Requisite Michael Jackson Blog Post

I figure that, although you may not care where I was when I heard he died, or what my best memory of his music is, it is necessary to preserve these memories for posterity, because, for years, we'll all be putting on Thriller, having a wine spritzer and saying, "Where were you when you found out he died?"

At least, those of us who aren't going to be out there denying he is dead are going to be doing that.

I found out yesterday when my plane landed in Oakland, around 3 p.m. The woman in front of me must have checked her voicemail messages, because she exclaimed, "Oh my God! My sister cannot be telling me this! She knows I am on a trip! Is she fooling with me!? I can't take THIS and Farrah Fawcett dying on the same day!"

I was intrigued. Who was the mystery person that this woman held more closely to her heart than Farrah Fawcett? It couldn't be a family member, since she probably would be crying or her sister would not be THAT cruel. So I hurried off the plane and checked like four different applications on my phone to see who was reporting a death more profound than Farrah Fawcett's. Twitter aced it. My first thought was to call my cousin in LA, but decided that she might think that was wierd. Not so wierd that she didn't call me literally as I was having that thought though. I hadn't even realized that she and I had ever particularly bonded over MJ.

She said that her sister (another cousin) had once had a lengthy conversation with Farrah Fawcett in a bathroom at a party in LA, and she was wondering how her sister was holding up, under all the news.

So back to Michael Jackson. I never got to see him in concert or anything. I remember my aunts went to the Jackson Brothers reunion tour. I got the Thriller album for my birthday one year. Probably the first record I ever got. And in fifth grade, our school hosted a party at a local roller rink. The rink usually projected videos during the skating, but because it was a Catholic school, the rink didn't offer that entertainment this night. However, a grassroots movement to get the DJ to show the Thriller video was successful. I was "thrilled" because I had never seen it before. The video didn't even show for 2 minutes before some kid started crying and her mom made the DJ shut it down. Everyone was so mad at that girl. It was all we could talk about. It taught me a lot about how long the very powerful will let grassroot movements go before they crush them, I can tell you that.

Also that night, I wanted to wear a cut-off sweatshirt and my mom made me put a Polo shirt on underneath it (seriously). So when I got there, I took the Polo off and hid it in a locker, but then my mom got there early and I had skate faster than I ever have in my life to find the shirt and go into the bathroom to put it back on before she saw me. Again, it taught me a lot about how far I could go with my fake-ass sexuality before the very powerful would crush it.

I think Michael would understand that.

The Best Thing That Happened (To Me) Today

I found a secret cherry tree on quasi-public property that has delicious cherries on it. By even blogging about it, I run the risk that my one neighbor who reads this will either go find it or relentlessly harass me about it until I give up the location. By mentioning "quasi-public property", I've already revealed its location, practically (sound of me thwacking own forehead).

In other news, I seem to have committed myself to a boot camp class twice a week, starting Saturday. I'll let you know how that goes. The boot camp class is also in my neighborhood, and if the aforementioned neighbor bugs me about the cherry tree location, I will probably send him to the boot camp class location instead. (I'm assuming that he won't read the whole post by writing this.) Hilarity will ensue.

My Third Run at a Holy Hullabaloos Review

I am actually now reading Holy Hullabaloos, and given how long it can take me to finish a book these days*, I thought I would try my hand at another review before the book gets made into a movie. Here's my last review of the book. I actually wasn't that far off last time, except that it is way funnier than "a chuckle-a-chapter". It's actually funny in an ingenious way, like when Jay reviews the various opinions on the establishment clause through a fake discussion among the Supreme Court justices, wherein they are eating beef jerky and four of them leave to get haircuts. Okay, it's even funnier than my summary. Get it. Read it. If law school had been this interesting, I might still be a lawyer.

* I have this view of myself as "I never have time to read anymore", but in fact, I have finished several great books in the past few months, including Netherland by Joseph O'Neill and My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell. I recommend them both highly; the latter is perfect for vacation and is the sweetest book I can remember reading in a long time, but not in a saccharine, annoying way. I also read At Play in the Fields of Lord by Peter Matthiesen, which went over my head, I think. I kept thinking, "Wow, this is a lot of symbolism," but wasn't sure what anything symbolized. I was reading The Tipping Point until I got Jay's book, so I am now, for the first time in awhile "not reading" two books. I will leave further reviews to my sister.

Truck Nutz!

Yeah, them's truck nutz. Extra large, silver. Stay classy, Oakland.

