Surviving Christmas with Altered Barbies

I survived another Christmas. Yay!

"Don't be such a Scrooge," Big Dog would often tell me seeing me with my brow furrowed, glaring at all the shoppers. Rampant commercialism makes me sad…and mad. I'm a terrible shopper and being pressured by custom to shop does not make me happy. Even at normal times I would prefer to do anything BUT shop, however, as we approach Christmas, the mood of materialism on steroids keeps me from even thinking about entering a store.

I make all of our gifts. I grew up around a lot of handmade things -- my mother was a terrific seamstress and knitter -- so it's all very normal for me, but I guess for some, handmade gifts feel "cheap" or "sorry." Big Dog's family is sick of my ranch-made items, for sure.

"This is all I could get you guys this year," apologized BD's nephew's mother-in-law.

"You don't need to get us anything!" we protested. I mean, really, no one needs to get holiday gifts for one's son-in-law's uncle! When I saw it was a homemade baked good, I was surprised. What does she mean "this is all"? To me, a gift that has someone's time and effort is so much better than a mass-produced-in-China-by-questionable-labor-store-bought thing. But I guess for them, it is not.

And then I hear about "plus-size Barbie."

Why not. And while we're at it, why not Menopausal Barbie, Bulimic Barbie, Anorexic Barbie, Pussy Whipper Barbie. I think we already have Gold Digger Barbie.

Years ago I drew a cartoon of Bi-polar Barbie. ("I'm sad! I'm mad!" Just like me at Christmas-time!) Yes, it's in terrible taste when you consider that real bi-polar disorder is complicated and painful, but I think a lot of women go through a bi-polar phase (like during menopause) so why not let your kids play with a real-life figure?

I'm thinking of other real-life Barbies we could but don't have: Goth Barbie, Metal Barbie, Stoner Barbie. Panhandler Barbie, Meth Lab Barbie, Convict Barbie, Welfare Barbie… Steampunk Barbie, Anarchist Barbie, Activist Barbie… 

Hmm. Looks like others have been thinking of them, too.

Metal. or Punk Barbies

Birthing Barbie!

Anorexic Barbie

Bulimic Barbie

Not sure what she is. Skank Barbie?

And, of course, Stoner Barbie

There's even a community for people who love Altered Barbies!

Check out the artwork! 

Love the "Pinebie," the child of Barbie and Pinecone. And someone's even got a Suicide Barbie! I'll bet there are Pedophile Barbies and Crazy Stalker Barbies, Frivolous Lawsuit Barbies… My head's starting to spin. 

Like Exorcist Barbie.

How to Not Burn Out

In the rock and roll world, we think it's "better to burn out than fade away." We love geniuses who shine bright and fast; stars who are snuffed in their prime.

We look at the really old with a mixture of dread and pity. We feel sorry for the ones who are just alive but not really living, hoping it won't be us in that chair, staring blankly at an inane TV show with dozens of other drooling, mumbling ex-human beings.

But here in this tiny beach town, we have a little enclave of octogenarians who defy common preconceptions about aging. They are fit, both physically and mentally, some more so than people half their age. And they are fearless.

"When you start to get really old, you worry about anything that will hasten your way to the end," my mother wrote. Not only does this prevent you from doing something new, it also stops you from doing some of the things you really enjoyed. In my mother's case, she stopped driving decades ago. "My eyesight is too bad," she said.

One by one, you give up something that you used to be able to do until there is precious little.

No wonder we think it's better to burn out than fade away, but watching our local octogenarians, I see that you don't have to burn out OR fade away. This is what I have learned:

- Don't use up all your fuel at once.

- Keep a steady fire going, but be sure you keep stoking it constantly with fresh fuel.

I think I've developed very slowly -- I am only now understanding things that every 30 year old seems to knows. I was a complete geek in high school but have slowly become more and more athletic as I grew up. Since leaving Japan in my mid-40's, I am constantly learning new things. I learned to drive, ride horseback, speak another language, farm, do construction work. I keep forgetting a lot, too -- like, I am no longer the Music Trivia Person nor do I know much about films anymore -- but I have gained just as much knowledge about nature, physics, history. I've learned to make my own sourdough bread, tofu and miso. I'm running and climbing trees and digging trenches and…

My fire started slow and weak. Thank god it didn't die. Thank god I learned how to stoke the flames, add more oxygen, and now, every day I am finding new fuel to not only keep that fire going but to make it burn high and bright -- without burning out.

A Clean Flame

I forgot to mention in my last post the one thing that these super youthful octogenarians here have in common -- other than living in a mellow, sunshine-filled environment and never suffering from a cold and miserable winter. It is that they all take responsibility for their own health. They do everything right in that sense!

