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OK, I take back one of my Mexican Hat spells: I'd like to hear more along the lines of "Code Pink".

In the News

I'm a news-binger: Something happens. I get so involved, that I get sucked into the news. I want news hourly, to the point of compulsion. Then I get so fed up with the whole thing, that I go without news for a few weeks.

Right now, I'm on the cusp of getting fed up. When I listen to the news, here's what I hear:

"And now the news. Intelligence officials said today that North Korea...Be very very afraid. Panic! Doom is impending! Expect quick annihilation, slow suffering, and excruciating pain!
... while Iraqi officials met with U.N. weapons inspectors to discuss...America is Number One. All others must bow to us. We are supreme!
...A report released today detailed how energy giant Enron created illegal tax shelters, thereby cheating taxpayers of millions of dollars without fear of being discovered...Forget about Enron! Irak is evil! Your government had nothing to do with Enron! Enron is being investigated, everyone will be brought to justice. Forget Enron! North Korea has ballistic missiles! Panic!
...Secretary of Homeland Security, Tom Daschle, adressed the American people today, explaining how duct tape and plastic sheeting may be used to... Buy duct tape! It's your only hope! Don't worry about civil liberties right now! Make your home airtight! The environment can take care of itself. Be sure your children are safe!
...Finally, we take a look at a town that celebrates its love affair with tractor seats. We spoke to Tom Johansson of Prairie Lake, Minnesota, about...Bush is God! Give praise unto him, for he protects the deserving! Offer up your prayers to him, and ye shall be saved!
...We return after this break.

OK. I'll tune back in when there is news of a cure for greed or self-righteousness.

It's my birthday. Here's what I want for a present:

Everytime anyone opens their mouth to say any of the following words: "weapons of mass destruction," "nine eleven," "tax break," or "possible war with Iraq," instead it gets turned into the first few notes of the Mexican Hat Dance. Because I am sick and tired of hearing those words.

My boss thinks that George W. Bush should get a Nobel Peace Prize. Because he has finally united two eternal enemies: France and Germany. I think he should get the Nobel Peace Prize for Literature. Because he sure does come up with some good stories. Even if the plots are a little repetitive and predictable.

Oh. Add to that list "code [any color]". And ANYTHING out of George W's mouth. Mexican Hat Dance all around.

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I've been trying to volunteer my time at some schools. It's just so depressing seeing the kids around here, the way they grow up, and what their future entails: living in a squalid apartment (if they're lucky), on drugs, overweight, or both. Because they really don't have much else to model themselves after. So my big idea was to step in and make a difference. It looks like I'll be volunteering at Jefferson Elementary around the corner, home of all the drug-addicted, abused, non-English speaking and homeless kids that none of the other schools want. I'm also looking into mentoring at the high school.

I went down to Eureka High for the first time. The Americorps people I talked to there were really supportive and excited that I wanted to help out. Then I left. I wish I had a picture of this, but I'll just have to describe it: When you leave Eureka High, you come out on J Street. You turn right to head downtown, and what is the first thing you see, all the way at the end of J Street? J Street dead-ends into the Humboldt county jail, largest building in Eureka (some say in Humboldt county). Every day they leave school, these kids are remined of what lies ahead.

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Okay, I'm usually not this depressing, but it's raining today after two weeks of sunshine. I bet if I lived somewhere where the sun always shines, I'd be the happiest, most well adjusted guy you've ever seen (and yet here I am, in one of the rainiest and foggiest parts of these United States). So I'd like to end this birthday post on a more positive note: The skunk cabbage is starting to bloom in Humboldt county. It's really spectaluar to see the bright yellow patches in the forest, and the plants really do smell like a skunk! According to some website I just found, "essence of skunkcabbage" is supposed to clean your mind of stale notions and make room for fresh inspiration! Hmmm...

I haven't posted much lately; been in an introspective mood. Not that anyone reads this blog anyway...

Olfactory Maps

Riding my spiffy new cruiser bike home from work I ride by all kinds of things. Things to see. Things to hear. But lately what's been on my mind are the things to smell.

First, when I walk out the door of the book store, I might smell one of three things: Either disgusting, rotten broccoli smell wafting over from the pulpmill across the bay, sharp scent of roasting coffee from the coffee shop around the corner, or toasted bagel smell from Los Bagels, the local cool bagel store.

I swing on my bike and coast down 2nd Street, or Two Street, as the old-timers call it. Pretty soon I pass by the homeless shelter, the so-called Rescue Mission. By this time, about 6:10, there is a line of homeless people waiting to get in. I guess they don't let them in until 6:30 or 7:00 or something. If you go by slow enough, you can smell the homeless person smell, dull, a little acrid, with a hint of ammonia. Sometimes there is a waft of marijuana. But usually I just zip right by.

