Foolery

Izzat a Baster in Your Pocket, or Are You Just Happy Thanksgiving?

(Photo stolen from this site)


Almost time to leave for Tahoe, and am I packed?

HA!  That's funny.  I HAVE had a beers, however, while baking pumpkin bread, frying bacon, hard-boiling eggs and cleaning the kitchen.  I have shopped for last-minute groceries in a busy Raley's.  I have sorted kids' clothes, unpacked and repacked the girls' suitcases, and filled the staging area with bags and boxes and directions.

I am now brain-dead.  It wasn't a big leap, but I have achieved zero brain function.

Oh well.

On the menu for tomorrow night's dinner:  two (almost) 35-pound lasagnas, three kinds of bread, and a choice of hearts of romaine salad or spinach salad with feta, bacon, red onion, mushrooms and hard-boiled egg.  (If anyone other than my plebeian father eats the hearts of romaine salad instead of the spinach salad, I may cry.)  Pumpkin bread for dessert, because I forgot I was out of cocoa powder for a Texas Chocolate Cake.  Oh well.

I hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving, whether you are with family, friends, or in the cozy comfort of your own home.  We are all blessed just to be here, and for that I am thankful.  I'm also thankful if there is actually someone reading this drivel.

Time for bed, and then up early-ish to start all over again.  A hand squeeze and a hug across the miles to you all.

Love,

Laurie

An Interview with Voiceover Artist Brian Fairlee

Most people have one friend from their childhood who blew the bell curve out of the water.  In my circle of high school friends this was no easy feat; most of my friends were artistic brainiacs all vying for the role of valedictorian at graduation.  (There is no easy explanation for my inclusion in such a group -- kindness?  Diversity?  My inability to take a hint?)

One of these friends, Brian Fairlee, stands out.  Not only did he do pretty much everything he did well, but he did it big, too.  Most of us were band geeks, but Brian was the drum major.  Most of us were creative, but Brian had been writing, filming, casting, voicing and editing his own movies since junior high, learning it by doing it.  If something interesting was happening, Brian was probably at the center of it.

It figured that he would have an interesting life after high school.  He went to USC and graduated from its prestigious film school.  He was a DJ for a campus radio station.  And he started a career in the entertainment business.

But Brian's career is not in front of the camera, and not exactly behind it, either: Brian is a voiceover specialist.

You have heard Brian and you didn't even know it – maybe even yesterday.  I hear his voice fairly often on television, because Brian's specialty is voicing commercials promoting upcoming movies and DVDs.  (Brian voiced a radio public service announcement for me this past spring, which I posted here.  I sent him the script and within about half an hour he sent me the audio track – no directing needed; he just nailed it the first time.  It's nice to work with a pro.)

I posed a list of questions to Brian, which he was kind enough to answer for me.

FOOLERY:  Can you describe, better than I can, what a voiceover artist does?

BRIAN:  Luckily for me, it isn't too hard to actually do voiceover once you're lucky enough to get the chance to do it. I always say that anyone who can read aloud, which we've all done since grade school, can essentially be a voiceover artist. You just need about a hundred other things to fall into place.

Basically, for each job, I'm handed a script, escorted into an isolated recording booth, asked if I want any water or anything at all, and when they tell me to, I read the "copy" [meaning script] into a microphone, and moments later the director or producer of the spot I've been hired to read repeatedly tells me why I'm reading it wrong.  The engineer records each "take" and I walk out feeling like I've pulled the wool over everyone.  Somehow after I leave, the words are edited into the spot and magically sent to TVs around the world.  I'm sure I've left out a few steps.  Maybe about a hundred.

FOOLERY:  How did you get into the voiceover business?

BRIAN:  Believe it or not, I was born certified 100% USDA Grade-A Ham.

The youngest of three kids, I was constantly trying to get attention.  Soon I was singing, acting, and basically  making noise constantly.  “Look At Me” was my motto.  I was always fond of talking into microphones, as is evident in a recording circa 1972 where I pretended to host "The Price Is Right" from my sickbed, playing Bob Barker, Johnny Olson, the contestants and the audience simultaneously.

Download PRICE_BFAIRLEE_6YRS

After I grew up and graduated college, I ended up working for an advertising agency that specialized in movie ads.  There I worked my way up through the ranks until I was cutting trailers and TV spots as an editor.  By the time I started editing spots, I had already been "scratching" other people's rough cuts for timing.  A "scratch" is the term used for a temporary voiceover (VO).  Of course I always read my own rough cuts because I knew exactly how I wanted them read and could re-read them as needed.  Once the spots would go to finish (for air or theatrical release) my voice would get replaced with a professional voice from the Screen Actor's Guild (SAG).  During that time, several people who heard my reads suggested I try to get an agent.  But I was too busy to look into it.

Years later, I finally got the opportunity to join SAG, acquire an agent, start reading for real and actually finish on spots.

FOOLERY:  Did you have special voice coaching, or did you learn by trial and error?

BRIAN:  I never took classes, though I was always told I should.  Rather, I preferred on-the-job training.  My "voice coaches" were the big stars of voiceover who would come in and read for our spots.  Don La Fontaine, Andy Gellar, Chuck Rielly, Mark Elliot, Philip Clark, John Leader, Ashton Smith, and so many others inadvertently taught me how to read for movie ads because I heard them every day, directed their sessions, and edited their reads into my own spots.

I have always considered myself a mimic, so basically the character I become when I read is an amalgam of all my favorite voiceover artists. Of course it varies based on the genre of the movie being marketed.  Believe it or not you can say "In a world" many different ways.

I believe that being an editor taught me how to read properly as well.  I've heard many times from other editors how my reads always seem to flow just right.  They tell me when they are asked to replace me with another VO, it often screws up the pace of the spot.  When it comes to movie copy, I guess I've told these "stories" so many times through narration and editing, that the "language" is second nature.  Like my website slogan says, "Same Old Words.  Brand New Voice."
 
FOOLERY:  What are some of the memorable voicing jobs you've done?

BRIAN:  I had to read for Disney-On-Ice several times and each time, the client wanted me to read the copy with more energy. By the end of the takes I was screaming the words.  They STILL wanted more energy.  I finally said, "If I read this with any more energy, I will turn inside out."

I was the voice on commercials for "Disney's Little Einsteins" DVDs for some time and went into a session where there were some little kids hanging out with their parents.  When they heard me reading, their eyes lit up in recognition.  "It's the Little Einsteins guy," one of them said as I left.  That was my rock star moment.

Another time, I was hired to read based on my sample reel.  After the first take, I heard the director sigh heavily.  This wasn't a good sign.  Later, she told my agent she didn't want to pay for the session because I didn't sound like me.  To this day, I'm not sure how that's even possible.

The most fun I recall having was reading for "MADtv" a couple of seasons ago.  I called myself the poor man's Don Pardo [a career Announcer Guy best known as the announcer for “Saturday Night Live”].  I read the cast names at the beginning and various bumpers for each commercial break.  Sometimes they would have me read VO for a sketch.  The best one was a "Dreamgirls" spoof.

