De la pluie et du beau temps

Photo par notre ami et photographe extraordinaire, Steve Shelton, prise de sa maison mardi soir, sans filtrage.


Un mois de septembre largement ensoleillé, avec des températures qui frôlent parfois les 80° F : je ne sais pas si vous qualifieriez ça d’un été indien, mais pour moi cette qualification s’impose. A Seattle, nous vivons cette année un été indien, un vrai.

Pourtant, ce matin ça craignait un peu. Nuages bas, un peu plus de fraîcheur matinale, qui a eu un peu plus de mal à se faire brûler par le soleil. Au fait, le soleil se lève de plus en plus tard chaque matin. Et avec chaque jour qui passe, un peu plus de couleur dans les feuilles, qui tombent de plus en plus. Mais, côté jardin, nous récoltons encore des tomates ! Des toiles d’araignée aussi.

Avec Neko, on a attendu l’arrivée du soleil et du ciel bleu pour sortir aujourd’hui. A 13h, et puisque la rentrée scolaire est chose faite depuis trois semaines, Alki est presque désert. Pas un rat. En revanche, beaucoup de muettes et quelques retraités à vélo. Un drogué sur patins à roulettes, tatoué et mal rasé, téléphone portable à la main et clope au bout des lèvres. Même les promeneurs de chiens ne sont pas au rendez-vous. Où sont-ils ? Que font-ils à cette heure ? Au mois de novembre, il fera mauvais du matin jusqu’au soir. Chaque journée sera composée de sa palette de grisaille – du gris clair au gris foncé – et on aura droit à la pluie et au vent du nord. Mais aujourd’hui, c’est l’été qui refuse de céder la place et qui résiste, qui résiste.

Sweet Gretchen Parlato

One day not too long ago I was driving to my nearest Target and listening to KPLU, Tacoma's NPR affiliate and a station that specializes in jazz. KPLU was playing a recent concert performance by Gretchen Parlato. I listened to her suave voice, which at times sounded more like an instrument, and thought of Camille, my favorite French singer. Camille also does these strange things with her voice, in the great tradition of the African singers. When I heard Gretchen Parlato would be at the Triple Door, I just had to go. For the first time, we went for the dinner credit scheme, which comes with a reserved booth for four.

It turns out that this gets you front-row seating. The only seats closer to the stage are actually at the foot of it, with bar style seating. Those seats were just in front of us, and were occupied by some high school kids who play in the best local high school jazz band. They were enthralled. It was fun to watch them watch. I think they were thrilled to be in such an adult setting (you have to be 17 to get in to the Triple Door).

The subtlety of Gretchen Parlato's performance is something to behold. She sways ever so slightly and hardly opens her mouth as she makes incredibly suave and silky sounds. Those who only like singers who belt out their tunes may be disappointed; she's too cool for that. She's the New Bossa Nova, the Girl From Ipanema singing about the Boy From Ipanema. She's a tiny thing who towers over everything, with well-proportioned, tiny arms and legs. But she has amazingly long fingers, which she uses to play the microphone like an instrument as she sings: sometimes a flute, sometimes a clarinet, sometimes a trombone or sax. She was wearing what looked like a very colorful pillowcase with a black sash around the middle, and very high cream-colored heels. She looked like a six-year old who had gotten into mommy's closet and make-up drawer. There was something very endearing and no-nonsense about her.

She was accompanied by a pianist (Taylor Eigsti, playing a beautiful Steinway grand piano), a drummer/percussionist (the immensely talented Kendrick Scott; I bought his CD too) and bassist Alan Hampton. They were all quietly consommate musicians. Grethchen Parlato's enthusiastic fans include jazz legends Herbie Hancock and Wayne Shorter.

I'm listening to Parlato's latest CD, In a Dream, right now. It features excerpts of her singing at age 2. How sweet is that?

What's Bjork got to do with it?