Exercise and diet. And a good attitude in life. They understand that stress and negativity affect your health as much as processed foods and a couch potato lifestyle.

Herr C., a spry Swiss gentleman we met several years ago when he was camping with his wife is now a widower in his early 80's, but he still spends his winters in Mexico and walks the beach with us every afternoon. Big Dog and I are astounded that he continues to keep up on these 5 or 6 mile walks. We talk about a wide range of subjects during our walks -- he has a very curious mind! A former physician, he doesn't smoke, drinks in moderation, eats in moderation, walks a LOT, kayaks, camps, travels the world and is his own person.

Too often the elderly give up control and let their children dictate what they should and should not do. I think that's the death knell. Keep your independence! At least until you lose your mind and when that happens, maybe you can lose the independence, too.

Mr. G., our landlord who lives with his Mexican wife in the house next to us is an incredibly young 85. When he told us his age, we just about fell over. Last year, we saw him out on the ocean trying to learn to stand-up paddle. He takes his boat out (by himself) to fish. Most people who spend a lifetime in construction seem pretty beat up by the time they start getting Social Security. Not Mr. G.!

"My father owned a candy store when I was really young, so I was always into the candy. And I think that's why I was such a slow learner all during grade school," he told us one evening over wine, tostadas and sunset. Today, he is very conscious about what he eats. "I try to avoid junk food, processed foods. Here in Mexico, I can get raw milk inexpensively so that's what we have. Did you know that homogenized milk is bad for you? The process they use to homogenize milk makes it so that it clogs your arteries more easily."

That was news to me, but he is about the only octogenarian I know who is NOT on blood thinning meds, so maybe he's got something there.

Eating as much raw foods as possible, a nice variety, never using a microwave and not getting too phobic about the "bad stuff" are his keys to health. "You also need to build some immunity to junk, too, you know." Like, the occasional greasy, lard-fried churro!

We talked about the recent gluten-free craze and how people who go gluten-free feel so much better not because they've eliminated gluten, per se, but because they're eliminating almost all processed foods. Factory-made foods have too much crap, whether they are harmful additives, GMOs, or overly processed grains.

"Too many people don't think about how they eat, how they live, and then just take drugs that will cure symptoms but never the cause of the problem."

He was echoing all of my thoughts on the matter! Our body houses our spirit -- it's a holy temple -- and yet many of us treat it like a junkyard or garbage dump with a lifetime of terrible habits and then a bunch of drugs. So, yes, make sure you are getting fresh fuel for your "fire," but also make sure it is burning clean.

Michelangelo's Ghost

The last time I was in Rome and Florence was to cover the Mille Miglia races in the early 90s for a Japanese TV station. Just a few hours and a short night on the outskirts of Rome to interview the racers. Before that was in the late 70s as an impoverished student doing the Backpack-Through-Europe-On-As-Little-As-Humanly-Possible Thing. (You were supposed to able to travel on $20 a day. I didn't have that much money then.)

"The people have changed, but Roma is still Roma," said Sergio, the owner of the little residenza across from the Lago Argentina ruins.

Yes, they have. In 1977, the place was filled with tourists, but now, it is absolutely jam-packed, and with the kinds of people who weren't even traveling back then. Everyone behind the Iron Curtain, the Chinese, Koreans, Southeast Asians, Indians, Middle Easterners, South Americans...

But with the influx of tourists, Rome has also changed. Every place charges a hefty admission. (I remember much being free for students back in the 70s.) There are long lines for everything. Spots like the Fountain of Trevi and Spanish Steps are a zoo of humanity.

Overlooking crowds from the top of the Spanish Steps

The biggest shock was waiting for me at the Vatican. And it wasn't the throngs either.

I was last inside the Sistine Chapel pre-restoration project. That happened sometime in the 80s when Japanese companies had too much money to waste, including Nippon TV who underwrote the project.

After tiring ourselves out trying to see everything inside the Vatican Museum, my mother and I were swept along a human river to the Last Spot. The Sistine Chapel. Guards are shouting "Silence!" trying to quiet the murmur of hundreds of people, shoulder to shoulder in the famous Chapel.

Oh my god. The colors are nothing like what I remember. It's all too vivid, too...colorful. But the most shocking aspect of the "new" Sistine Chapel was that in removing centuries of soot from the frescoes, they seem to have taken away some of the charcoal shading. Things look flat. Some figures lack eyes. Faces have lost detail.

This was not how Michelangelo painted the celebrated ceiling. At least, not in my relatively uneducated opinion.

