's what we're all telling ourselves at this point.  Check back to see how it goes.  Rock on.

"And in conclusion, I'd like to summarize my earlier points on child rearing..."

The best thing about hosting a 5-year-old's Birthday party is looking back, hopefully self-satisfied and unblemished.  That's how we still feel after Saturday's celebration for Maya.  The kid did great.  As did her 18 compatriot guests, plus a few younger humans and a bevy of adults that stuck around.  I'd like to recommend the place where we had the party - Arena Sports in Magnuson Park.  Extra credit points for the name of the park.  But that only pulls the place up to a C-minus.  The kids couldn't care less if a place is horribly dirty and on the brink of condemnation (which this Arena Sports certainly is) so long as they can run wild on the indoor soccer field and massive bouncy gyms (yes, that's a plural).  Some of the parents even got a few swings in at the decrepit pitching machine in the batting cage.  No one injured, no one's feelings even noticeably hurt.  The only thing that sucked was my little thank-you speech to everyone at the end of the party.  Seldom has the internal commentary "am I still talking out loud?" applied so well.  At least I didn't call anyone a chickenplucker or anything close to that.

The other big part of this past week was having my parents visit from Wisconsin.  We hit some things I don't do often enough when I'm not in tour guide mode - browsing through the quietly awesome Nordic Heritage Museum in Ballard, brunch at Lowell's in the Pike Place Market at such a time where we basically had the whole second floor to ourselves (sshhh!), a quick jaunt out to Snoqualmie Falls where the winds were whipping and the observation deck was closed which was actually a more authentic feel than any sort of postcard day.  Plus they got loads of grandparenting time, along with a handful of visits to Maya's Pre-K.  They left tired but satisfied, with us staying behind feeling much the same.

So now the nation turns its focus to what a cranky ol' sumbitch Sen. Jim Bunning (R-KY) is and always has been.  Here's hoping the guy has a grandchild or a few to soften up that mental kidney stone he's waiting to pass.  Hope your own stones do so quietly today.  Rock on.

The look at the happy center of the Birthday circle in Maya's pre-K last Thursday.

The look at the happy center of the Birthday circle at pre-K.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

As promised, a few pics of Maya's Birthdaypalooza follow.

Maya's Indian fairy princess costume for Purim. Facepainting provided by Mr. Daddy's Salon.

Maya's Indian fairy princess costume for Purim. Facepainted services provided by Mr. Daddy's Salon.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Birthday angel costume, found at a consignment store (must have a story attached somehow)...

Birthday angel costume, found at a consignment store (must have a story attached somehow)...
Originally uploaded by emaggie

A mini-corndogs dinner smile from a few larger corndogs at the Wedgwood Broiler.

A mini-corndogs dinner smile from a few larger corndogs at the Wedgwood Broiler.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Now THAT's the way to outfit the Birthday girl for a soccer party.

Now THAT's the way to outfit the Birthday girl for a soccer party.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

They just don't make pinatas (probably in prison) like they used to.

They just don't make pinatas (probably in prison) like they used to.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Five years of hard labor, and I get...a cupcake? Actually, that feels 'bout right.

Five years of hard labor, and I get...a cupcake?
Originally uploaded by emaggie

"Searching for - a slightly younger Medicare-eligible cub"

 We're in the full-on spirit of Maya's Birthday countdown (it's tomorrow).  Grandparents visiting, party-planning all up in our collective grill, presents piled up in the closet - being on the cusp of the Big 5 is just about as cool as it gets for a kid.  Plus Maya gets the added benefit of having her birthday fall on Purim - the coolest by miles Jewish holiday on the calendar.  She's dressed up today as an Indian fairy princess (or a fairy Indian princess) wearing part of a beautiful outfit Sarah brought back from Nepal.  Expect plenty of photos of all the festivities to be posted over the weekend.

I need to hit a few quick low points to get them off my mind.  First of all, "The Ricky Gervais Show" on HBO is getting slammed as a waste of time.  I agree.  It's five years past cool.  But for his Mel Gibson introduction while hosting this year's Golden Globes, I renewed his pass for ill-advised comic efforts.  Still, my rating - a shoulda-been-an-F squishy D-minus.

I saw an ad early, early this morning on ESPN for a dating site named CougarLife.  I probably should be embarrassed to admit that I had to look at what they offered based on a commercial that would have even been cheesy on MTV in 1989.  No big surprise - creepy site with a sketchy intended purpose.  But self-possessed "Cougars" visiting the site encounter a default search for "Cubs" with an age range of "35 to 55".  So how old is a cougar these days?  90?  I think there needs to be an intermediary term.  I suggest possum.  Just the right dose of confusing double-entendre ready to roll in that.  You're welcome.