I've also read on the road during vacations, which can be quite memorable.  I've read in Washington D.C., Orlando, and Mammoth.  These days, if you carry just a little bit of gear, you can read from virtually anywhere and email an audio file to your client.

FOOLERY:  Cranky customers cause headaches for retail clerks; hurricanes cause migraines for phone repair guys.  What stuff brings out the Excedrin in your line of work?

BRIAN:  Making me read over and over and over when the first couple of takes work fine is highly annoying, but because the pay is good, I'll read as long as it takes and feel pretty lucky to have the opportunity to do so.

FOOLERY:  Your job, working in the film and television business, probably sounds glamorous to most people.  What are the perks?

BRIAN:  Lots of free water.  Sometimes they pay for parking.  But seriously, some people are overly effusive about the "work,” which feels odd to me.  I still maintain that it's just reading.  Everyone who's been to school can do it.

Recently, I have established a relationship with a film director who sent me swag (promotional goodies from his movie) and invited me to the premiere.  That is highly out of the ordinary and lots of fun for me.

FOOLERY:  Are you taking your career in new directions?

BRIAN:  I'd love to be in control of my own destiny, but frankly, I take what opportunities come my way.  Right now, I am being utilized by Nickelodeon for movies that they are producing with Dreamworks like "Kung Fu Panda," "Madagascar: Escape 2 Africa," and "Hotel For Dogs."  My mother-in-law thinks there's a lot to be made in the on-hold telephone sector.  As goofy as I thought this was, I was actually tapped to do such a thing.  It happened to be for a production company and I was basically narrating TV show promos, but if you call (818) 728-7600 you can ask to be put on hold and hear the work I did for that.

But I am most happy reading movie commercials.  The pay scale is the best and the work is the least taxing.  As they say, "It's nice work if you can get it."   Unfortunately most of the time that's a big IF. That's why I still edit.  (Kept my day job.)

FOOLERY:  By the way, next time you ask me to be in one of your homegrown movies, would you please tell me ahead of time if YOU will be dubbing your voice in over mine?  I wouldn't dress so butch next time.  I swear I came off like John Lithgow.

BRIAN:  Ah yes, you did appear in the 1982 cult classic "Blood of E. Ville," didn't you?  And yes, I performed about 18 voices in that post production attempt at a soundtrack.  My friend Sam Shult and I had no sound recording capability while shooting, so we recreated everything "live" and recorded it to audio cassette while watching the edited movie.  It was a similar process to foley and ADR for feature films [Automated Dialogue Replacement, a form of dubbing], only pathetically executed and the results were staggeringly bad.  For some reason, I remember it wasn't possible to assemble the entire cast (scheduling, space, patience), so we did the next best thing which was to read all the parts ourselves while playing records and throwing things around the room to make sound effects.  Those were the days.

If you want to hear some of Brian's voiceover samples – there are plenty you'll recognize – visit his web site, brianfairlee.com.  Many thanks to my friend for taking the time to share his world with us.

Buttermilk Pancakes The Hard Way

I will skimp on wine, good coffee beans, haircuts, clothing, music -- pretty much everything, but I will NOT skimp on pancakes.

Yes, I have a bag of Krusteaz in my cupboard, but it may have weevils, I don't know, because I insist on creating a shitload of dishes every time and making pancakes the long way.  My mom's recipe, sort of.  Mostly.  And it may be a standard Every Person In The World Has This Recipe, You Dumb Cluck, I don't know.  Please don't tell me, if it is.  Let me keep living this lie.  Take down this recipe as if it's really, really special.  Oooo and ahhhh as if I'm a culinary genius.

Get syrup in your hair and tell me about it.

So here it is:

Buttermilk Pancakes The Hard Way

You will need the following hardware:

• a large bowl
• a medium bowl
• a whisk
• a large spatula
• spoons and stuff
• a small squirrel
• a griddle, or at least a good frying pan
• a stove
• a kitchen

You will need the following edibles:

• 2 or 3 eggs, your decision (tick tock . . .)
• 1 1/4 cup buttermilf.  Damn, slip of the tongue.  BATTERMILF
• 1/2 cup milk
• 1 1/2 cups flour
• 1 tsp. salt
• 3/4 tsp. baking soda
• 2 tblsp. sugar
• 3 tblsp. butter, melted

First, separate the eggs.  Yolks go into the big bowl, whites go into the medium bowl.  Add the BATTERMILF* to the yolks, then the regular milf.*  Stir it up, baby, stir it up.  BUT NOT TOO MUCH!  (Did I scare you?  Sorry.)

Now for the dry ingredients.  Here's the weird part.  You can use regular flour, but I try to cram as much whole wheat flour into stuff as I can, so I use 1/2 cup each regular flour, whole wheat flour, and cake flour (for lightness).  This is NOT necessary, but is probably part of a larger illness I am refusing to acknowledge.  Dump 1 1/2 cups flour into a sifter, and add the salt, baking soda, and sugar.  Sift it right into the big bowl.  Stir it up, but only until it's just mixed -- still lumpier than a lazy advertising agency secretary's butt.  Now put it away and heat up your griddle -- 350F if you're particular, high heat then down to medium if you're sloppy.  I'm sloppy.

Melt that butter in the microwave -- how about 40 seconds on half power?  DON'T BOIL IT.  Let it cool off a minute while you beat the snot out of the egg whites.  Take your whisk and whip those whites into a froth.  Your forearms will thank me, and hate me.  Thank me.  Beat the whites until soft peaks form.  Or quit early; it's not that critical.  HA!

Sometimes I fold the egg whites in and then stir in the melted butter, and sometimes I do it the  other way around.  I'm sure there's a preferred way, but I'm here to tell you I have done both ways and it has not made a BIT of difference to my finished product, so you pick.  In any case, fold in the egg whites gently and mix in the butter only until it's mixed, not a second more.  Well, a second is okay.

Make your pancakes; you know the rest.  I think this should feed 5-6 normal people, or four gluttons.  You pick.  If you're in doubt, double the recipe.  Freeze the leftovers in a Zip-Loc.  Use real butter and pure maple syrup, or this whole dirty dish circus has been for naught.

* You do fnow I mean "buttermilk" and "milk," right?

Invasions Are Simpler to Plan Than Thanksgiving

We are gathering together -- all four siblings and the various children and grandparents and an uncle, from my side of the family -- for a major holiday, under one roof, for the first time EVER.  Next week.  In a rented cabin in Tahoe.  So the e-mails were flying today as we figure out who is bringing what.
 
My brother Bocci is a chef, and a master of food planning, prep and organization.  He's the one taking the bull by the horns.  You will be able to tell from his e-mails how commanding he is.  If he doesn't like your answer he just might make you cry (unless, of course, you're his big sister, and then you just write nasty things about him in your blog instead of crying).
 
I thought you might like to see what passes for communication in my family, so here are excerpts from the first round of e-mails.  There will probably be more, with accelerated levels of smartass and snarkiness, but this is only Round One.
 