That totem seems like it creates a good segue to some thoughts about a show I saw on Thursday night. And by show, I mean "rock show". I went with JFB to see Shellac and Arcwelder at the Great American Music Hall. I think I have seen Shellac 4 times and at least three of those shows were with James. Its likely grounded in our history: we met when I made fun of his Big Black t-shirt. Boy, I must have thought I was cute. Anyway, it was a really fun time for a number of reasons, and Shellac isn't really in the top five.

1. It started "early", i.e. 9:00 p.m. That's when Arcwelder started. They played well and enthusiastically for an hour, and Shellac was on by 10:30. This is veritable warp speed in the indie rock scene. I was driving home by midnight. Unprecedented show efficiency.

2. The reason it started early is because we are all getting old. I haven't been to see a band play in 3 years, but one reason I avoid it is because the rest of the crowd is usually so young. But this crowd was just as old as I am, and older. The guys were in their 30s and 40s when I was in my early twenties are now in their 40s and 50s, and they were there, making me feel young. Another benefit of this aging together is that Arcwelder in particular has morphed from a group of young guys out on tour to a group of guys in their 30s/40s whose kids are old enough that their wives said, "sure, you can play two shows in San Francisco," and they took a week off work to go re-live their glory days.

3. That's why the bands seemed more admirable than they were 15 years ago. The appreciated the audience, played their best, and had a great time. It was infectious. I liked Arcwelder more than I had remembered, and slightly more than Shellac. More on that.

4. The show was such a sausage party (that means all guys, MIL) that there was no line for the women's bathroom. That's never happened in my life. It was a cause of much hilarity in the women's bathroom that the men's room line had 20 guys on it. Women said things like, "I wish I were single!" and "I've never seen this many straight guys in the Bay Area in one place!"

5. It's always fun to hang out with James, even if its too loud to even think, much less talk.

As for Shellac, they remain the same. Unbelievably tight, intricate, loud, angry rock. They barely look like they've aged a day, but they looked sort of haggard 15 years ago. They don't look worse, and they still put on a great show. Albini goes in too much for the Word Jazz, though, and sometimes I just thought, "shut up and play."

Another downside, I still haven't shook the standard "show back/leg/knees" that sets in near the end of the opening band. You know, that pain that results from standing, back and knees locked, head and foot bobbing, for 3-4 hours. It's making me hesitant to see another band in the next 3 years. On the other hand, Sonic Youth is playing in Oakland soon, and I'd like to see them before I die, so who knows. . . .

Onward

I want to say a non-chronological thing or two about Nicaragua. First of all, the fruit is amazing. The bananas were the best I have ever eaten. But the bananas revealed something else, which is that bananas in this country must be heavily subsidized because we say way more mangoes there than bananas, but mangoes in this country cost $1-4 each, while bananas cost 20 cents each. Or $2 a bunch or something, right? I always thought each mango tree must grow 1 mango a year or something and that's why they cost so much. In fact, mangos grow almost like berries; the tree is covered with them. So I assume mangos' price in the US reflects something close to the true cost of getting them all the way up here, while bananas are subsidized or something.

The damn banana lobby.

Something else: We really take our water, sanitation and sewage systems for granted around here. Because when you don't have stable systems, its a huge bummer, and much less happens if you have to worry about those basics.

Those are just two obvious, and possibly baseless, observations.

On Thursday of our visit, the big event was a sailing trip with Matt and Katie, folks Carl and Angie met down there. They were really nice hosts and totally effortless sailors (i.e., I never freaked out for a second that anything bad was going to happen even though I was in a tiny vessel in the Pacific Ocean off the coast of Nicaragua, not a place I ever saw myself). It was one of the most relaxed times I had, because everything was in someone else's hands, including my kids. Q was napping back at the house, while Angie stood guard, and Liam was "fishing" off the back of the boat and talking Matt and Katie's ears off. Magical.

On Friday, the big event was a baseball game in Rivas. Frente Sur Rivas played Caribbean Coast. It's hard to describe this event. It was like watching a major league game in a municipal ballpark, and not a fancy municipal ballpark. More like an all-concrete, abandoned ballpark. But with really excited fans, and many vendors walking the wide rows, selling ceviche (where does that seafood come from?), cashews, mangos, loquats - any of which they will douse with hot sauce or vinegar at your request. You could also buy individual cigarettes, which strangely made me want to smoke, only because they were probably 5 cents a piece. I cannot pass up a bargain, you know? Unfortunately, the kids were cranky and it was hot, and I drank 3 Toñas, so after 5 innings we were ready to roll. Rivas was ahead when we left. Another observation: there's a lot of Yankees and Red Sox gear in that country.