I just realized who Gretchen reminds me of - Bjork on Gling-Glo, her one-time experiment with pure jazz vocals. She recorded Gling-Glo in 1990, when she was working with her Icelandic college rock band The Sugarcubes. This was before she became a name. She teamed up with the Gudmundar Ingólfssonar Trio on a set of traditional Icelandic jazz tunes. I came across Gling-Glo in 2003, while visiting Iceland. I was in a record store in the unspellable city of Reykjavik when I heard what sounded like Bjork on the sound system. The owner of the shop got all excited when I asked about it, and told me she used to perform at the jazz club right up the street. I could have sworn he also told me that Bjork's father had also been a local jazz performer, but I may have imagined this. Anyway, Gling-Glo is a joyful piece of work, which is why it is hard to believe it's Bjork. She can be a bit gloomy, with wild emotional mood swings. But if you listen to her gloomy and manic bits while in Iceland, they make total sense. Gling-Glo is positively upbeat, though.

All I Want for Christmas Is This Book

Described as being not an anthology but a provocation. What's not to like?

From the editors:

The meeting of minds is extraordinary as T. J. Clark writes on Jackson Pollock, Paul Muldoon on Carl Sandburg, Camille Paglia on Tennessee Williams, Sarah Vowell on Grant Wood’s American Gothic, Walter Mosley on hard-boiled detective fiction, Jonathan Lethem on Thomas Edison, Gerald Early on Tarzan, Bharati Mukherjee on The Scarlet Letter, Gish Jen on Catcher in the Rye, and Ishmael Reed on Huckleberry Finn. From Anne Bradstreet and John Winthrop to Philip Roth and Toni Morrison, from Alexander Graham Bell and Stephen Foster to Alcoholics Anonymous, Life, Chuck Berry, Alfred Hitchcock, and Ronald Reagan, this is America singing, celebrating itself, and becoming something altogether different, plural, singular, new.

D - I - V - O - R - C - E

I doubt anyone on this planet missed the JK wedding entrance dance video that made the rounds a couple of months ago. It was only a matter of time, I suppose, before someone had the idea of fast-forwarding six months and imagining the divorce proceedings. Same Chris Brown tune. It's always fun to see lawyers dance.

Breaking the mold; meeting your match

I read an article today in the NY Times Generation B series called In Her 50's, Looking for Love.

Not surprisingly, it profiled a 50-something woman who decided to exercise the option of being single again and who, after having done all the things that women generally do post-long term marriage, was slimmed down, looking for love and finding the pickings exceedingly slim.

The remarriage gap for this age group was mentioned, as it inevitably is in articles on this subject. I was reminded of an article I read years and years ago, which debunked the then popular urban myth that a divorced woman over 40 was more likely to be blown up by a terrorist than she was to find a suitable spouse. 50 is the new 40, though, in more ways than one. The more educated a person is, the more likely he or she is to postpone the age of marriage these days. One of my sisters, who is 40 and has been married for less than five years, attended the wedding of a friend on Saturday who, at the age of 42, was getting married for the first time.

Back to the article about terrorism and marriagability. If it were written today, it would be about women over 50. In the original article, a host of women were interviewed and surveyed, and it turned out that the main reason women over 40 didn't remarry was that they simply didn't want to. Finding themselves single and free after years of being mothers and caregivers, they relished their freedom. I remember one woman talking about the joys of having popcorn for dinner and of not having to cook for anyone else.

That article was revealing and insightful because it demonstrated that the reality behind the stereotype (or the general assumption that women don't remarry because they can't find anyone or there is a shortage of men) is far more complex and nuanced.

In the article linked to in the title above, one paragraph caught my eye. It said: “Studies show men tend to marry down — someone slightly younger, less educated, making less money,” Dr. Adler-Baeder said. “Women in their 50s literally don’t have a visible pool of eligible men around them.”

Thinking about anecdotal evidence from my own life, I might as well start with what I have on hand: my husband (second marriage for both of us, though I also have a very long-term partnership on my record) is my age, give or take 13 months. He was held back in kindergarten, so we actually graduated from high school the same year. I am more educated than he is and, income-wise, we are about even. So our case does not confirm the study findings.

I know both single and married 50 somethings who are happy, and both single and married ones who are unhappy. I don't think love can make anyone happy, but it sure can make some folks miserable. Lacan came up with perhaps the most intriguing, funny, sad and true definition of love. Translated, it goes something like this: Love means wanting to give something you don't have to someone who doesn't want it. This is an amazing statement, provided you take the time to understand it.