Some say this is due to the misunderstanding of the restorers who thought Michelangelo painted on wet plaster, buon fresco, and did not come back to add details to the dried paster, so everything on top of the original painted plaster was removed.

I imagine Michelangelo rolling in his grave. Until I remember how even during the painting of The Last Judgement, he had conflicts with the clergy about nudity. I think clothes were painted on some of the figures later on, by an artist who got the nickname "Breeches Painter." Michelangelo's ghost has been rocking and rolling for a loooong time. If it stayed here at all. Nah. Why would it. Why would it stay here when there's...West Hollywood?

The Odiferous and the Unshod

What gets into some people? I think one of the most important rules to follow when traveling is RESPECT. Respect for your host country, its people, culture, traditions and even societal norms.

People don’t wander the beaches naked, or even topless, in countries where modesty is valued. Please don’t wear shorts and T-shirts around a city where people dress formally. 

A foreign country is NOT your frat house.

We see a few unbelievably obnoxious types, and for me, that includes these kids who somehow think it’s cool to be stinky, unwashed, unkempt and unshod.

First of all, it’s dangerous to be without footwear in a developing country.

“Serves them right to get tetanus,” I think as another ragtag bunch of blonde dreadlock nomads shuffles by.

And then I have to laugh a bit at myself for being so conservatively Japanese -- we think it's rude to go to someone’s house in grubby clothes.

Who knows. Maybe they gave their shoes to some poor barefooted villagers.

I decide to forgive them their shoelessness, if not their cluelessness.

But the stench? When even the poorest local can bathe in the lake? Now, that’s unforgivable.

Awwww Therapy

"Come look," Feather whispered to me.

Big Dog and I were up in Arcata, staying with Arby and Feather and their 3 cats.

I followed Feather down the hall to their room.

"Look," she sighed. "Isn't it the cutest sight?"

Spaz Cat was in bed, tucked under the sheets like a little baby.

"It's our 'awwww' moment for the day. It's good for the bones."

Huh?

Feather went on to explain that moments of intense cuteness stimulate you into producing more female hormone, thereby preventing osteoporosis. Hmmm. She could have something there.

"What's that term in Japanese?" asked Arby. "Kowai?"

"Actually, kowai is scary. Kawaii is cute."

"Kawaii."

"Yeah. Maybe that's what I need. More kawaii in my life."

Big Dog snickered.

"You? Kawaii? There's not the slightest whiff of kawaii about you," he laughed. "Look at her! All in black... She used to wear coveralls and smoke cigars!"

"Long before it was sort of trendy."

But maybe that's my problem. I've decided to make more of an effort to seek out the kawaii moments. Like Feather says, it'll be good for my bones. We can all use a bit of Awwww Therapy.

How to Kill Paradise

So you find a piece of paradise: 2 mile long stretch of pristine beach on a tiny Filipino island. It's one of their famous "seven thousand." (Since the first time I visited the Philippines, I have heard locals talk proudly of their 7000 islands, though the official count is a rather loose 7107. I say "loose" because some of these islands "disappear" with the tides.) There are a couple of tiny fishing villages, with a few dozen families living in bamboo shacks. You get there like the handful of other travelers, hiking through jungle for the last few kilometers and then hitching a ride on one of the fishermen's boats. There's no electricity, no cars, no diesel generators, no running water, no refrigeration... but it's a pure, unadulterated tropical paradise with fireflies floating to the strains of someone's acoustic guitar, phosphorescent algae twinkling on the lapping waves. You eat like the locals and learn to love warm beer. You lease a little bamboo hut on the beach for something like $500 for 5 years. You want to be here forever.

But "here" is not here forever. Paradise slowly dies.

Travelers tell other travelers. More travelers come. The bus now goes all the way to where you can catch a boat across to the island. No more hiking, no more hitching rides with the fishermen. Some enterprising local starts a ferry service. More travelers come. A small airline operates a direct flight from Manila to ferry point. Tourists, vacationers begin to arrive. Foreigners come with their foreign needs -- locals accommodate with banana pancakes, cold beers, refrigeration. The sound of diesel generators break the silence of the nights. Foreigners open restaurants and bars. More tourists arrive. Now there are motorbikes belching black exhaust along the tiny beach path. Now there are hookers from Ermita.

Your 5 year lease is up. You do not renew, nor do the landlords want you to. They have bigger plans.

