ISleepInADrawer.com

Cold Fire

We devoted a good deal of Saturday's daylight hours to walks up and down Cannon Beach. But, since prior to the Cannon Beach excursions, I'd begged Zach to drive with me to the Tillamook Cheese Factory for ice cream (breakfast of champions) and to buy cheap cheese, we couldn't stay in Cannon Beach too long. The ice in the cooler, after all, could only keep the cheese cool so long; and as Zach found out Saturday, I'm pretty paranoid about keeping things-that-should-be-cool cool.

I hadn't been planning on a cheese excursion, simply because I felt like using a cooler for two or three days to keep fragile cheese (and, most importantly, extra-fragile cheese curds) was too inconsistent. I'd mortal fears, you see, of buying cheese and having it "go bad." At this point, you, the reader, should note that there really isn't much logic in my desire to keep cheese really cold. But, who ever said the human race was logical?

To return to the point, however, Zach and I discovered upon getting to our hotel in Seaside that our room came equiped with a refrigerator (and a DVD player as well, but that's not really relevant). "So Zach, now we can go buy cheese and keep it in the refrigerator!! Refrigerators are more consistent than using that crappy little cooler!" I'd insisted on going to get the cheese early in the morning, before our planned walk on Cannon Beach, "because all the good cheese curds will be bought by the afternoon, Zach." So, all along those extensive walks along Cannon Beach, I knew I had a ticking time bomb (ice melting in the cooler around my fragile cheese) in the trunk. Thus, by mid-afternoon, we were on the way back to our hotel, and the glorious refrigerator within.

We used the cheese as a good excuse to hide our laziness as well. Zach and I are quite out of shape, so even the trodding on wet sand, with occasional pauses for me to gleefully dig another useless hole with a stick or write my initials and watch the waves wash them away, really took a physical toll. I barely had the cheese emptied into the refrigerator before Zach and I curled up in bed for an afternoon nap. As usual, Zach and I staged a private little war in our respective slumbers for supreme control of the covers, and he won. About an hour into our nap, my loss on the blanket battlefield stirred me from a deep sleep, and I instead read in bed as Zach dreamed and the sun set.

Just as I was reaching a rather suspenseful passage in my book, however, the room suddenly went dark. "Damn bulb," I muttered, glaring at the bedside lamp that had suddenly failed me. I felt my way over to the wall to switch on the ceiling light, only to find that the whole room was without power. Through the window, I noticed a light coming from the open-air walkway and stepped outside, only to find that the hotel's emergency lights had come on: the entire block was without power. My movements and the breeze through the doorway woke Zach, and it took him only a few moments to realize that I was not joking about the power situation. I then had to let Zach rant for twenty or thirty seconds about why the power wasn't back on yet (it had been about two minutes, and Zach is used to Midwestern efficiency in these matters). When he was done, we decided to use the last few minutes of daylight and walk on the extensive Seaside beach that sat a few blocks away.

On our walk to the beach, we noticed that most of Seaside had a similar idea. Folks were walking to the beach from all corners of town in all states-of-being. Two women in aprons, one still wiping flour from her hands with a kitchen towel... a man who obviously just stepped from the shower and hastily dried himself off, clothes clinging to his still-moist body, a Scarlet letter mark of his haste... two waiters from a nearby restaurant... The entire town was emptying onto the beach, as if we'd all been summoned by some supernatural force, though I hadn't first attempted to carve the Devil's Tower National Monument out of mashed potatoes.

From the muffled conversations of my fellow trekkers, I soon realized that most of the town was without power. Most of the shops, restaurants, and homes were without power, and many folks decided to use the remaining light in a brisk walk on the beach before cold breezes and darkness forced us back into our now uncomfortably quiet caves.

Unfortunately, the sun disappeared faster than any of us wanted, and forty minutes later, the beach emptied as we all stumbled back to homes, businesses, and hotels full of now-useless appliances. As Zach and I fished through my bag for the flashlights I always insist on bringing ("...for just such an emergency!"), a horrific sound reached my ears: the sound of hundreds of cars starting simultaneously. Finding the powerless nature of a powerless town unfathomable, many residents and visitors were leaving to obtain dinner in neighboring towns.

Me: "Zach, are you hungry?"
Zach: "Yeah. All we had to eat today was the ice cream from this morning."
Me: "Do we have any food?"
Zach: "No, not really. I mean, there are a few snacks from the drive down here still... and all that cheese we bought this morning."
Me: "Oh no! The cheese!"

Yes, with the power out, the refrigerator was warming rapidly. I sent Zach for ice from the ice machine, forgetting that ice machines need power to make ice. Zach suggested we put the cheese in the iceless cooler and stick it in the trunk of my car. "After all, Jim," he said, "it's freezing outside now that the sun's set. Your car will stay cold enough."