Then I turn off of 2nd Street toward the bay, crossing over the railroad track. This is were the railroad yard used to be, back when there used to be trains that came to Humboldt County. Now there is just a string of four rusting diesel locomotives. Sometimes I think I can smell the diesel engines idling, but these engines haven't idled in several years (but hey, imaginary smells can be almost as powerful as real ones).

Then I pass by the fish processing plant on the right. The seafood smell is different almost every time. I'm not sure why. It's usually very strong, and I usually like it. It reminds me of little coastal villages in the south of France, or maybe on the westcoast of Italy, with fishing boats lying on their sides in the sandflats in the harbor.

Several hundred feet down the road I pass by the lot where they load woodchips onto barges. There are huge piles of redwood chips and all manner of machinery to move it around. It smells really fresh, like fresh cut wood, a wood shop smell.

A little farther along you pass by a logpile. Imagine a really gigantic pile of redwood logs, neatly piled like breadsticks at a buffet. Now imagine it a lot bigger than what you just imagined. It's that big. It's bigger than the biggest building in Eureka, which, they tell me, is the Pink House, the county jail right smack downtown. These logs are fresh from the woods. There isn't really a cut wood smell here. What it smells like is the damp, earthy, fungoid smell of forest. You could close your eyes and imagine that you're in the middle of an old growth forest. Well, you ARE, really, it's just a forest that's been pulled up and stacked on it's side.

Then I go around a corner and past the Eureka Garbage company. It's a huge warehouse with piles of garbage inside, being pushed around by bulldozers. And smelling like garbage. It smells a little like homeless people, only a lot stronger. And a little more sickly sweet.

I come to Broadway, which is really Highway 101 as it passes through town. I have to cross it, and there is no traffic light, so I usually sit here for ten to 15 minutes. What do I smell? Car fumes.

Across Broadway it goes, and up the hill, past Serenity Inn. Serenity Inn is a special kind of homeless shelter, for more upscale homeless people. It pretends to be a motel, but nobody there is a tourist. Children play in the parking lot while their parents watch TV in their rooms. Is this the only life these kids will ever know? Probably.

I'm almost home. I delve into a residential neighborhood, and the smell become a confused jumble of barbecue, shampoo, and wood fired stoves. Sometimes the smell of a burning house (why do I always end up writing about houses on fire? See this story that Marya ended up posting).

Then I'm home. If I'm lucky, I smell the blossoms of the beautiful garden that my sweetie planted as I push my bike towards the shed.

State of the Union

Everyone seems to be having fun tonight taking apart Bush's State of the Union speech. This is all I'll say about it:

Imagine, just for a second, that you were the president of the United States. Imagine you are in charge of an insane amount of weapons of mass destruction. You are preoccupied with denying other countries such weapons of mass destruction. Your foreign policy agenda depends on your assessment of the proliferation of weapons of mass destruction. Frankly, your entire political career is staked on issues concerning weapons of mass destruction.

Wouldn't you at least make sure you could pronounce the word "nuclear"?

Listening to Books

When you've worked at a bookstore for a while, strange things start to happen.

The other day, I was going through the store, just ordering the shelves, putting books back in their places, straightening out the shelves. All of a sudden, the combined literary weight of hundreds of thousands of books hit me square in the solar plexus. I looked around me.

Every single one of those books contained someone's hard-earned ideas. Every one contained dozens, if not hundreds of stories of what it means to be human.

I looked at the shelves, astonished that the weight of humanity wasn't snapping them, sending thousands of books cascading down onto the floor in an eruption of dust and paper.

There is something that happens almost daily at the store: A customer will walk in the door, take a deep whiff and exclaim: "The smell of old books!" If you've ever been in a used book store, you know the smell of books. It's very powerful, and most people have positive associations with it. But did you know that books also make a sound?

On that certain day, when I had my epiphany while shelving, I closed my eyes and listened to the books. There, at the very edge of perception, far below the din of the street, the squeeky shoes of patrons, the muffled punk music coming from the up-stairs apartment, there was a little tiny voice. The tiny voice of thousands of books calling out. You can only hear it because they all call out the same thing.

I thought about this for a second. Yes, it was true: all these thousands of books all have the same thing to say. Millions of stories in different permutations of characters, situations, settings, complexity and style, but every single one has the same underlying message. I strained harder to hear what it was.

I couldn't quite make it out. I'll keep listening.