20 years later, you return to your one time paradise. The name of the island hasn't changed but that's about the only thing that hasn't. The beach is crammed, shoulder to shoulder with hotels, guesthouses, restaurants, bars, souvenir shops. None seem to be owned by the original residents of the island. The beach is cluttered with boats, littered with trash, and there is sometimes a strange green sludge growing in the water. The island is packed with tourists. You go looking for your former landlord, former neighbors. After days, maybe weeks, you finally find them on the other side of the island -- the windy, rocky side. They still live in a bamboo shack but their lives have not gotten better from all the development. The little bit of money they made, selling their property to some unscrupulous developer for peanuts is long gone. "Food is so expensive nowadays," they complain.

Paradise rarely dies on its own. "Discovery" kills it each and every time.

I wonder what this strip of Mexican Caribbean coastline was like 20 years ago.

These Boots Were Made For...

...SPLASHING!

The December storm at the ranch had turned my uggs into mud-caked messes so it was time to go and find some rubber boots. Shall it be long waders? Or heavy duty utilitarian boots? Or something cute and fun?

Economics determined the choice for me: a pair of really inexpensive rain boots. Made in China, natch. But I'm hoping they'll at least last me the season.

I don't know why I haven't had/worn any rain boots-galoshes-wellingtons-wellies-rubbers in four-plus decades. They're too much fun, I thought, splashing through the rain-darkened streets of West Los Angeles. In Tokyo, the only people I've seen in rubber boots were school children, fishmongers, ancient farm women carrying massive basketloads of produce into the city on the early morning train... The rest of us walked in soggy misery. I wished I had ignored convention and gotten some boots for all those rainy seasons, winter storms, summer typhoons. Japan is a wet country!

Now back at the ranch, I find that these boots were also made for sloshing and sliding around in the mud. Unlike El Rojo, our little electric car that I promptly got stuck in fine, slick, clayish mud in front of our busted up greenhouse.

Yes, the same New Year's storm system that had me wading through West LA tore apart our little greenhouse. The plastic panels had been blown all over the place and the aluminum frame was wrenched apart in places. Plants were dead or dying. What a mess. And now an electric car stuck up to its axle in muck.

But my boots, muddied as they are, look completely unperturbed. Yay for elastic hydrocarbon polymer!

Full Circle

I think it was earlier this year. I came across Alicia Bay-Laurel's website.

If you grew up during the 70's you might be familiar with her book "Living on the Earth." Or maybe "Being of the Sun." Alicia lived on a commune and wrote beautifully hand-scripted, illustrated manuals.

Reading how Alicia wanted to one day learn Japanese compelled me to write to her. I told her that her books became a sort of inner guide as I navigated through the time and space of Tokyo. During the following decades, as I worked in the World of Media, that guide faded into the background, but one day, as I was cleaning out my mother's attic, I found my old, beat-up copies of her books. How crazy, I thought. Look at me now. Trying to "live on the earth" much as I had dreamed all those years ago. "I feel like I've come full circle," I emailed her. And that I would be happy to assist in any language related matters.

It read like a dumb fan letter. Ready to be ignored. But, no! I got a lovely, warm reply and we started exchanging emails. She made me feel like I had known her for ages. (Actually I HAD! I just had to wait more than 3 decades for her to know me!)

And then the synchronicities started flooding in. We had mutual friends! And now we were going to be in Japan at the same time!

We met in Japan for the first time, although for me it was like reconnecting with an old friend, as the synchronicities kept adding up. Not only had I come full circle, but the circle (en) of connections (en) kept growing. Keeps growing.

But, why should I be surprised? We are ALL connected...really...in the en(d).

(Indigo plant from Alisha and my new friend, B.'s yard. He uses it to dye his silk, made the traditional way.)

Viagra from Beyond

While clearing out SPAM from an email account I rarely use I come across an email from my poet friend who passed away last year. I think it's just SPAM disguised as Roberto through some kind of computer virus, but the thought of him trying to sell Viagra from beyond made me smile.

Magic's in the Motion

When I began this blog, in 2006, I was in my third year as a mostly unemployed vagabond. I loved it. I loved that there was something novel every day. "The magic's in the motion," I gloated.

Much has changed since then.

Each year, I spend more and more time at the ranch and I no longer describe myself as "homeless." I'm still not sure if this is "home" but I am happy here even as circumstances beyond my control have limited my time on the road. There is not much motion these days and my entire concept of time has shifted.

I think it's being so connected with nature here that's changed me. My sense of time has...elongated? It makes me chuckle to think that there was a time when my life was ruled by "seconds." 120 second promo videos. 60 second voice-overs. 30 second tv spots. 18 second song intros. These days, I see time in terms of "seasons." I rarely know what day it is and I hardly care what week. I peruse seed catalogs and plan for NEXT YEAR! My god, I could hardly plan TOMORROW a few years ago!