Brother Bocci:  Hello All!  We're getting close to Thanksgiving, and I know there are a lot of questions.  I'm going to take the liberty of making some small assignments -- that will hopefully make everything easy for everyone.  If you disagree with the assignments, I'll be choosing where you sleep:
 

• ALL Parties - please bring two bottles of wine.  I should bring plenty of white, so red is great.  If you have a white or red you prefer, please don't be shy about bringing what you like, and we'll make sure that you get the lion's share!

(Photo stolen from this site)

• Beth - pumpkin pies.  Due to only one oven*, I won't be making them on Thursday.  Storebought pies are totally fine -- they actually do okay with pumpkin.  The Orlanders tell me that Costco makes a good pumpkin pie....  I also trust that you can bring some good coffee?  You're pretty swanky, so I think you'll do the best here.

Beth:  Swanky coffee and cheap pies - got it.  sniff.  2 bottles of wine somewhere in between?

Bocci:  What do you mean on the wine?  I'm bringing 12 bottles if you're concerned about volume.  With Dad there, I'd be concerned about volume.**

• Uncle - hors d'oeuvre stuff.  Cheese, meat, pate, crackers, nuts, etc.  Have a field day.  Remember you've got rednecks, so you might want some chips as well.

Uncle:  I'll bring saltines and cheese-whiz.  Anyone bringing jello?

(Photo stolen from this site)

• Laurie - first night's meal - lasagna!  Don't forget the no-cheese small one, too, plus some bread would be nice for carbo loading before bedtime.  You also are responsible for beer, as you live in Sierra Nevada territory, and not sure if we'll drink too much else.***  Anything special that your girls will want or need, in case they don't like my sloppy cooking.****

(Photo stolen from these guys)

• Mantel Man - bring dish gloves, as you're not getting off easy this time.  Also, your Baileys, Amaretto, and some of the more redneck snack stuff that you like.  Comics for my kids to read with you, and maybe some sugar of some sort.  Your tea as well.

 

(Photo stolen from this site)

• Mom is bringing gin and tonic and limes (I'm starting to think we won't need to turn the heat on).  Also, one breakfast.  That should keep you busy.  3 loaves sliced sourdough and one white for sandwiches.  If you make sugar cookies, you'll score big.

(Photo stolen from this site)

• The wife and I should have the rest.  Still working on Saturday night dinner idea, but I'll handle the Thanksgiving dinner, plus Friday night.  Anything else we can think of we'll let you know, but shouldn't be much.  Anything you want to bring, please feel free.

Beth:  Will bring extra food b/c my boys generally require their own refrigerator to store a weekend worth of eating.  And six signed copies of "Audacity of Hope".

 

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Bocci:  Bring a few dozen hot dogs for the boys to go with their light beer (kidding).  This is a Democrat free zone.*****  But we do like fluff (and People magazine), so please feel free to bring your Obama propaganda.  "Wow, this book is so light!"

Beth:  Can someone send the address?

Bocci:  The address  -- Bakersfield.******  And no damn canned whipped topping chemical crap.  I will bring the real stuff.

         

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Mom:  Hey, chef.  How's about your mother making a big stew for Saturday night, bringing it frozen, and Schwann frozen herb biscuits and green salad? 

Bocci:  Go green salad!  Blue cheese and walnut and balsamic dressing for me, please!

Mom:  And a cake (sheet) big enough for all of us.

Bocci:  Stew would be nice -- but I was thinking of a braised beef the night prior.  I could skip and do prime rib, though.  No frozen biscuits though -- bring 'em and you're out of the family.  Sheet cake great, but not too much sheet in mine, please.

        

Mom:  P.S.  Will you allow******* Beth to bring whipped cream in a can?  If so, I will tell her when I send her the directions to the house, which I am hoping to receive soon from youse guys.

Bocci:  Canned whipped cream only for whipits...I knew that hideous question would come up.  I have the technology to whip my own.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

        

Beth:  Since I agreed to my assignment, can I have a queen bed with feather pillows, south-facing windows, radiant flooring, turkish cotton towels, jacuzzi tub, and fresh pajamas?  Can't wait to see y'all,

Swanky
Director of Swanky Eating
Trader Joe's Eatery
Overpriced Bay Area, California

Laurie:  You DO realize that this is all going into the blog, don't you?  No?  Tough sheet.

        

Bocci:  To be read by nerds with perpetually runny noses, living in their mom's basement.  I can handle that.********

(Photo stolen from her)

 
* ONLY one oven.  This is how my brother the chef thinks.
 
** This is a joke.  Dad hardly drinks at all.  The rest of us, however, pull his load for him.

*** Chas is figuring an ounce per person per minute per waking hour.  Plus a little extra.
 
**** As if.
 
***** We run the gamut in our family, from almost Communist to not-quite-John Birch Society.  We tease each other quite a bit and no one seems offended, so don't you be offended, okay?
 
****** No it isn't.  We're going to Tahoe.
 
******* Check out that word, "allow."  Cut it out, Mom -- he's gonna get a swelled head!  We shoud be snapping him with towels and playing Hide From Bocci like the old days.
 
******** Obviously, Bocci has not met my readers.  Both of your are lovely, and certainly NOT runny-nosed basement-dwellers.  Although I wonder a bit about Bob Cleveland . . .

The Worst Day Fishing, Or, Stick With Mrs. Paul's

My brother Mantel Man doesn't send e-mails, he creates miniature works of art and drops them into my inbox.  I swear, if he burps it must sound like an aria.  So here is the e-mail he sent out to family yesterday, describing his Saturday fishing trip with a friend.  I know him, and this e-mail took him no more than 20 minutes, I'm sure of it.  Maybe 10.

*     *     *     *     *

Mantel Man netting a trout during a luckier fishing trip (on Woods Canyon Lake last year)

Y'know that old saying, "The worst day fishing is better than the best day working"?  I tested that theory last weekend on a local lake with a fishing buddy.  I'll call him "Gene" -- because that's his real name, and if I have to endure humiliation, then so does he.

Gene fly fishing on the Black River a few weeks ago

Gene's particular hang-up that day was just that: a hang-up.  His casts, aimed near snags sticking out of the water, were usually quite accurate, but several times they got caught on the branches above the surface and never on the bass underneath.  Fortunately, we could always paddle our canoe over and free his line.  Incidentally, we now feel fully prepared for the approaching task of Christmas tree-decorating.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

My own problem was worse: not catching things, but losing things.  I was using a fairly heavy lure to reach a greater depth, attached to lightweight 3 lb. test line.  On one cast, the line suddenly snapped with a loud noise, and I instantly knew I had lost the lure.

That's not all I lost.  The snap was accompanied by a loud pop, and the upper half of my two-piece fishing rod dropped into the deep water.  Never before in my life had such a thing happened.  The line must have wrapped around the tip just as I cast, wrenching it from the lower half.  Gene turned around and said, "What the -- " as I reached, too late, for the sinking piece of fiberglass.

That rod had been in the family for years, belonging to my brother before he admitted he didn't have the patience to be a fisherman and gave it to me around twenty years ago.  If he hadn't, the rod surely would have ended up at the bottom of a lake anyway, only not by accident.  It wasn't fancy, but I hated to lose it -- not because I'm sentimental about material things, but because I'm a cheapskate.  I'm also an optimist: my other rod (an even older one) was left in my Jeep because I didn't think I'd need it that day.  Fortunately, Gene was a pessimist, and he pulled out his spare for me to use.  Yeah, he's a little too trusting as well.