Sincere apologies to The Carnivore

We had a truly memorable meal on Whidbey Island last week (thank you, John and Luda) at The Oystercatcher, a tiny restaurant in Coupeville. Everyone agreed that I hit the jackpot with both the entrée and the plat principal. The funny thing is, they were both vegetarian options. I am not currently a vegetarian, although I was for awhile in another life. But I don't eat a lot of animal protein. It isn't that I don't like it. In fact, a good steak, cooked very rare (cuisson saignante - means bloody or bleeding, if you prefer), is my idea of heaven. As is a perfectly roasted chicken. But, like most heavenly things, a little goes a long way. And I don't feel that no dinner is complete without animal protein.

In fact, what got me off the vegetarian kick was moving to France in 1986. Try being a vegetarian in France. What a sad and lonely existence! Things are changing, as they must and do everywhere, but an exquisite French meal generally involves a lot of animal protein, always of the best quality and perfectly cooked. Who can resist foie gras? Not me. Tête de veau anyone? Shortly after I moved to France, I went to a vegetarian restaurant, the best one in Paris at the time, with my friend Nadine. She is the only French person I have ever met who is a vegetarian. Man, that place was sad. Just triste. No fun on the plate, no fun on the palate, and not a smile on a single face in the dining room. Yes, I know things are changing now that the vegetarian way has many chic adherents. That helps. By the way, the best vegetarian meal I ever had was in a buddhist monestary in China. But that's another story.

Back to our fabulous meal at The Oystercatcher... Luda and John had steamed Penn Cove mussels (entrée) and then scallops (plat principal). Walt had braised Berkshire pork shoulder with heirloom tomatoes and summer squash salad. I had the summer panzanella with peppers, currants, beets, squash, focaccia, and basil, followed by crêpes with turnips, fava beans, cherry tomatoes and other non-meat delights in some kind of mushroom sauce. It was divine. Everyone else realized it from the visuals alone. It was the kind of meal that makes you want to become a vegetarian - a gourmet vegetarian. If you ever get anywhere near Coupeville, eat at The Oystercatcher (which is open Thursday through Sunday - call ahead to reserve). If you click on the title above, you will find yourself transported to the restaurant's website. I should add that all of the desserts are made by Jamie, who is married to Joe, the chef. We had a nice chat with Joe about how to make crêpes, as Luda seemed to think sour cream was required and I found this to be a terrible idea. You need milk and butter. She wouldn't listen to me, so she asked the chef. Anyway, John and Walt wanted dessert and went for the flourless chocolate hazelnut gâteau with salted caramel and toasted hazelnuts and the frozen malt parfait with warm chocolate sauce. And when I say they went for the dessert, I mean that literally. I managed to get one bite of each, but it was tough. I was afraid of being injured by flying silverware or gnashing teeth.

Anyway, I thought it would be fun to be a vegetarian again for three months. I laid down the gauntlet before The Carnivore and he said why not? - admittedly, without great enthusiam. I added that we could shoot for 80% of the time and have meat once a week or so and that he of course could have it any time.

Last night was the first vegetarian meal. I made a bulgur and chickpea salad (the two combine to form a perfect protein), with parsley, mint, green onions, cucumber and corn. The dressing was lemon, cinnamon salt, pepper and olive oil. I also made some swiss chard (braised in olive oil, with garlic, harissa and a bit of lemon juice at the end), one of our favorites. The Carnivore really enjoyed this meal, especially the thick, juicy sirloin steak he barbecued to go with it. Neko was happy; she got a few pieces of nearly raw meat.

As I was looking for bulgur at PCC, I found myself thinking that fall is the time of year when oatmeal starts to sound appetizing. So I bought some, the kind in individually flavored packets. The Carnivore really likes the maple syrup flavor, so I made sure that was part of the medley. Unfortunately, I failed to notice that the box I chose was "wheat and gluten free." We decided to give it a try anyway. It tasted like sawdust mixed with hot water and maple syrup. It was hideously bad. We'll stick with good old quaker oats from now on, and add our own flavoring.