Hope you also waste the opportunity today to say something important with equally distracted baloney.  Rock on.

Say "hi" to your mother for me

With the Olympics winding down, I'm glad that I was reminded early this morning of one overriding principle that this quadrennial event promotes.  Hot people getting seriously busy with one another.  I applaud the fact that 100K condoms are handed out in the Olympic Village.  These athletes, after all, are in tip top condition and the finest physical specimens that their respective countries have to offer.  Not to mention that everyone in a northern global position this time of year innately seeks to share body heat, even if Vancouver is currently warmer than Dallas.  I was reminded by the replay of yesterday's ice dancing competition, as seen in replay form as I stretched before a run this morning.  The Canadian gold medal pair of Whatshisname Again and the virginal Tessa Virtue, especially.  Tessa Virtue, for the sake of Pete.  Followed by the Russian pair of Skanky Bonkski and Vigor Meshovits.  Or whatever their names are.  Regardless, thank you ice dancers of the world for putting some heat back on the ice.  Even if it's sibling heat, which is basically just wrong.  Except (apparently) in either Israel or New Jersey.

A few quickie reviews.  The new album by Hot Chip ("One Life Stand") has been in constant rotation for the past week in my brain.  Very throwback to 80s sounding clever pop, very hard not to get hooked on.  In a month I may never listen to this album again.  But for now, I give it a solid B rating.

The new HBO series "How To Make It In America" is a load of utter cast off runway trash.  Lindsey Lohan's label created more buzz.  I want this show canceled, and Mark Wahlberg should go back to underwear ads after producing this dreck.  My rating - a flat D-minus.  I'm only not pulling the F-rating out of storage because of Tessa Virtue.  But I'm not sure why.

Hope you say find another tagline to hang on Marky Mark that sticks like glue today.  Rock on.

Totally minor question - why do only figure skaters get a "do over" at the Olympics?

Like most 'Mericans, my interest in the Winter Olympics ebbs and flows.  Recent Games haven't thrilled me.  And I'm most definitely not one of the those that only cares about the medal count.  In fact, I most sincerely loved the Winter Games as a kid when we basically sucked competitively as a nation.  I remember fondly wishing that Bill Koch could somehow win another medal in cross country skiing when he was way past his prime to go with the surprise Silver he got in 1976.  I think Bill Johnson winning the men's downhill in 1984 was my favorite moment (even moreso than the Miracle on Ice in 1980), well before he ended up living in his truck.  I just used the Google to see that the USA won a total of 8 medals in '84.  East Germany and the Soviet Union won 24 and 25, respectively.  Hell, Finland had 13.  So it's a little weird to see such domination in Vancouver.   But I'm realistic.  Kudos for all the success.  As soon as the Games are over, most viewers will forget how much they enjoy, say, the combination of cross country skiing AND shooting rifles.  I don't expect ice fishing or wood toboggan racing to become  demonstration sports soon.  Still, this is a great fortnight of sporty entertainment.

Tiger Woods's strangely somber news, um, release earlier this morning was bad TV of the first order.  Did he perform well?  I'll leave that question to the ladies.  The consensus is a big "yes".  But when it comes to this morning, I don't think he kicked the ball anywhere.  Except possibly off the wall and right back at his crotch.

Seattle is drenched in sunshine and daytime highs pushing 60 degrees.  Vancouver is the exact same climate.  But they have that Olympic cauldron lit downtown, so it probably feels a few degrees warmer.  Weird.  I'd love to get Glenn Beck's take on that.

Hope your own momentary address of larger planetary issues merit more than an anecdotal rimshot today.  Rock on.

"Up periscope. Avast, Ye Lower Queen Anne Mateys."

"Up periscope. Avast, Ye Lower Queen Anne Mateys."
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Maya and I spent a good chunk of Sunday at the Pacific Science Center, marveling at what can be accomplished on such a day when no NFL football could be shared. The butterflies, the planetarium, the games of sensory skills, and - oh, yes - the periscope. Followed up with a lunch at the nearby Kidd Valley. In paradise, all days would be some form of this.

Maya's Kidd Valley coloring contest entry that she deemed too good to enter.

Maya's Kidd Valley coloring contest entry that she deemed too good to enter.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Trying to reclaim "napalm" as a term of endearment? Good luck, brother.