Ever heard of "jerk bait"?  Some single women apply that moniker to themselves, but it's actually a floating lure that dives under the surface when the line is tugged.  I didn't lose any lures while casting with Gene's rod and reel due to the 8 lb. test line he had strung on.  His rig worked fine, but it was like fishing with piano wire, so eventually I replaced his reel with the one from my own half-a-pole.

On about my fifth cast with this combination, I heard a small snap and watched my lure sail across the cove, unencumbered by its erstwhile tether.  "My turn, Gene."  We paddled over and retrieved it, and I managed not to lose it again -- mainly because I soon replaced it with another jerk bait.  I treat lures like B-17 bomber crews: once your 25 combat missions are up, you've been put at risk quite enough, and it's time to send you Stateside.

By mid-afternoon, the gathering clouds looked like they were assembling for less-than-peaceable purposes, and Gene and I paddled back toward where we had launched the canoe.  As raindrops began stirring the surface of the lake, I cast again and instantly felt that something had gone awry.  I watched the lure fly away like a B-17.  Without a noise, it had somehow parted from its line and was now floating invisibly on the roiled surface at least 200 feet away.  We searched for a while, but when it's pouring down rain, you can quickly lose your enthusiasm for even the most highly decorated, combat-seasoned lure.

The same canoe on Blue Ridge Reservoir last year, as Mantel Man sat under a big overhanging rock waiting out a squall

The clouds had a silver lining, however.  Since neither of us smelled remotely of fish, Gene's wife Diane allowed both of us into their house for a fabulous dinner.  I had gotten nary a nibble on the lake, but I had more than a few good bites at the table.  And I didn't lose any forks, in case you were wondering.

This weekend I'm going shopping for piano wire.

Mantel Man at Blue Ridge, smelling of fish and having to cook his own food

Things Rarely Heard At Barbra Streisand's House But Heard All Day At Mine

Today I'm participating in Marcy's G.I.R.L Party -- that stands for Glamorous In Real Life -- at Marcy Writes The Glamorous Life.  Marcy asks that we write about something in our lives that makes us glamorous.  Marcy's tongue is firmly planted in her cheek, I assure you, and since my foot is firmly planted in my mouth at all times, we are all mush-mouthed together.  That sentence didn't come out quite like I had planned.  Oh well.

If you have read Foolery for more than twelve seconds you know that there is absolutely NO glamour in my life.  Cow poop, feral cats, kids with weird names, and my dad -- nope, no glamour here.  So the best I can do is give you a taste of my life, in brief sketches, from the last 48 hours.

*     *     *     *     *

"Mama, Sparky and I found a bottle buried over there by the trash cans.  Daddy said it was probably worth about $20."

"Really?  Why so much?"

"Because it was a really old bottle.  Yep, Daddy said, 'There goes $20 down the drain' when we accidentally dropped it."

*     *     *     *     *

There's a commotion on the trellis outside my office late at night.  I open the door to yell at the two cats who are fighting and chasing each other across the boards, and I step out onto front walk, only to narrowly escape a cloudburst of cat pee from above.  Yes, you can literally scare the pee out of a cat.

*     *     *     *     *

Chas walks shirtless outside into the warm November air, and burps.  Sparky notices not his burp, but his nakedness.  "Daddy," she scolds, "Nobody needs to see your boobs."

*     *     *     *     *

"Yes, girls, you can help me bake this, but you have to wash the dog slobber off your hands first."

"Awwwwww!"

*     *     *     *     *

See?  Nothing glamorous in the least.  Don't you feel better about your own life?  That's why I'm here.

Teenage Adventures With Shelley

My cousin Shelley and I are only a year apart in age and spent a lot of time together when we were growing up, a lot of time when you consider that she lived a good 12-hour drive away from me.  She often came with us on family vacations, and was part of some of my favorite teenage adventures.  Like the summer night we were cruising down the Esplanade in the back of my friend Gubby's car, singing and being generally obnoxious, with woks on our heads.  I wish I could flesh out that story to make it better or just make sense; unfortunately, no one could.

On one family vacation when I was 16 and Shelley was 17, we had our own little bungalow to sleep in, with no parents.  This is a teenager's dream, especially if the teenager is smart enough to have deviant activities planned.  Unfortunately for us, we were dummies as teenagers go, and the wildest thing we could come up with was to take a walk at 11:00 at night through the sleeping garden bungalow district.  We were giggly, of course -- you do know that about teenage girls, right? -- but trying terribly hard to be respectful of our neighbors.  So we picked our way along the dark garden path, conscious of the slap-slap-slap of our flip-flops on the concrete.  Slap-slap-slap-CRUNCH.

Uh-oh.  Who left a giant bag of Doritos on the sidewalk?

Oh crap.  That was no giant bag of Doritos, that was one of these:


(Photo stolen from this guy)

. . . only it didn't look quite like that when I had finished with it.  Yes, I stepped on the biggest Giant African Land Snail I had ever seen, and as grossed out as I was I clearly got the better end of the deal.  Shelley and I reacted with solemnity and reverence for the poor unfortunate creature.

Yeah right.  We giggled like fools into our hands and ran full-tilt back to our bungalow, trying not to waken my parents or anyone else, but mostly trying not to step on any more stupid snails.

On another trip in 1982 we were staying on a sailboat, going ashore occasionally to look around or get supplies.  In one port we learned that there was an outdoor theater, where a movie played nightly after dark.  One of the adults buzzed the four of us kids ashore on the zodiac boat and we went in search of the theater.  (I think the adults may have gone in search of a tavern, but I'm not sure.)  We were disappointed to see that the "theater" was just a large TV in front of a couple of rows of wooden benches, and the movie on the VCR was "The African Queen," but it was outside, which was cool to kids, so we plunked down.

The front row was occupied by one young local guy, who didn't seem to speak English, but really, really wanted to converse.  Did I mention that Shelley was very pretty, blonde, tall and thin?  No?  I forgot?  Huh.  I do that a lot.  Well, she was, and still is (I need to headslap her once in a while for that).  So this guy kept turning around to leer over his shoulder at us, nodding his head in complete understanding, and imparting this wisdom:  "Micah Jacksonnnnn!" about every five minutes.  We smiled and nodded back knowingly, not wanting to seem ignorant.  "Yeah, Micah Jackson!" we agreed.  This went on for quite a while.  Pretty much the whole movie, really.  I think he may have wanted us to take him to visit Michael Jackson, but as long as we left him with the impression that we were tight with the chimp-loving gloved wonder, all seemed well.

On this same trip we were snorkeling in a broad, shallow bay.  It was very calm and flat as it was a protected bay; the bottom was sand with sea grass, and not much to look at other than conch shells.  It was 10-15 feet deep, and the snorkeling was quite uninteresting.  Shelley and I were headed back to the boat, when something below me caught my eye.