Staying so still makes me a bit nervous -- a holdover from my years living in Warp Speed -- but then I look at my tiny seedlings and know that even though they also appear to be standing still, they keep moving ever so slowly and most of that movement is in their growth. That encourages me. There's real magic in that kind of motion.

Apologies

This is turning out to be quite a non-blogging year! To tell you the truth, I've been drifting away from the internet in general...as well as writing about myself. On the other hand, I've been a bit more creative visually, so I guess it's part of the balance.

Then, there's the fact that the internet, while being a great source of information, is also a big source of MISinformation. I know. There's a whole lot of not-quite-right information about me in cyberspace. Even when it is right, it's still in past tense. For someone whose whole life has been about change, the past has no meaning.

Maybe I am simply getting ready for another reinvention.

But apologies to all who keep coming here, only to find nothing new.

Growing Up

"So, are you going out for a birthday dinner?" asked Big Dog's sister, day before yesterday. I couldn't tell her that there aren't many restaurants I want to go to here. Tokyo really has spoiled me!

"Well, you can't be cooking on your own birthday!" she said, so I had to (somewhat sheepishly) tell her that no, I wasn't cooking. We were having leftovers instead.

I'm sure she was thinking "Leftovers! On your birthday?" but the truth of the matter is I've already had way more than my share of lavish celebrations. Today, it all feels a bit unreal when I try to remember aspects of my past life. Mountains of gifts from people I never met, didn't know...giant bouquets and lavish presents from staff...decadent dinners with friends... If I am eating leftovers on my birthday, it's only because my life needs the balance more.

So, there was no cake, no candles, no gifts this year but I am still filled with joy and wonder at growing up. I think that's pretty good!

Ten Reasons to Love This Town

I'd been to Arcata several times in my last incarnation (figurative, not literal.) Coming from Big Bad Tokyo, it seemed like the cutest, quaintest, teeniest town I ever visited. Now that I am spending so much of the year at The Ranch, where the nearest town is even smaller (but not nearly as cute or quaint) this place is bustling!

Aside from the fact that we have actual internet connectivity at a 21st century level, there are many reasons why I still love this place.

* It will always be Hippie Central
While some of the original flower children have "grown up" ("And a few have become thorns! Ha ha ha!" cackles Big Dog with glee) there is always an influx of newer, younger bohemians looking for that Utopia, keeping Arcata the most left-wing town in the U.S. (as far as I know.)

* Big Business (note capital letters) is not welcome here
"That's why the area remains depressed," bitch the old-timers who may have once been happy to panhandle for food money. "It's too anti-business here!" Yes, they burned down every McDonald's that tried to open shop in town until Mickey D finally got it. "You don't deserve a McDonald's!" they said in a huff on their way out. There IS a McDonald's out on the edge of town, but if you want burgers, you can get great ones at V&N's or Stars, so who needs terrible fast food? There are no Starbucks, no Barnes & Nobles, no Bed, Bath & Beyond, no Sears, no WalMart... I think the only franchise/chain outfits are Safeway, Longs, and a gas station or two.

* Everyone is Community Minded
Actually, the town is very supportive of its businesses. Everyone makes an effort to buy local. So if you have a unique product or service (or even a not-so-unique product or service) this is a great place to start. On our first night back, we met a young man in a local bar who told us about his upcoming mead business. "Mead? You mean like the beverage?" I asked. Sure, I read about it in old novels, but... He told us about how he's already gotten his honey sourced and his label designed. "It's going to be a honeycomb between two redwoods with a bee on top!" Sweet!

* Creativity Abounds
And they never put on that "I'm an artiste..." attitude. The first time I came here, I met a big group of artists. They were awesomely good, but many had day jobs as car stereo installers, sales clerks, etc. "I can't believe this!" I told Big Dog back then. "If these people lived in Tokyo, they would be the biggest sensation! They'd actually be rich, I think." Every small town has its group of artists, but the people here are really, really good. It must be the long, dark winters. Central California is just too nice most of the year to be sitting inside making art (as I am finding out very quickly!)

* Economically it's depressed, or is it?
"Any big business that set up shop here would be able to employ thousands!" bitch the pro-business minority. True. The small mom-and-pop businesses just can't compete that way. (Nor would they be able to compete in any way if some big box store came this way and actually made it, though that is highly unlikely.) There aren't a whole lot of jobs. No wonder so many people get involved in growing/selling pot. It's relatively easy to start up such a business, you will have lots of experienced people to help you, there's a very good market for the product, and, best of all, until it is decriminalized, the 420 business is tax-free! So, on the record, the median income here is pretty low, but in actuality, who knows. Students pay their way through college, couples buy nice homes with plenty of cash, etc. all without having to sell your soul. And most of them probably have prescriptions that allow them to grow their own anyway, so until they sell to non-prescription holders, it's all legal. ...Right?