Fifteen minutes later, we were in Cannon Beach looking for restaurants that weren't already overcrowded with Seaside refugees bitching about the power outage that seemed to have crippled the town. Prior to our departure, Zach had obtained extra blankets from our hotel manager, since the nights had been quite cold, and our hotel room electric heaters were useless without... well... power. He'd also hear the tale of the outage: apparently a rather critical power line had been downed by a local resident and his car, and the estimated times for restoring electricity were ranging from "six to twelve hours." As Zach explained the situation to me in the car, our trip out of powerless Seaside became surreal. We were one in a long caravan of cars evacuating - headlights illuminating empty storefronts and abandoned homes. I imagined this journey as a rehearsal for some catastrophic apocalypse - shocked and dazed citizens piled high in cars, leaving their now-dead urban centers, scattering to rural enclaves in the hopes that their makeshift survival camps will be spared the fate of most of humanity... With the permanent loss of power, cars and flashlights would work on borrowed time - persisting as echoes of a once proud and strong societal infrastructure, but useless once the last drop of gasoline or bit of battery power, is used up.

Luckily, Zach woke me from this grim daydream long enough to remind me to keep my "damn eyes on the road," as all the traffic lights were out and we'd already passed a few fender-benders.

In Cannon Beach, where the lights were on, we tried four or five restaurants before we found a local pub that hadn't been overwhelmed by Seaside refugees. I was quite pleased, though - we ordered appetizers and dinners to suit our raging appetites, as we browsed Zach's digital snapshots from a successful day of amateur photography. Though we'd finished eating after about an hour, we decided to stay in the pub longer since Seaside was probably still in the dark. I sampled a few of the local brews (who knew blackberries and beer could go so well together?!), we chatted about all the silly things Zach and I chat about, flirted with the female waitress and male bartender (and one another), and people-watched until yawns from both of us necessitated trudging back to the car and heading back into the darkness.

For, you see, even four hours after the fact, Seaside was still without power. We both sighed great, heaving sighs as we slowly drove along the dark, empty streets. In several houses, candles were lit and flashlights were put to work. But, in most cases, folks apparently had either left town or contented themselves with an evening without light. Zach suggested we simply change into our pajamas at the hotel and try to go to sleep. The naps we'd taken that afternoon, however, had skewed our sleep cycles. We weren't falling asleep at all.

Zach: "Maybe I'll try to read."
Me: "Me too. Are the flashlights still in the car?"
Zach: "Yeah."
Me: "Hold on, I'll get them."
Zach: "Bring the cheese up too while you're at it. It's just as cold in here as it is out there by this point."

On my way back from the car, laden with flashlights and a cooler-filled-with-cheese, something remarkable happened: I looked up. I'm not sure why I suddenly looked up, but I did. And I was both amazed and stupefied by the view...

The sky was bursting with stars. I stopped dead in my tracks, in the middle of a dark parking lot in a dark town: I hadn't seen a sky filled with so many stars in years. Quickly, I tried to find a familiar constellation. At this point, I should mention that I can only identify two constellations: Orion and the Little Dipper. But, I was used to finding them in a city starscape: with only a handful of stars, at best, available to use for reference. Here, the sky was too crowded, to busy - I felt so small and insignificant! I was hypnotized, mesmerized, and inspired. How could I, after all, bitch so much about a loss of power? The loss of power was a gift! Otherwise, I would've missed such a spectacular celestial show!

I felt simultaneously small and large. Small since the sheer scope of the galaxy, let alone the entire universe, suddenly dwarfed me more than it usually does (as the night sky doesn't look this busy from Seattle). Large since, though I'd suddenly been so humbled, my own existence was put in a comforting perspective: here I am, on a planet third from the star Sol, a brilliant fire burning locally in a rather cold universe, and probably resembling many of the bretheren stars out there... cold fires shining in the arms of one in a countless sea of galaxies... a cycle of star birth and death that has endured for nearly fourteen billion years, and here was my place, right here, right now.

I ran up to the hotel room, dumped flashlights and cheese on the floor, and dragged Zach out. I had to share these sensations with him, and was not disappointed with his reaction. In my dark-adjusted eyes, I saw his jaw drop as an awed "Woooooow...." oozed from deep within.

Me: "Zach, let's go upstairs and look for those flashlights."
Zach: "Why?"
Me: "Because we have to go see this show on the beach, away from these emergency lights."
Zach: "Yeah! Let's go!"