"Shelley," I said calmly, not wanting to startle my cousin.  "I need you to stay still -- just tread water, and don't move much, okay?  There's something below us, but I can't tell what it is.  Don't panic, whatever you do."  This was frightening news to Shelley, who wore glasses and was as blind as a bat in just her swim goggles.  But she was very still as we waited for the sand below us to settle.

I could tell that whatever it was was huge.  Naturally I thought it was a shark, and so did Shelley, but it didn't look like a shark.  The sand finally settled, and maybe a dozen feet below us was a manta ray hovering just above the sand, its eyes rotating independently on its wide head, looking at us.  "Oh, it's a manta ray!" I said, thrilled and relieved.  But Shelley didn't share my enthusiasm.  I may as well have said it was a great white shark with a rhinoceros riding on its back.  "No no, it's okay!" I assured her.  "They aren't stingrays, and they won't hurt you."

(Photo stolen from phil Hartell on Flickr)

Just then then big fish tired of us, and flapped its wings and flew away, right out from under our flippers.  We gave chase as fast as we could, but we were no match for it.  I have never seen anything so graceful.

Even with a rhino on its back.

Travels With Chas: Mexico

(Original photo stolen from this guy)

LAURIE:  Before I knew you, you took a couple of trips to Mexico in vans full of volleyball guys.  Tell me about that.

CHAS:  Well, in about June of 1992, we went down to Estero Beach in Mexico, about ten miles south of Ensenada or so.  It's on a huge spit of sand on the edge of a spectacular shallow bay.  Every year in the last week of June there's a big volleyball tournament there.

LAURIE:  Were all of you playing in this tournament?

CHAS:  No, just Doc.

LAURIE:  So how many of you went down for this?

CHAS:  Rob, Frank, me, Morty, Dave, Doc -- there were about nine of us.  We were in Doc's VW bus.  The fist incident of note was when we stopped somewhere near Stockton, maybe? And we stole a sign that read, "YOU ARE ENTERING THE MOST DANGEROUS PLACE ON EARTH."  It was at some kind of government agricultural station.  The sign sat in front of our van at our campsite the entire week.

LAURIE:  The sign was right.  So it must have been one big party.

CHAS:  Yeah.  We were talking about how a bunch of men could live together in this van.  Someone referred to it as like living in the Biosphere.  With all of the Mexican food we'd been eating, I dubbed the van The Flatu-Sphere.

LAURIE:  So the sign became a necessary warning then.  How long did it take you to get to Estero Beach?

CHAS:  Our trip down took something like thirty hours.

LAURE:  Why on earth?

CHAS:  Well, we lost a fan belt, and then we had to replace the accelerator cable.

LAURIE:  This happened in California, I hope?

CHAS:  Yes.

LAURIE:  Did you drink the whole time?

CHAS:  On the way down, you mean?

LAURIE:  Yes.

CHAS:  Aw, I wouldn't say that.  We showed some discretion on the way down.

LAURIE:  And how about at the beach?

CHAS:  Every morning we started with Corona.  That was the breakfast beer.

We'd have about two of those apiece, and then we'd switch to Pacifico for the rest of the day.

LAURIE:  Were you drinking any water?  I know that in Mexico that's risky.

CHAS:  I was.  We did have bottled water.

LAURIE:  Did you actually play any volleyball?

CHAS:  Um . . .

LAURIE:  Well, what did you do there, since you weren't there to play in the tournament?

CHAS:  Sat around, drank beer, flew kites and played pick-up volleyball games.  At night there were dances, in bars with outdoor live music and dancing.

LAURIE:  Why was it you ever got married, again?

[APPRECIATIVE LAUGHTER]

LAURIE:  So what else did you do, you know -- when you could stand up?

CHAS:  The kite flying was pretty funny, because we had miles of string.  The string would sag across several courts and occasionally give people rope burns while they were attempting to spike the ball.

LAURIE:  DURING THE TOURNAMENT?!  How did you guys NOT get kicked out?

CHAS:  You can get kicked out of Mexico?  Oh, you mean for our kite-flying.  Like I said, it's an informal tournament.

LAURIE:  I know there are more stories.  How did Doc do in the tournament?

CHAS:  Uh, not so great.  I don't remember how he ever came up with a partner.  Maybe it was a blind draw?

LAURIE:  He sure wasn't picking from among his kite-flying buddies, that's for sure.

CHAS:  Oh, I remember -- a girl would walk by, and we'd tell her, "Hey Miss, you dropped something."  Mostly Frank would.  She'd bend over and we'd check out her bikini'd ass.  You'd try to keep the ruse going on as long as possible.  After a minute, as it would dawn on the woman what was going on, Frank -- who was the master at this game -- would say, "Thanks for playing!"

LAURIE:  What else aren't you telling your wife?

CHAS:  Oh, and then some guy walked up to us and informed us of the 7.4 earthquake that hit San Benardino County.  He was kind of grave, until he kind of brightened up, and said, "Coupla people died," almost in a cheery way.  That became a rallying cry for the rest of the trip.  "Coupla people died!"

LAURIE:  What did you eat when you were down there?

CHAS:  Fish tacos were four for a dollar, in the evenings.  Tamales two for a dollar sold out of buckets by old ladies on the beach; that was our frequent daytime fare.

LAURIE:  Any fruit of vegetables or anything remotely healthy?

CHAS:  Cilantro on the tacos.

LAURIE:  Did any of you almost die for any reason?

CHAS:  Did any of us . . . well . . . I almost got swept away by the incoming tide once when I was taking a leak.

LAURIE:  Nobody ticked off any big ugly boyfriends?  No Federales?

CHAS:  I don't think we had a brush with them.

LAURIE:  You just weren't trying hard enough.  What about your other trip down to Mexico?

CHAS:  That was for a 50-mile bicycle race, which I did participate in, from Rosarito to Ensenada.  About April of 1991.

LAURIE:  How'd that go?

CHAS:  Well, just as we were crossing the border, I felt explosive diarrhea coming on.  I don't think I'll go into that any more, except for that, of course, how dehydrated diarrhea can make you.

LAURIE:  So, did you win?

CHAS, IGNORING ME:  So the course was mostly inland, and very steep terrain, and my hamstrings began to cramp unmercifully.

LAURIE:  Were you at the starting line yet?

CHAS:  I was not even halfway done.  I had to walk my bike for quite a while.  Oh, and there was one huge mountain called El Tigre, which was probably about 1500 feet straight up.

LAURIE:  Was this before or after the diarrhea?

CHAS:  The diarrhea happened the night before.

LAURIE:  You know I have to ask.

CHAS:  I was using my friend Dugan's borrowed expensive mountain bike, and I was crestfallen to be passed by a guy on a cruiser bike.  Who did not have diarrhea, by the way.

LAURIE:  Was he pulling a vegetable cart?

CHAS:  Dugan did tell me later that those were the wrong tires for a road race, so I felt better.  And they were under-inflated, too.

LAURIE:  This is very sad.

CHAS:  And the seat was hard. I wasn't used to it at all.  My 'nads were numb and tingly for --

LAURIE:  Okay, let's move on.  Did The Flatu-Sphere make a second appearance?