I don't think this has ever been true before.  But there just may be an article in "Playboy" worth buying the magazine for that in all ways exceeds the interest in the dirty(ish) pictures of the nekkid ladies.  If you haven't heard by now, John Mayer gave an interview where he really veered far afield of what's cool to say about being black versus being white in America.  The talk about sex, however, is where this amp gets turned up to eleven.  Especially on the scale of hilarity.  His rant on Jessica Simpson being the sexual equivalent of crack cocaine is pants-peeing-level funny talk.  So unless you're one of the 14 remaining subscribers to the magazine, I suggest finding a way to get your hands on a copy of the March issue.  The online version appears to be a red herring that I'm sure will be exploited to the hilt by the internet's murkier elements, if my use of the Google this morning is an accurate representation of what's being done with the search terms "John Mayer Playboy interview transcript" of even just "John Mayer".  Regardless, I give his shtick the absolute highest recommendation for those willing to wade into the dark waters of necessary pop culture inanity.

I've been doing some blogging for the last few weeks for the no-longer-a-newspaper version of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer.  I suggested a group blog to the PI months ago, and a handful of us launched the expanded and sillied-up version of a neighborhood blog.  For the time being, I put up a Monday post.  It's really an antiquated model for running a "blog" - more 1990s online journalism thinking than anything else.  But if you're looking to see a few things about my part of Seattle written with a just slightly more journalistic bent, you should give it a looksie.  I'll keep you posted if I blow the doors off of any neighborhood snark in desperate need of cross promotion.  Until then, I'm just seeing how much I can get away with before the editors start actually doing their jobs (getting in a "BOOBS!" joke this past Monday being my most sophomoric example thus far).

Hope your own instincts for self-promotion are tempered by pop culture diversions today.  Rock on.

Sweet deception

Walking by the bakery in our nearest Whole Foods yesterday, I noticed a few real life examples of why we don't use Roman Numerals anymore.

 

It's maybe a little harder to read on the cake.  But there it is.  Repeatedly.  Super Bowl XLVI (or "46").  Since we're actually awaiting Super Bowl XLIV (or "44"), I pointed it out to a sweet blonde baker who blushed and shrugged.  

 

Maybe I should have offered to buy a few cupcakes at a discount to protect the children and random cheeseballs at today's Seattle viewing parties from this sacrilege.  I'd be willing to bet if someone bought an equivalently mis-decorated sweet vegan treat for a PETA event that a few letters to "Mother Jones" or Rachel Maddow would soon follow.  With well chosen adjectives and a very snarky font.  

But I let it go.  Still, if you encounter one of these cupcakes, dear Seattlite, take a stand for justice in our antiquated numbering systems and say put down the damn treat and go for a Rice Krispie bar instead.  And watch out for similar mistakes in your Olympics-themed frosted fun.  You're welcome.

If she reacts this way to teeth polishing, watch out when you see her "donut!" face.

If she reacts this way to teeth polishing, watch out when you see her "donut!" face.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Maya had a regular dentist visit yesterday. She's now totally stoked to be able to floss between her molars. It's like this kid is an alien from the Planet Nothing Like Me Growing Up. No cavities, all smiles.

Smart smart smart smart smart.

Here's something I didn't expect to be saying anytime, well, really ever - Sarah and I just spent a quick weekend in Salt Lake City.  And it was pretty cool.  Decent coffee (Salt Lake Roasting Co. - a bit rough around the edges, but they know what they're doing).  A totally funky all-about-the-details boutique hotel (Hotel Monaco).  Good sushi in a vibrant, fast-moving cafe/bar (Takashi - one of the only lively spots we found downtown).  We really liked the cafe named Coffee Garden in the 9th and 9th micro-neighborhood that provided above average people watching along with average to slightly better coffee (don't bother with the sandwiches or quiche).  Beyond that, we ventured over to Park City for a chunk of the final competition day of Sundance.  No celebs cited.  Thankfully.

SLC also benefited considerably from having Sundance screening films on a bunch of screens.  We saw "Waiting for Superman" that won the Audience Award for documentaries.  I'd give it a bit of a harsh rating - a straight C.  The style is just what you'd expect (brutal realism joined by quirky, animated cut segments) and the subject is a simplistic take on what's wrong with America's primary school education system.  According to this movie, charter schools=good; bad teachers=bad.  The kids shown struggling to get slots in better schools in tough areas (DC, NYC, LA, etc.) all break your heart.  But aside from prompting some good conversations about a tough problem, this doc won't solve anything. 