We were barely halfway across the parking lot, though, when it happened. A loud CRACK, followed by a hum, and a chorus of unnatural screams. It took us a minute to realize what had occurred, and why we were suddenly bathed in neon yellow lights, and Zach caught on before me.

"Damn it, Jim! The power's come back on!"

The CRACK was the sound of appliances, lights, and generators switching on simultaneously across town, generating the unholy hum as machines again drowned out the sound of waves crashing against the shore a mere two blocks away. The neon yellow lights of our hotel's sign switched on, and hundreds of voices across Seaside had collectively cheered and screamed praises to the local power company. Dejected, Zach trudged back to our room to put the cheese back in the refrigerator. I, however, remained in the parking lot and did something foolish: I joined the citizens of Seaside in their impromptu whoops and hollers, yelling, "Hallelujah!" several times before I remembered the gorgeous light show Zach and I had been enjoying, hand-in-hand, courtesy of the night sky.

"What am I doing?" I asked myself out loud. "I don't want the power back on!!"

Desperately, I looked back up into the night sky. Unfortunately, as Zach had already figured out, most of the stars were now obscured by the haze of city lights. Once again, I could identify the handful of stars making up Orion and the Little Dipper. I suddenly felt tired, and lonely. My shoulders dropped and my eyes gazed down at the dark asphalt.

"Jim, babe, come to bed. I'm afraid we missed our chance."
"It was so beautiful."
"I know."
"Do you think we'll get to see all of those stars again?"
"Someday."

Someday.

Manual Labor

Oregon rocks.

The car is unloaded. The cat has forgiven us for leaving for four days. Now, I'm off to bed.

"Zach, lift with your knees! Not your back!"

Lay Down Your Burdens

Zach: "I don't think you need to bring you laptop along, Jim."

Killjoy. He also vetoed my idea to bring the cat along.

Off to Oregon. Back Monday.

Fifteen Minutes of Fame

I suppose I tempted fate in my previous entry, when I consoled myself with, "At least I get to use a laser pointer." In my pre-talk anxious fits, I picked up a pen and twirled it nervously in my sweaty palms. By the time I got up there, however, I'd forgotten it was a pen, and attempted to use it as a laser pointer.

The audience, at least, was quite amused.

Square the Circle

Quite possibly the most challenging part of graduate school thus far has centered on my ability (or lack thereof) to... well... talk in front of others.

Well, sort of.

Obviously, I've been doing that (talking, I mean) for a good number of years. But, when it comes to formal presentations, I'm a whole bundle of jitters, convulsions, and conniptions wrapped in a Kansas State University hoodie or, when the hood is less-than-appropriate, a frayed sweater from Goodwill.

That's just for formal presentations in general, mind you. Want me to talk science? Then let's up the epilepsy a little.

I've been reminded of this slight fault this weekend, as I've been practicing with an added air of desperation for a short (15 minute) presentation this coming Tuesday. It's one of the last "requirements" to complete before I've officially finished another quarter. But, practice runs have been a series of false starts, stumbles, and pregnant silences, in a manner a friend described as "sounding something like a particularly disappointing case of erectile disfunction."

But hey, at least I'll get to use a laser pointer.

Kennel

Zach and I went to the Seattle Kennel Club dog show today at Qwest Center. It was intended as a treat for Zach more than for me (my treat, for reference, was the RV show I dragged him to last month). I'd never been to a dog show, but Zach grew up with pet dogs all through childhood and, though we both adore our bitchy cat more than she likes us (those claws really are effective), it's become increasingly clear that Zach misses the "buddyness" he'd get from his father's "overfed, spoiled" Chesapeake Bay Retrievers. On the ride to Pioneer Square/the International District, I bemoaned to Zach that I won't know many dog breeds.

Me: "But, I've a few breeds down: hounds, Norwich Terriers, and Vizslas."
Zach: "Uh, I don't think 'hounds' are a breed, Jim. They're a group."
Me: "Oh. What's that mean?"
Zach: "There are many types of hound."
Me: "Oh. Then just Norwich Terriers and Vizslas, then."

As a result, once we got there and browsed the judging schedule, I begged Zach to let me go see Vizslas and Norwich Terriers. It turns out we'd already missed the Vizslas, but we ran over to the Norwich Terriers, only to discover that what the Seattle Kennel Club labeled as Norwich Terriers weren't what my brain labeled as Norwich Terriers.

Zach: "What were you thinking of, then?"
Me: "I don't know! They're similar in size but the fur is... different."
Zach: "How so?"
Me: "Uh..."

I saw one out of the corner of my eye and ran to it, and its owner. Both woman and dog were jovial, but I was too apprehensive to admit my ignorance and as her the name of her dog's breed.