Halfway Through

I don't have much to say about Wednesday in Nicaragua because we spent most of the day swimming, packing up in Granada and driving (being driven) in a van down to San Juan Del Sur, where Angie and Carl were living (they came back to the US today). The only notable part of the drive, other than just the sights and sounds of rural Nica, was when Angie got into a haggle-feud with some ladies selling fake cheezits at a gas station. First of all, the wanted too much for their fake, nasty cheezits - like probably 35 cents or something - and Angie wasn't having it. And then when Angie handed the money out the window, a pan handler grabbed it, and the food seller acted oblivious, like Angie had not, in fact handed the money out the window. This awesomely infuriated Angie, who let loose with a torrent of Spanish and vinegar that I admire, mostly because I wouldn't have the nerve for this tirade against a peddler-panhandler act in English. It was first rate. The cheezits, however, were nasty, and Angie was right to lowball Abbott and Costello. 

The place we stayed in SJ was awesome. We had a two bedroom house with an unbelievable view, and it was part of a very upscale resort, Pelican Eyes (I can't provide a link because my computer says their site has malware on it).  They had good food, three pools, soft towels, etc etc. Here's the view from the lower pool. 

They also, inexplicably, hosted a spay/neuter clinic for two of the days there. But that was for local animals (not guests), and we were unaffected by it other than it made me want to get a cat. 

On Pace to Finish by September

So where was I? Tuesday? 

Tuesday morning found the kids in the pool with Angie. The other grown-ups walked around Granada a bit, checking out churches and the market. Not your serene NoCal farmers' market, that's for sure. You can buy everything, including lingerie and juice in plastic sandwich bags at the open air market. 

We climbed the bell tower of one church along stairs so narrow that the only reason I didn't hyperventilate is because I was concentrating on listening to whether Carl had hyperventilated. This journey was made more harrowing by (1) the copious rat droppings on every step and (2) our discussion of the Honduras and Costa Rica earthquakes of the recent past as we climbed. The view was pretty cool though. 

On Tuesday afternoon, Huascar returned to take us up to Mombacho, a relatively inert volcano outside of town. I say "relatively" because the Nicaraguans call it dormant but it has steaming fumaroles and its neighbors are "active" volcanoes. The trip up the mountain was as close as a truck can get to being vertical as is possible under the laws of physics, even though it had switchbacks. Our dictatorito had a steady hand, though, and we made it safely to the top. 

Most of the top of Mombacho is a tropical forest preserve, with pristine trails and good interpretive signs. And by pristine, I mean, way better than our trails in CA, which are all washed out and rocky. The preserve is a strong stab at attracting eco-tourism, and has several endemic protected animals, as well as sloths, monkeys, puma, etc. None of which we saw, of course. Still even the flora was exciting. The kids made the 1.5 hour trek around the crater of the volcano and we got a great view of Granada and the lake. 

Tuesday night, B and I tried, after several false starts, to go out to dinner. Most restaurants are closed on Tuesday night. We finally settled on a place which got decent reviews in the guide books, Mediterraneo. One book did warn, "Stay away from the paella, it's terrible," but otherwise, it was well-reviewed. We sit, and our waiter Nelson tells us, "The house speciality is paella." Of course. So we had to order it, and while it was not terrible, it also wasn't very good, and I consider paella to be difficult to mess up. The evening was generally lovely, except for an unfortunate incident of advanced bullying we witnessed in the square before dinner. It made me excited to leave Granada on Wednesday.  Which we did!

Here I Am Again

So where was I? Sorry, MIL, I wrote a long post on Tuesday morning and then connectivity problems prevented me from posting it, so then I got briefly dejected, but now I am back in action. I think I left off at Lake Nicaragua.

Our tour guides showed up on Monday morning, during breakfast, just to introduce themselves and agree on a time for the kayaking trip. Although both were impeccable English speakers, we couldn't understand their names. The next day, we ascertained that one was named Huascar, which we learned by making the kids say, "Como se llamo?" like 40 times. At 2:30, our gu

ides arrived in a pick-up truck driven by a man with an impressive mustache and large aviators. Very banana republic and I don't mean that in a Short Hills Mall kind of way. We piled in, the kids using the two functioning seat belts of this vehicle, dad and uncle hanging off the back, and left for the lake. 

The lakefront is a park which appears totally abandoned, except for the dozens of people milling around in a non-recreational manner. At the entrance to the park, I saw a boy my son's age - say, 5 - hacking at a log with a machete. Good idea? I thought, in a Jay Wexler voice in my head. 