* Materialism is the scourge
You won't know that there are any wealthy people here because no one wants to be perceived as materialistic. There are tons of junker cars, junker bikes, thrift stores. Everyone looks like they are wearing 30 year old clothing. (In my case, I really am!) Here, Big Dog and I are not the eccentric weirdos we are elsewhere.

* It's GREEEEEN
In every way. From the Green Party (Arcata elected the first-ever Green party city council majority in 1996 and was the first city in the nation to pass a law nullifying the USA PATRIOT Act) to its eco-consciousness to the land around, everything is green, green, green. It has the most amazing wastewater treatment system in the Arcata Marsh and Wildlife Sanctuary, was the first municipality to ban the growth of any type of Genetically Modified Organism within city limits (with exceptions for research and education,) and has more hydroponic supply stores per capita than anywhere else (needs fact checking.) And there's been an on-going campaign to preserve the Headwaters Forest from logging for years.

* It's Young
More than 30% of the population are between 18 and 24, and the median age is around 26 years. The City Council, and at times even the mayor, is sometimes composed in part by college students. (There's a college student in the Council right now.) But more than actual chronological age, it's a youthful town. Or maybe I should say, ageless. My mother who came to visit a few years ago couldn't stop giggling over all the grey-haired "youngsters" skateboarding around town. We all think we're 18 here.

* It's got a Heart
And I don't mean compassion for the homeless, but a geographical heart. Most American towns no longer have a center. Arcata still has its Plaza and what an active plaza it is! From the weekly Farmer's Markets to the start of the annual Kinetic Sculpture Race to the Oyster Festival to the weekly protests to all the "freegans" just hanging out or sleeping, it is a plaza much like the zocalos of Mexico.

* The Local Baseball Team is named after one of my favorite foods
Arcata is home to the Humboldt Crabs, the nation's longest continuously operated semi-pro baseball team that's played every season since 1945! And they serve soy dogs at the ball park.


Okay. Now, here is one reason why I may not love this town as much in the years to come:
I see more and more people here who seem to have come only because of Arcata's cannabis reputation. They have no social or ecological awareness. They are disrespectful of others. They come here, live in the shrubbery by the freeway or in the Community Forest and leave behind tons of trash. Plastic bottles, plastic bags, grungy blankets. Their use-and-discard mentality has no place here. Somehow they think they belong because they don't work and don't own property. They should have stayed in Idaho...or Utah...or wherever.

The other reason why not to love this town? It's that four letter word that starts with R......

Hawaiian Rainbow

"Have you noticed how everyone becomes an islander when they live here?" I mentioned to Big Dog. We had just come out of a Korean supermarket where a friendly, smiling Korean lady gave us samples of a puffed grain cracker (made on the spot by a machine that shoots out crackers with a huge bang.) She, and all the other Koreans working in the store, were not at all like the Koreans living in Tokyo or LA. "No matter where you're from, after a while, they all become Hawaiian. There's not as much tension between all the different racial and ethnic groups."

The rainbow is one of the symbols of Hawaii. It's meteorologically fitting because this state really is a land of rainbows -- you can catch dramatic ones almost every day! But sociologically it's fitting, too, for the way it's been able to absorb different cultural elements to make them its own. There is a lot of overlap between races and cultures and a whole lot of tolerance. Racial integration is more the norm here. Everyone seems to be of mixed heritage -- it really IS a melting pot!

Sure, the Islands have their own particular problems, but they also have so much to teach us.

A dualistic or monistic view of the world seems to be a particularly European/Judeo-Christian thing, but it's not a very inclusive way of thinking, is it? Us vs Them, Black vs White, Good vs Evil, etc. Great way to create conflict, rather than harmony.

Barack Obama, who spent part of his boyhood on Oahu (and is also multiracial despite all the focus on his African lineage!) is sworn in today as the new President of the United States. One can only hope this will bring some Hawaiian Rainbow Aloha Spirit to Washington.

Rainbow...

...and another rainbow. (from yesterday's Martin Luther King Jr. Day parade in Waikiki)

Cold Wet Christmas

We are in Southern California where it's a cold, wet Christmas Day.

My "Number One Fan" Project is not going so well. It's not easy for me to be an unconditional cheerleader. I haven't given up, but I think next year, I'll opt for a more conventional gift.