I'm a sucker for our President

I just like the guy, okay. Click on the title for a five-minute video on the mail Obama gets each week. He reads ten pre-selected letters a day, from the approximately 65,000 that are surface mailed to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue each week. It may be propaganda, but behind the propaganda is the comforting idea that the man in charge knows how to read. I believe in l'alternance en politique. And this is a refreshing one.


George W. Bush on 9/11/01, at 9:05 am.

Happiness

The Right Thing (Theodore Roethke)

Let others probe the mystery if they can.
Time-harried prisoners of Shall and Will--
The right thing happens to the happy man.

The bird flies out, the bird flies back again;
The hill becomes the valley, and is still;
Let others delve that mystery if they can.

God bless the roots!--Body and soul are one!
The small become the great, the great the small;
The right thing happens to the happy man.

Child of the dark, he can out leap the sun,
His being single, and that being all:
The right thing happens to the happy man.

Or he sits still, a solid figure when
The self-destructive shake the common wall;
Takes to himself what mystery he can,

And, praising change as the slow night comes on,
Wills what he would, surrendering his will
Till mystery is no more: No more he can.
The right thing happens to the happy man.



Roethke wrote of his poetry: The greenhouse "is my symbol for the whole of life, a womb, a heaven-on-earth." Photo: P. Ganong, January 2004, Le Fagnat, Corrèze, France

Our home away from home

We just spent a relaxing week on Whidbey Island, at the Tree House near Coupeville. You can read about it in the New York Times by clicking on the title. The Tree House was designed and built by Sean Bell, our friend and the architect who designed and built our house in Luna Park.

I love the simplicity, functionality and elegance of Sean's designs. He uses noble and industrial strength materials to build compact and yet spacious dwellings. The Tree House is named for the actual trees that fulfill structural roles inside the house.

We discovered the Admiral's Cove community pool this time around. It was open through Labor Day, so I managed to get three swims in. Since it's an outdoor pool with little chlorine, you can smell the nearby salt water and beach as you swim. The slight autumn chill made the water even more inviting and hard to emerge from.

Biking is easy thanks to the lack of traffic, as long as you stick to the side roads or bike paths (such as the Rhodedendrun Trail). But our favorite excursion on Whidbey Island is the Bluff trail off of Sherman Road. It ultimately descends to a beautiful, isolated beach, but we didn't get that far this time. Neko is a trooper, but our friends get tired. We got far enough to enjoy stunning views, though.

Hint of autumn

Photo by Steve Shelton (SShelton Images): http://www.ssheltonimages.com/

For me, the first crisp apple I bite into at the end of summer signals the start of fall (as opposed to the start of the fall). I did that yesterday. It was a delicious royal gala.

My friend, the very talented photographer Steve Shelton, just sent me this photo. He's been taking nightly photos to track the waning of summer and the waxing of fall. The Visa pour l'image photojournalism festival is taking place right now in Perpignan, France, just as Gamma announces plans to lay off fifteen photojournalists. The disappearance of these professionals in the quest for higher profit margins is very sad. Yes, any idiot with an iPhone can take a photo. But not one like this. Not in a million years.

Les Nubiens à Seattle

Les Nubiens, je les aime bien. Les Nubiens, c’est Hélène et Célia, deux chanteuses franco-camerounaises. Hier soir, elles nous ont chanté quelques unes de leurs chansons—connues et moins connues. Temperature rising, très connue comme chanson. Que le mot soit perle, pareil, mais comme beaucoup j’ai pensé tout de suite à Henri Salvador, car elles ont interprété cette chanson avec lui. Il est mort à 91 ans il y a un an. Il chantait jusqu’au dernier souffle. Ce que j'aimais chez lui le plus était sa façon de rire. Essayez de le trouver par youtube.






J’étais un peu déçue quand Hélène a décidé de nous parler politique. Non pas parce que je ne suis pas d’accord avec elle – je le suis pour l’essentiel – mais simplement parce que là, au Triple Door de Seattle, elle prêchait aux convertis. Sauf la dame avec qui nous partagions notre table, qui est du parti politique de George W. Bush. Mais elle n’écoutait pas les propos de la Belle Hélène. Elle rêvait de son deuxième « date » avec quelqu’un qu’elle a rencontré par match.com. C’est au moins ce qu’elle nous a dit.