The best cultural moment, though, involved the Mormons.  We went for a walk through the Temple Square Saturday night after dinner.  We playfully dodged the young and friendlies.  And when we ventured into the building where the Tabernacle Choir performs where some dude was doing his bizness on the monstrous pipe organ, an adorable old elder swooped in to see if we wanted to take pics or come back Sunday morning for music and prayer.  Maybe cookies, too.  Sarah was quick to say that we had an early flight, which was a lie (we left closer to noon).  So we're headed to Mormon hell (or at least she is if our case comes up for review).  Regardless, after we got back to our hotel, we watched that brilliant "South Park" episode about the formation of the Mormon religion.  The perfect counterpoint to the real thing.  Most importantly, I agree with the sentiment that I respect their right to believe whatever it is that they believe.  Just don't ask me to join.  And since I didn't see any of them at the coffeehouses or the bars we spent some time in, I'm glad we got a chance to meet them (in principle) on their turf.  Because they have a nice place.  Not sure if "this is the place" as they like to say.  Potaytoe, potahto.

Hope your own travel guide adds a few surprising pages today.  Rock on.

Remember that thing he did, and how much it drove you crazy? Yeah, but better.

I'm as guilty as the next football fan for having too many things to say about Brett Favre.  His career and latest season-ending mistake (whether it's even appropriate to call it that) have been dissected and re-bagged and dissected again like a small town upper-level biology class fetal pig.  Everyone's sick of it.  Even the smell of the debate ("will he or won't he retire?") makes people throw up just a little bit in their collective mouth.  But before I can let it go for this off-season, I need to break it down one last time.

For the super majority of Packers fans, Favre is an old girlfriend (or boyfriend, depending on your chosen gender).  Actually, he's "The Ex" from hell.  The one you took to Prom, the one you went all the way with for the first time, the one that (cover the kids' ears, folks) is a first-ballot Hall of Famer.  In the sack.  But after years and years of creative shtupping, Favre is the one that the Packers dumped because they met somebody new that was kind of hot in college (Aaron Rodgers).  Favre and the Packers goofed around with trial separations and reunion hook-ups.  But a few years ago, Favre was gone for good after the Packers broke it off.  If that was all there was to it, both parties would have gone on with their lives.  Except that after fooling around for a year, Favre did the unthinkable.  He hooked up with the next door neighbor.  And Packer fans can hear them doing it ALL THE TIME, making a big deal out of how great it is and how could anyone have ever let something like this go.  So when it looked like Favre and his new flame were on their way to the Big Show, Packers fans cursed their "Ex" with the sort of vitriol that could never be taken back.  In the end (at least for now), Favre didn't get the storybook wedding and honeymoon that was desired.  And Packers fans jumped up and down and partied extra loud in the parking lot outside where the ceremony was to take place, making it sound like they always knew it wouldn't work out and that anyone that messes around with Favre ends up broken-hearted in the end.  Favre's new flame wants him back.  Maybe this time it will be different, they're trying to tell him.  Maybe this time, the Vikes will get what they've always wanted and in the process Favre will get what he always dreamed about.  Meanwhile, Packers fans are still taunting and laughing.  Maybe while imagining how great it once was.  Maybe while closing their eyes and trying to make it work with the new flame.  It will never be the same, and all those old pictures and memories are not only faded.  They're now dirty and some Packers fans can't even flip through them any longer.  It just hurts that much.

Sound ridiculous?  Probably.  But the point for me is that all this overheated emotion and overly sexualized lust or revenge or whatever it is misses the real point by a million miles.  Money.  The NFL is a business.  And they are the ones that truly love him.  Brett Favre came back and for one year got $12M in salary.  In endorsements alone, I'd bet that he can pull down $50M in the year ahead - even if he retires for good this time.  If you think not, consider his substantial upside in a post-Tiger Woods world (grizzled veteran who just had his best year ever at age 40, married to his high school sweetheart, appealing for his toughness and, yes, he still takes chances like a big ol' kid).  But aside from what may be to come, just consider what has happened to both franchises from a money position.  The sales of Vikings merchandise went up 533% from 2008 to 2009.  Their merchandise was the Number 3 team as of December 2009, Brett Favre's Vikings jersey was #1 among all players.  The Packers?  Last year by some rankings they were in the top 10 (#8 as of before this Season).  As of December 2009, they don't even make the top 10.  They've got no players in the top 25.

Say what you will about Brett Favre.  But I can tell you one thing for certain.  I'm not going to be blogging about it anymore.  Because on some level, that's exactly what the NFL wants.  And I've got other things to do, what with life and all.  I suggest everyone else look elsewhere for their drama, in similar fashion.

Hope your own merchandise is flying off the shelves today, no matter what color.  Rock on.