Secret

Big Dog and I are not good gift givers. We're terribly shoppers, so trying to get a gift really stresses us out. Plus, being a non-consumer, I can imagine what stuff other people would like to receive. I enjoy handcrafted gifts -- a poem, a drawing, cookies -- and feel guilty making a happy face and raving about some gadget or clothes others may give me. I know a lot of thought went into it and I am grateful for their kindness, but the truth is, I would be way happier if they had kept their money and made their own lives more pleasant because there is really nothing material I need.

(Okay. My digital camera died this spring and I would love a new one, but I've started sketching interesting scenes now and I keep thinking that I never would have done this if I still had that camera, so...)

Big Dog and I rarely give each other gifts. We don't do special things on special days, either. We do special things when it's convenient.

This year, though, I've decided on a little experiment. I am going to be Big Dog's Number One Fan for the rest of the year. From the 15th of December, until the end of the year, he will have his Fan Club of One. I'm going to do everything he wants to do, wholeheartedly. I'm not going to make my druthers known. I will laugh at his jokes as if he were the Maestro of Humor and I hadn't heard them a million times already. I will be thrilled to be with him.

Big Dog won't know about this. It's a secret, so don't tell him. I'm not even sure I'll tell him after the fact. (Will he even notice??)

This experiment/present began yesterday. I never thought of myself as being especially willful or selfish and I always think of myself as being extremely undemanding, so why is this experiment turning out to be so much harder than imagined?

Hello Kitty

Big Dog is allergic to some cats, so it was close to miraculous that we were cat-sitting for our old friends, Arby and Feather. We needed to be in Arcata to do some winterizing at Big Dog's Victorian and Arby and Feather were vacationing in Yosemite, so I guess Big Dog thought staying at their house was better than the bargain basement motel we were in last year.

"Spaz Cat won't use her litter box, but don't worry. She poops briquets," Arby warned us while we sipped Anchor Steam beers at a funky tiki bar in San Francisco. It was an unusually sunny Saturday afternoon and the warm light filtered into the darkness through the open door. Every so often, there was a roar of jets flying overhead. A fleet was in town, there was an air show going on and the city was packed.
"And don't worry if she pees during a seizure. We're used to that," added Feather. "Just remember to give her the meds."

At that, Feather gave me a little sheet describing the cats and listing what each one needs. Spaz Cat was only one of them, though the one with epilepsy and needing the most care.

"She's used to taking her phenobarbitol," Feather assured us. "I usually just touch the side of her mouth til she opens up and then slip the pill under her tongue. She's pretty mellow."
"Why wouldn't she be? She's on reds all the time!" laughed Big Dog. "Don't worry. I used to work for a vet when I was a teenager."

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"It's time for Spaz Cat's pill," I said.
"You do it."
"I've never given a pill to a cat! I've never given a pill to anyone but myself!! You're the one who worked for the vet!"
"Those were cats that weren't used to taking medication. We forced open the mouth and shoved in the pill with the eraser end of a pencil," Big Dog clarified.
That sounded a bit extreme for poor, mellow Spaz.
"Okay, Spaz. Guess it's going to be me, sweetie," I cooed to her. She merely blinked back with her giant, multi-colored eyes.

At first, I was gentle.
"Open up now...that's it...pill's in... Spaz! Stop spitting it out! There, that wasn't so bad... No!"
Every time I had to pick the pill off the carpet and get it back in her mouth, the pill was less solid and I was less gentle. In the end, I jammed the gooey pill (which I am sure promptly dissolved in her mouth, it was so saliva saturated) and clamped her mouth shut. There was no more pill to spit.

"Bossie won't come in and Huffy's nowhere to be seen," I whined to Big Dog. Feather wanted all her cats inside at night, but I had only seen Bossie outside earlier and she ran away when I called to her.
"Shhhh," he shushed me like he always does when he's engrossed in TV. I glanced at Arby's state-of-the-art 5.1 surround sound HDTV. There was a political discussion going on and BD cared about the cats about as much as he cared about the treasure trove of cat-themed items that turned the house into a Temple of All Things Feline.

Unlike Big Dog, I like cats and, moreover, cats seem to like me. A Bad Dog is actually a pretty Good Cat. We both like doing our own thing, we don't care much about what others think, or want us to do. We enjoy company when we are in the mood, but feel that "alone time" is "quality time." We're independent and not particularly emotionally needy. Thus, I became Keeper of the Cats. Bossie who is known to bite was well-behaved with us (though she showed me her aggressive side when she hissed at one of the neighbor cats in a display I could only interpret as "Stay out, or I'll kill you with my bad breath!") and shy, shy Huffy let me play with her when there was no one else around. But, it was with Spaz that I felt a special bond...because it takes one to know one?