At the end of the road in the park was a surprisingly well-appointed bar (it had a dance floor, basketball hoop and chickens), at the far end of which was a stack of kayaks. Initially, the guides wanted to put the kids in a little dinghy which they proposed to pull with their kayak, but we convinced them that the kids would probably spoil the idyllic trip by standing up and then drowning. That meant one kid went to Dad's kayak and the other to Carl's, and we set off. 

We paddled our kayaks amid the little islands of Las Isletas, a chain of 300-400 islands formed by the eruption of Mombacho volcano, near Granada. The islands were thick little jungles, and people live on many of them. Several were clearly owned by regretful Canadians/Americans trying to sell them (from the For Sale/Se Vende signs); others are owned by Nicaragua's elite. We saw herons, egrets, sardines jumping from the water to eat mosquitoes, men fishing, men just randomly shooting their guns from boats into the woods, a pet spider monkey tied to a tree, horses, and electrical wires spread 30 feet over yards and yards of open water. It was both beautiful, easy, peaceful and mildly terrifying. Here's Mombacho, viewed from the Lake.

Just as our arms were beginning to quiver from exhaustion (mine at least), we pulled back into our "boat slip" at the bar, where we were greeted by two boys who had a jelly jar of camerones in muddy water. They were kind enough to let Liam hold one of them. He was thrilled to have it wriggle in his hand, and he wanted to help them catch more. 

Soon, though, we were on our way back into Granada; this time, I got to hang in the bed of the pick-up. Huascar told us that the park hosted very popular motorcross events every Sunday, and that while baseball was the number one sport, "high ball" is the number two sport in Nica, and tossed his hand to his mouth to show he meant drinking. His friend said, "La Cana . . . yes, high ball is the one you play best" and we all laughed. 

So that gets me through the first 24 hours of our visit. Since we stayed there for a full week, its hard to imagine that I can keep going at this level of detail. I will see what I can do but I will need to pick up the pace here or else I will forget everything. 

Oh, and these are the nests of a colony of oropendola, a bird with a tail that is gold (oro) who builds a nest like a pendulum. They were very swooping in and out of the trees. 

This Bird Attacked Mr. Scobie

This bird attacked my husband (who doesn't let me use his name on this blog, for those of you who think its wierd that I refer to him as "my husband") yesterday.

The First of Many Posts, I Hope

We got back from Nica last night, and I will try to capture for myself all that we saw, but I am remembering it through the prism of a night out in Portland, OR (where I am today), Black Star on my ipod, and some wierd Brazilian drink I thought it wise to drink tonight. Before I begin, here's a preview.

First of all, I just need to say that Carl and Angie are the most awesome hosts, and Mr. Scobie is a topnotch travel agent in his own right. In the weeks prior to our departure, he was working his ass off, but in the midst of it, he was secretly making arrangements for a highly entertaining vacation.

We landed last Sunday night in Managua, and were greeted at baggage claim by innumerable Nicaraguans pressing themselves to the glass outside. It was a little unnerving. Fortunately, our driver was one of the people mobbing the door, preventing our exit from the airport. He hustled us to a corner and went for his car. It was hella muggy. I saw an Obama sticker on a car and breathed a sigh of relief. We piled into his van, which mercifully had two seat belts (truly, my kids wore the only 6 seat belts in all of Nicaragua, I think) and a boomin' sound system. The kids' eyes bugged out of their eyes as we drove the 40 minute ride to Granada. It was actually too dark to see much, but the smells were truly something to experience. Wood burning gave way to skunk, gave way to diesel exhaust, to cow manure, to pot, back to wood. In the dark, people just standing at the side of the road. A pack of dogs chasing loose balloons into the road. Broken trucks, horsedrawn carriages, the smell of meat, lovers sauntering, and we were blowing past at 80 kilometers an hour.

We checked into the Hotel Colonial in Granada and headed out for some food. We ended our search at O'Shea's, no joke, a sidewalk cafe that sported a live mushroom in the courtyard. Guess who was psyched? There also seemed to be an actual Irishman on hand. Right off the bat, we had to tackle (hamfistedly) the poverty of Nica. A panhandler smartly chose the almost-six year old to hit up. When I said No to the guy, Li immediately said, "Why can't we give him something?", which made me feel shitty and loquacious all at once, like I'd be able to explain it all right there. Within 24 hours, the kid was like, "No, gracia" to every street vendor in the town.

The next morning, we walked around town, seeing the Cathedral and the Convento de San Francisco. Pictures will follow. We never made it Kathy's Waffle House, sadly. Carl and Angie arrived around lunch time and afterwards, we headed to Lake Nicaragua for a kayak trip. I will get to that tomorrow.