CHAS:  That trip we used Evan's parents' dark green U.S. Forestry van, that burned a quart of oil every 30 miles or so.  It didn't so much burn the oil as it just shot out the side of the engine.  Oh, and it was a column shift -- three on a tree.

LAURIE:  Sounds like good choice of vehicle for a 1500-mile trip.  Did you have a death wish?  Did the van make it either direction?

CHAS:  Yes it did.  I'm trying to imagine what made that the logical choice of vehicle options . . . I can't remember.

LAURIE:  I don't even wanna know what cars you rejected.  Anything else you can tell the cameras?

CHAS:  My bottom lip got so swollen from sunburn . . .

LAURIE:  No arrests?

CHAS:  Um, no . . . ?  No.

LAURIE:  You don't sound so sure.

CHAS:  There's this -- at one of the dances some girl thought it would be a good idea to mount Dave's broad shoulders, and he just collapsed like a lawn chair.  She got up and said, "Well, he LOOKED strong."  One of us charitably offered, "Well, he's middle-heavy."  It was all just one big laugh.  Unfortunately I can't remember any of it.

That's what ALL the smart husbands tell their wives.  Wives with blogs.  And a keen sense of bullshit.

Don't Worry About Sarah Palin

I'm pretty sure she can take care of herself.  At least, she accessorizes really, really well.

Weather Man

OKAY THAT'S IT.

I cannot take it anymore.

Starting today, no weather guys, most especially Kris Kuyper, will be allowed to use the word "towards" due to extreme overuse.



"TOWARDS Monday, we should see a new system moving TOWARDS Eureka and then heading TOWARDS Redding on Tuesday.  But TOWARDS Wednesday look for dry weather, carrying us TOWARDS a beautiful weekend."

AARRGGHH!

Where the HELL did you learn to SPEAK ENGLISH??!

TOWARDS Papua New Guinea?

The Mormor Stories: Croup

(Photo taken from Monument Road by David Thomson and stolen from these guys)

Smedley got sick Monday and missed four days of school this past week; Chas took her to the pediatrician Tuesday because we were afraid she had a recurrence of Striders, which nearly caused a trip to the hospital when she was a toddler.  All I can tell you about Striders is that it causes breathing to be horribly ragged and wet and the child sucks so hard to get air that the hollow depression at the base of the throat collapses with each inhalation.  The doctor has to test the amount of oxygen getting into the child's blood, and if levels are too low the child must be admitted to the hospital.  On that occasion Smedley barely passed the oxygen level test, but she did pass, and steroids quickly opened up her breathing.

This time the problem turned out to be croup, which was odd to me because I associate croup with a horrible cough, and Smedley wasn't coughing more than once or twice an hour.  But again a steroid cleared things right up, so there go Smedley's Olympic dreams.

Sparky's cough, meanwhile, sounds like something a walrus might make.  It's been a fun week with not much sleep.  I can now put a notch in my parental belt for croup.

It's terribly frightening when your child isn't getting enough air, and having an 18-mile drive to the pediatrician can make for some hard choices.  But when I'm complaining about these things I remember this short little story of my grandmother's and I give myself a big dope slap.  From over 100 years ago, here's a tale to make parents shiver.

When I was a very young baby I got my first and only attack of croup.  My folks were very frightened because I seemed all choked up.  So Dad left on Lad, one of his horses, to get a doctor.  He had to ride down the monument Road, swim the Eel River, and hopefully find the doctor at home.

Now Dad couldn't swim and the river was up somewhat, so I appreciate the bravery it took to ride Lad across the river.  This he did successfully, and found the doctor able to come up to our place.  However, he would not cross the river where Dad did, but went on down to the nearest bridge at Fernbridge.

After looking me over, the doctor told my folks I would be all right in a short time, and told them what to do in case of another attack.  Wonder what such a house call would cost today.

Wasn't my father a brave man?

Another Blog? Another Blog!

(Original photo stolen from Justinc at http://commons.wikimedia.org)

I've been thinking about this for about a week now, and I've only let the cat out of the bag THREE TIMES.  That is HUGE for me.  You don't even know.

The image above is the working logo for my latest diversion:  a new website called -- da da-da daaaaaa! -- Bartender Face.  How did you guess?  So please, ask me a few questions.

What kind of name is Bartender Face ?!

It's named after a condition I have -- very serious.  Please feel free to read about it here.

What will you write about at Bartender Face?

Uh-uh -- I won't be doing any writing.

YOU will.

And YOU, and YOU, and YOU.

I hope.  You will submit your articles to me, and, with few exceptions (WHICH I'm still working out) I will post them.  Simple.

Why is this any different from another site for guest posts?

Ah, I'm glad you asked.  It's different because you will post anonymously, no exceptions.

Anonymously?  Why?

And THAT is the reason for the name Bartender Face.  This will be a site for posting all the stuff you could never put on your own sites.  The embarrassing stuff.  The juicy stuff.  The stuff that could get you fired, the stuff that could break up friendships.  Don't think I have any lurid fascination with this stuff, because actually?  I don't.  Secretly I hope that no one ever posts anything there.  Because that would mean that no one has any pent-up writerly rage that can't be expressed through the usual channels.  But I know that that's not true.

I read Marcy's take on the whole issue just last week at her fabulous blog Marcy Writes The Glamorous Life and it got the rusty wheels in my brain turning.  Thanks, Miss Marcy; maybe this will be a safe place to post all of our angst, complaints and if onlys.  People have always told me very, very personal things, so maybe I can put my special "gift" to good use.

Watch for more news of Bartender Face as it unfolds.  And please offer any suggestions you think will help.  The bar is always open.

Lord of the Manor

I'm working feverishly but still not done with a post for Friday, but probably later in the day.

I had to share this with you though: during the 11:00 news there was an ad for the Acorn Stairlift, a device that shuttles people up and down stairways so they don't have to move from their multi-story homes as they age.  Cool, huh?  Well, the ad featured a terrifically feisty old guy who screamed at the camera, "And I'm still the king of my own castle!"

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Go, rent some old Seinfeld DVDs this weekend.  You'll understand.

See you later,

Laurie

Election Day 2008: A Partial No Punctuation Wednesday

Smedley asked, "When do I get to vote?"

"When you're eighteen."

"WHAT?!  That's no fair!"

"Well, that's how old you have to be to vote."

"That's just dumb."

"So what age should be allowed to start voting?  Should a one-month-old baby be allowed to vote?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because babies can't do anything."

"So what age do you think should be allowed to vote?"

"Ten."

"But you're only seven.  That puts you out of the running for a few more years."

"Well . . ."

"What about all of the nine-year-olds?  What about them?  How do you tell them they can't vote because they're not ten?"

Silence.

"Listen, Smed, they had to pick an age when they first started voting in this country, and they picked the age a person becomes a legal adult, which is 18.  That's it."

"Yeah, well I think it's just dumb.  I wanna VOTE."