Woman: "Oh, are you guys looking? Or do you own this cutsie's siblings?!"

My first thought was to make up an elaborate lie. Something along the lines of, "Of COURSE we own her [I was able to discern that much, at least] relatives! I was just coming to check out the competition..." But no. Though I've seen Best in Show, we'd been at the show for less than fifteen minutes and I wasn't feeling comfortable enough to duel these folks on their terms. Plus, this woman looked nothing like Cookie Fleck.

Instead, I decided on a medium-lie. Something like, "Oh, just looking. We've two dogs already, Bethlehem and Gupta. Gupta's a hound, which - you know - is a 'group', not a 'breed.'"

But, as usual, my vocal chords spurted out: "Uh... um... er.... no? No, I don't know dogs. Er, own dogs. Any... for right now. I never have. He has."

At this point, I indicated awkwardly in Zach's direction, who was eyeing well-marked exits.

I continued, words flowing in a stressed, exhaustive, and epileptic delivery, somewhat reminiscent of the video showing then-American President George H.W. Bush vomiting and passing out on then-Japanese Prime Minister Kiichi Miyazawa: "Er... but... dogs - I like! Could... have... one... someday in a different apartment. Cat right now."

Suddenly, I regained my composure, and decided to engage this woman in conversation, winging it until she said the name of her dog's breed, the breed that I'd thought was a Norwich Terrier.

Woman: "So are you considering something like her?"

Sh*t. Five thousand people in this hall right now, and I pick Ms. I-won't-say-my-dog's-breed-name.

Me: "Uh, yeah... I've always loved... 'cutsie.'"

For the record, a small part of me died when I said 'cutsie.'

Woman: "Oh, then you can't go wrong with someone like this cutsie! Cairns have a slight independent streak, if you can handle that, but very curious and generally jovial."

Ah ha! Cairns! That's the breed-I-thought-was-Norwich-Terrier! As far as I was concerned, I was done with the conversation there. But, I chatted with the woman for a few more minutes about Cairns, and held on long enough to learn that the Cairns had also been judged already. After letting me take a snapshot, she departed with a jolly, "Enjoy the show!"

But, we went over to the Cairn booth and played with them long enough to realize that, though they look cute, they don't feel as soft and cuddly. And Zach wasn't getting a high reading on his "buddyness" factor. We continued our browsing through the breed booths until we came upon a breed that we both thoroughly enjoyed. Zach bonded with the puppies, while I bonded with a few older specimens to such an extend that, as we left, Zach noticed that I had their slobber and saliva all over my pants:

Yes, we'd bonded with bulldogs. Spirited, slobbering, docile, grunting specimens of bulldog.

Alive

Yes, I'm still alive. A bit swamped, in case the panic in my eyes isn't evident. But, the quarter ends next week, and then I'm off to Oregon!

Fade Out

Me: "I hate my security ID for the Health Sciences Center."
Friend: "Why?"
Me: "Well... just... look at it!"
Friend: "What? I think it's a great picture."
Me: "Well, yeah. It's okay, I guess."
Friend: "Well... then, what's the problem?"
Me: "The picture's fading!"
pause
Friend: "What?"
Me: "Here, take a look. My left eye... it's gone!"
Friend: "Oh yeah. It rubbed off. You keep your lab security ID over it. It must've just started to rub off."
Me: "Exactly!"
pause
Friend: "Sooooo... what's the problem?"
Me, sighing: "Haven't you ever SEEN Back to the Future?"
Friend: "Uh... yeah. A long time ago.
Me: "Don't you remember the picture?"
Friend: "What?"
Me: "The PICTURE! The picture Michael J. Fox carries with him in the film when he goes back in time to 1955 and almost prevents his parents from hooking up! When it looks like his folks aren't going to hook up, Michael J. Fox's siblings start disappearing from the picture, and eventually he does too until they dance at the Enchantment Under the Sea dance!!"
pause
Friend: "You've really thought a lot about this, haven't you?"
Me: "Well... yeah... but, what ELSE could it be?!"
Friend: "Uh... what?"
Me: "Obviously, someone has gone back in time and is trying to prevent my folks from ever meeting!"
Friend: "But, aren't your parents divorced?"
Me: "Yeah, but first they concieved me!"
Friend: "Oh."
pause
Friend: "So... someone could be preventing your parents from meeting back in 1955?"
Me: "Well, not necessarily 1955. But, it's a possiblity."
Friend: "Isn't it more probable that your lab ID merely rubbed up against your health sciences center security ID, and rubbed out your left eye?"
pause
Me: "There's only one way to find out."
Friend: "What? Call your sister this weekend and see if she's already disappeared?"
Me: "Bet your ass."