And Always Remember to Floss

Remember "Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen), that "song" released by Baz Lurhmann a few years ago? It was allegedly a speech given to MIT students by Kurt Vonnegut but was also strangely similar in nature to the "message from the Dalai Lama" chain email going around a while back. They both had some very good advice, but let me reinforce the importance of 1) always using sunscreen and 2) remembering to floss.

When I was a young thing, I didn't care. I let myself get as dark as I could possibly get every summer. Sunscreen was something that we Asians didn't have to worry about, I thought. And flossing? Who had time to floss every day? All I had time for was a good brushing after meals and a rinse with a mouthwash. But I wasn't thinking about how long I was going to live, either. Heck, it wasn't very cool to live too long, anyway. Better to burn out than to fade away, right?

Well, today, I think it's Very Cool to live forever (or as close to it as humanly possible.) It's proof that you were doing something right. It gives you all sorts of second chances, including the chance to get "life" right. Needing to learn and grow doesn't change just because you reach a certain age!

Now that I am focusing on living for more than a century, I am kicking myself for not taking care of my body when I was much younger. Until we can get replacement parts for what wears out, we'd better take good care of what we've got. I am generally pretty fit, but I wish I hadn't abused my skin with all that direct sun. As for the teeth, I have been going for my check-ups quite religiously since I discovered Lady Dentists!

I detested my last male dentist. He had huge hands that were as rough as a longshoreman's. Plus, he was rough with his rough hands, forcing my mouth open far wider than was comfortable, complaining that I wasn't opening wide enough and then drilling and poking and doing whatever dentists do, except it was like there was road construction going on in there. After the root canal job was over, I never went back. That was when I went online and found a nice lady dentist in Tokyo and what a world of difference! I would actually fall asleep while the hygienists cleaned my teeth, they were so gentle.

Here in California, I also have a lady dentist (and a friend who is a hygienist who works for her.) I got to spend my birthday afternoon in their aquatic-themed office (think stuffed fish and other marine animals hanging from the ceiling) getting my teeth cleaned, being told that my teeth were fine and getting a goody bag of dental hygiene products. Okay, so it wasn't an all-day spa treatment, but it was probably even better for me and my goal of one day being the Oldest Person Alive.

Do The Limbo

One day in Hell was enough. We had to flee for the coast today. But El Lay ain't no Paradise. Far from it. Coming here from the Antelope Valley was like going from Hell to Purgatory. Which reminds me of a conversation I had with my best friend and a mutual friend from our teen years about how Limbo is worse than Purgatory. You see, I have a lot of Catholic friends from having gone to a Catholic high school, and these two friends were Catholic, too.

"I remember how the nuns used to scare me about Limbo," said S.
"Me, too!" shouted G.
"Why? Why would Limbo be so bad? It certainly isn't Hell. It isn't even Purgatory," I commented.
"Exactly. It was this dark world of NOTHING!" the two friends both shrieked in memory of the horror.
The only thing I could think of that was bad about Limbo was that if Catholic doctrine proved correct, Limbo would be the most densely populated Afterworld of all since all non-Catholics were bound for Limbo.
"Was limbo dancing banned at your school?" I wondered.

LA is not Limbo. It can be a hell of its own. The drivers here are possessed by something, for sure. Some dude gave Big Dog the evil eye when we pulled into a spot at a gas station. He threw his hands up, as if to say "What!? You wanna run me over?" Then, before we were able to pull out, another car come into the space in front of us. Someone else was waiting patiently BEHIND us and the car that pulled in front of us wasn't supposed to be driving up the EXIT ONLY lane in the first place, but when Big Dog mentioned that to him, he got completely defensive and, of all things, angrily grabbed his crotch.

"How weird was THAT?" Big Dog exclaimed. "Did he think he was Michael Jackson?"
"Maybe he had crabs," I laughed
"'Do you have itch AND odor?'" he imitated the announcer in a Vagisil commercial.

"People don't behave like this when they're in line at the supermarket or ticket window or whatever. What makes them turn into such assholes when they're in a car?!" I was amazed.
"Tons of steel make them feel invulnerable."
"Tons of steel make them stupider. But it's like you say: too many people, too many drivers. Stuff like this makes me want to get out of LA as soon as I can. It's giving me a headache."
"It's making me want to get out of the U.S.," Big Dog winced.

Too bad. This week we take a little trip back into our old lives: video production work, a little purgatory of its own. Being so unemployed makes us insecure, so we take the odd jobs that come our way. But like my Catholic friends always said, there IS an end to Purgatory, which is only a mini-hell (or maybe a series of mini-hells) to get you to heaven. And in that sense, it beats the hell out Limbo every time.