Well apparently so did I Smedley because I found myself racing the clock to vote before the sun went down and dragging two little girls into the church that served as a polling station and EW WHAT SMELLS and thank JEEBUS no lines and Thank You Come Again and we were OUTTA THERE in record time and the girls sort of felt part of this historic day sort of and did I mention that Smedley spent the afternoon at the pediatrician getting a diagnosis of croup and she felt like crap but she had to come in with me so anyway

Back to my story which is ostensibly about voting but really it is a story of sacrifice yes sacrifice because that is what I had to do yesterday afternoon

I sacrificed my daylight to vote

You heard me I said I sacrificed my daylight and possibly my ability to walk upright for a few days to vote

And why daylight was so important is that Chas had spent his entire afternoon around the errand of taking Smedley to the doctor and therefore had no time for the afternoon chores which are SO much better served by daylight

I climbed up the first bale of hay and winced because not only is my back still a bit twingey but also my hamstrings are really sore from scrubbing the floor the other day

I know WAHH WAHH WAHH right but there you go you try climbing a haystack at dusk with a bad back and sore hamstrings and see how YOU do also did I mention I was in three inch heels and a wool blazer Well I was and those are not optimal clothes for feeding hay but on I trudged and of course Chas had not set up any hay for me which means that he had not rolled or cut any bales which is a common courtesy for the next person who might feed hay after you BUT NOOOOOOOOOO so I am now cutting bales down on my knees in my wool trousers and did I mention I looked pretty snazzy today BEFORE feeding hay and it really was not Chas fault

Sparky yelled from the car that she had to go potty so I told her she had three options and she chose to wait it out until that option was no longer viable and she ran home only to appear minutes later wearing shorts

uh oh

What kind of mess am I gonna have to clean up when I get home

But I cannot think about that now because I am too worried about not stepping in hidden cowpies left by the rogue calf who keeps breaking into the hay barn and pooping all over the place and I just know I will be taking a little memory of this home on my three inch slides

So into the parentals house to feed their cats and birds and fish and turn on safety lights and then across the street to the dairy to feed the billions of cats and then home to drop off the girls and clamber up the last haystack before all light faded and did I mention that footing is tricky on a haystack in high heels with a bad back and I had one close call but did manage not to stab myself with the Big Honkin Knife when I cut the bales and I know I will pay for it if I throw the flakes instead of walking over and dropping them straight down but DANGIT I am running out of time and light
and
Dammit Why Did I Have To Vote Tonight Anyway
and
I Hope Sparky Did Not Actually Pee On The Floor
and
What On Earth Am I Gonna Make For Dinner
and
WHOA That Was A Loose Bale
and

"So you see, Smedley, voting is important.  We do it because it's worthwhile, even when it's not convenient.  And some day, soon, it will be your turn to vote, too."

"Can I go to bed now?"

"Yes, Smedley."

"Mama?  I'm glad Obama won.  I would have voted for Obama."

"I'm glad, too, Smed."

Watching the Returns With Smedley

Three of us bundled into the recliner, huddled under blankets against the frigid California air.  The girls had to make it to the announcement, they just had to.  Sure enough, at exactly eight o'clock, we got the word.  Barack Obama will be our 44th president.

"Mama, did he win?"

"Yes, Smedley, he won."

"What's a donkey, Mama?"

"Democrat."

"And what's an elephant?"

"Republican."

"I'm a donkey."

"Okay."

"Which one are you?"

"Neither one, actually."

A well-known female journalist came on-screen.  "Her nose is HUGE, Mama."

"She's a very good journalist, honey."

"With a very big nose.  Mama?"

"Yes Smedley?"

"You know the place we went to vote?"

"Uh-huh."

"It really smelled."

"But did you notice how fast we voted?  We didn't even have to wait in line."

"Yeah.  But it smelled.  Mama?"

"Yes Smedley."

The screen changed to show coverage of California's Proposition 8, the vote on gay marriage.  Stock footage of gay pride parades and same-sex weddings rolled across the screen.  Rosie O'Donnell and her wife were shown walking down stairs after their wedding.

"Mama?  Is that the Queen of England?"

"Not really, Smedley."

"I want to go to bed.  Is this over?"

"Yes, honey.  I just wanted you to see this.  It will be something you'll want to remember if you can."

"I'll never forget this night as long as I live, Mama."

Me neither, Smed.

Please Pass the Gestalt

I am no artist.  At one time, I thought I might be a designer, so I enrolled in a very good design school at California State University, Chico.

Clearly, by my virtual lack of talent, this was a mistake.  Still, I learned a lot that has stuck with me over the last 25 years, and some of it actually has application out here in the real world.

Take Gestalt Psychology, for example.  Never heard of it, right?  Or maybe you remember something about it from Psychology 101, as I do.  "The whole is greater than the sum of its parts" came from Gestalt Psychlogy.  But if you were a graphic design student at Chico State in the 1980s you heard quite a bit about Gestalt Theory*, as it applied to the design and architecture world.  In college, gestalt became an acceptable noun with which we were encouraged to pepper our speech, as in, "That has a nice gestalt," or "the gestalt of the axe poised over the victim's head is very powerful."  More than anything, what gestalt meant to me was The Closure Principle.  When I see a strong relationship between image A and image B, and I'm going to mentally "connect the dots."  My mind fills in gaps that simply aren't there, but should be, in anticipation of a greater whole, or a satisfying outcome.  Well, this idea really stuck with me.

(Graphic stolen from these guys)

But I just told you all of that so I could tell you this: I can be very impetuous.  But I have realized that my impetuosity doesn't hail from a need to be bad or all mavericky -- not at all.  It comes from embracing gestalt, from my adherence to The Closure Principle.

For example.

I grew up on a dairy -- you knew that.  And what's on a dairy, other than cows?  No, not flies, although that's actually correct.  No, there are men, working.  Men hauling things.  Men showing up and leaving.  Do you know what that can do to a teenage girl?  If only it had made me dress better.

Carter worked at the dairy when he was maybe 22, and I was about 17, I guess.  He was very cute, although now that I think of it he reminds me a lot of George W. Bush impersonators . . . but stay with me.  Carter was a little older and a lot more worldly.  He dated a woman in Chico who was several years older than he was, and who had a child.  No matter -- I just liked to talk to Carson, flirt a little, you know.  High school stuff.

I had been painting pipe fences one miserably hot summer day, when I ran out of paint.  Quitting time.  I headed for the garden hose at the corner of our house where I could wash out my paint mitt, which had soaked up half the can of paint and left both of my hands solid white.  As I rounded the corner, this is approximately what I saw:

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Carter was bent over at the waist, buns up, drinking deeply from the hose (we do that here).  Now, keeping in mind that at this moment in my life I had yet to go to college to learn what all of my impulses meant, but . . . I did what came naturally.  Yup, I applied The Closure Principle.

It was screamingly funny at the time, although I had a hard time convincing Carter of this.  He laughed, but it was the nervous laugh of a man who was going home to his older girlfriend wearing Levis with big white paint hand prints on his butt.

Another time I was a rotten bustard with The Closure Principle, on which I had been educated by this time, I was in the swimming pool with my then boyfriend, the not-yet-gay Tony.  We were drinking red red wine on the steps of the pool just after sundown, trying to stay cool in the midsummer bath water.  Tony was a lot of fun and a truly nice boyfriend (other than that pesky gay thing that reared its head a couple of years later), and he really didn't deserve what I was about to do to him, but Gestalt Theory is apparently a guiding force in my life, so . . . I took a swig of wine.  And spit it in his face.

I did it before I had time to consider it.  His big ol' grapey face registered complete and total shock, and I was instantly remorseful, although he may not have gotten that impression due to all of the cackling.  He rinsed his face in the pool water immediately, with no residual effects, and he laughed along with me as I apologized over and over, while visions of sugarplums danced in my head.  Like I said: nice guy.  Really nice.  Totally purple face like you wouldn't believe and I wish I had a picture of, but undeniably nice.  The Closure Principle had struck again.

Lest you think I am a total sociopath -- I'm not -- I went on to lead a pretty normal single life with friends, boyfriends whose faces I didn't dye, and roommates with whom I managed to live without incident.  The last roommate was a woman named Judy, who was maybe a dozen years older than me, but we got along quite well.  We used to watch Thursday night TV together when her daughter would come over and bring her roommate; it was a multi-generational Girls' Night In.  One night when Judy and I were sitting around talking about guys, she told me about a boyfriend that she'd had a few years before.  "You might know him; he's from Orland.  His name's Carter."

Oh.

"Did you ever do his laundry?" I asked.

I had achieved closure at last.

*For a good history and explanation of Gestalt Theory check out Art, Design and Gestalt Theory by Roy R. Behrens

How to Train a Horse for Riding

I have no idea.

And neither did my dad, which is why a couple of decades ago he decided to take his two mares down the road a few miles to a guy who trained horses.  These two mares, Julie and Kate, were halter-broken (which means we could put halters and lead ropes onto them, in theory) but were not trained to be ridden.  This is not surprising, considering that Julie and Kate were brood mares (which meant they existed to create more horses) and draft horses (which means they were ridiculously large).

Remember this horse from the Warner Bros. cartoon?

(Photo stolen from this site)

It's almost certainly a Percheron, which is what Julie and Kate were.  Big horses.  BIG.  Used for hauling logs, pulling wagons, plowing fields, and, going back to the Middle Ages, carrying around short feisty guys in metal suits.  You need to be BIG to carry a guy in a suit of armor.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

So let's say you have a couple of these one-ton animals, and you decide you want to ride them.  Hey, why not while they're pregnant?  They'll be docile, and they won't have any little ones to look after.  Okay, just try not to picture what a pregnant mare draft horse might look like, because this could put you off of the whole horseback riding idea.

Here's how things went.  After three weeks of training, the mares returned to their pasture behind our house, three weeks closer to their due dates and just as docile as ever.  "You should ride them right away," I told Dad from my deathbed, as that week I had tuberculosis or rabies or something.  As the only one in our family who had ever had horses, I knew that to let the mares settle back into their routines, without riding them again soon and often, was a mistake.  "They'll forget all of their training, just like kids forget algebra by August."

"Can't," said Dad, as he and Mom left on vacation, leaving me to die of the bubonic plague all alone.  "They'll be fine.  I'll ride them when we get home.  But you can ride them," he added, apparently oblivious to my malaria.

The mares munched happily away in the pasture for three weeks or so -- about the same amount of time they had dedicated to learning to carry riders.  I finally recovered enough from my flesh-eating disease to throw a bridle onto Kate.

The bridle.  This is a problem unto itself with draft horses: you gotta shop in the Plus Size section for them.  Dad was able to get stallion halters for them (their heads are much bigger than light horses' heads) but the selection of available bridles was pretty slim, apparently.  I felt the bridle he settled for was rather poor, compared to the nice western bridles I had had for the horses and ponies of my childhood.  But it was all that was available.

Kate was a little bit cranky about the bridle, but she complied.  I got someone to lead Kate to the fence for me so I could clamber onto her back from the fence . . . her back.  Let's talk about Kate's back.  Now, of course I was riding bareback -- not ME, the horse! -- because I kind of prefer it to a saddle and because helloooo?  PREGNANT DRAFT HORSE.  If I had had a saddle big enough for Kate, which I did not, I still wouldn't have cared enough to try to strap that saddle around a fuselage as big as hers.  So up I went onto the wide plain of her back, my legs more or less sticking straight out.

I began to see the larger picture as Kate rapidly left the fence and headed for open pasture.  Bareback riding is only as effective as a) your legs are long, or b) the horse's belly is small.  I had stupidly mounted and attempted to straddle a very very tall Kenmore chest freezer, which was at that moment beginning to trot.  Ka-dunk ka-dunk ka-dunk.

To recap:

Kate's trot nearly jolted me off her back.  There was nothing to hold onto but her mane, and no way to clamp on with my legs.  Then Kate hit the open field and broke into a run, if you could call a 2000 pound angry pregnant creature with someone on her back "running."  It was more like galumphing.  Pulling back on the reins had the same effect as hitting the elevator button for the fourth time.  I looked for a softish place to throw myself off, knowing I'd probably get hurt but since I was dying of the ebola virus anyway, meh, what the hell.  It was better than being thrown.

Then the unexpected happened.  Kate stopped.  Just stopped.  I was about two seconds from hurling myself from her meaty midsection when she seemed to have made her point (or run out of gas) and stopped.  I slid the three stories to the ground and stomped around her vast body to face her, glaring at her for all I was worth.  And then the sailor in me kicked in.  I gave that horse an earful of salty language as I dragged her around the pasture by the reins, making her stop, trot, back up, and walk forward at my whim.  I wish I could say I got back on the horse, literally and figuratively, but I just wasn't that invested in the outcome, and I didn't feel like living in a full-body cast while I nursed my leprosy.  So I ended up slinking off with my tail between my legs, but not before walking Kate around and around the pasture for the better part of an hour, making her do my bidding.  She put up with it, with just a trace of smugness, because she had won, and she knew it.

When I told my dad about my ride, he pooh-poohed me with a wave of his hand.  I'm sure he thought I was over-dramatizing the story, and that I was a big baby.  After all, hadn't he ridden Kate three weeks ago, at the trainer's?

"Yes, but you were in a corral, with the trainer present, and you had a good bridle and a saddle," I reminded Dad.  "Kate has had three weeks to decide she doesn't need this nonsense, and she found out how strong she is.  If I can borrow some good tack I'll try it again, but in a dirt corral, not an open field."

Soon after my aborted ride my brothers came home to the ranch for a visit, and they had to give the horses a try.  I wasn't there to try to stop them, but really?  They wouldn't have listened to their silly crybaby big sister, anyway.  So they both tried and both ended up with minor injuries (although I think Mantel Man sustained a sprained wrist or something; he WILL correct me) and the horses put more notches on their bridles.  When a serious horsewoman friend gave it a shot and was hurt even worse than my brothers, our ill-fated equestrian experiment came to an end.

EPILOGUE

Kate and Julie lived on the ranch happily for several years, having many beautiful black foals.  Julie lived to a ripe old age here, to wake up peacefully dead one morning.  Kate was sold to a good home.  I think both of the horses had built up a healthy resistance to riders, one hapless rider at a time.  Just like a bad bacterium, what doesn't kill it makes it stronger, and we quite successfully created a highly-resistant, strong strain of horse.

Also I survived my smallpox.