Il parait que Les Nubiens ont assisté à une « convention » d’Obama (je pense que LN voulait dire « caucus » mais peu import) et sont devenues les fans purs et durs de lui. D'accord, elles en sont fières et ont raison de l’être. Mais de là à nous casser les oreilles avec une monoloque sur la réforme de notre système de santé pendant dix minutes.... Franchement, j’aurais préféré une chanson de plus.

Mais bon, ce n’était pas grave et la soirée n’était pas gâchée pour autant. Les Nubiens sont très agréables à voir sur scène. Elles sont douces,décontractées, naturelles. Hélène est une belle femme bien enrobée, et elle assume sa volupté totalement. Elle ne se cache pas derrière des robes fluides ; elle porte des vêtements moulants et très colorés. Célia, plus petite et avec un corps plus sec, a un sourire très apaisant et rêveur. Je me demandais comment elle faisait pour danser avec ses talons et comme si elle m’entendait, elle les a enlevé pour finir la soirée pieds nus. Quant à nous, on a fini la soirée à Palace Kitchen, un de nos restaurants préférés. Une assiette de chicken wings et la salade « Beacon Hill » (roquette, betteraves, pignons, un peu de fromage de chèvre, sauce citronnée) pour moi.

Cat Power warms up the crowd for Queen Chrissie

It was one of those perfect summer days yesterday, in Seattle that is. Temperature in the mid-80's, not a cloud in the sky. It stands to reason that it was a perfect night for an outdoor concert; and it was. Our friend Dahli had the terrific idea of buying reserved seats (20 dollars more than general admission at Marymoor and worth every penny), so we had the bizarre, wonderful, slightly strange experience of having Cat Power wander into our row as she wailed and grimaced and communed with inner voices. Cat Power is known for her quirky stage presence. Before she stopped drinking, she was known to wander into the audience and then right out the door. The drunk red-haired woman in the row in front of ours, when she wasn't lap-dancing for her boyfriend, was taking photos. She made me look at every single one and then promised to send all of them to me by email. She added that she was really drunk, which was totally unnecessary because totally obvious. I'm still waiting for those photos, damn it. In the meantime, here's what Cat Power wailing and grabbing her head with her hands and looking forlorn yet mischevious reminded me of: Edvard Munch, The Scream.

Then along came Chrissie Hynde and goddamn that bitch kicks ass. It is hard to believe she is 57 going on 58. I guess that militant vegan lifestyle keeps you lean and mean. She said "fuck" more times in one night than I do in one month. Well, in one week then. And she sang Angel of the Morning, the old Merilee Rush song written by Chip Taylor. Merilee is a Seattle native, and Dahli said she thinks she married some rich old guy and raises horses somewhere on the eastside. Maybe she was in the audience last night.

More on Chrissie later, but here she is. Don't take her photo or she'll stomp on you, chew you up and then spit you out.

ksl.com - PETA, rock and roll star protest at Salt Lake City McDonald's

ksl.com - PETA, rock and roll star protest at Salt Lake City McDonald's

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From nuts to sluts

This is really just a pretext to mention one of my favorite online resources:

http://psychcentral.com


It was mentioned in the NY Times because of a recent entry on normal eating, but the website - as its name suggests - treats every subject related to human behavior and psychology under the sun. From nuts to sluts, so to speak. The articles are mostly written by mental health professionals, and deal with topics ranging from social networking (Facebook) to finding love in the modern world (match.com) and coping with aging parents or loved ones with eating disorders. Having realized that everyone in the world is battle-scarred and yet somehow still game, the editors have wisely chosen and editorial slant that I would describe as no-nonsense, non-judgemental, solutions-oriented pragmatism.


One of Egon Schiele's self-portraits. Just because...


Sorry, for some reason my insert link feature only works in my titles. I've got my best technical people working round the clock on a fix.

Hurricane Bill?

What's with that? Bill? Seriously? Not even William, or Guillermo or Guillaume or Wilhelm or Wilhelmina...


Photo credit: Anthony Smedile/The Press of Atlantic City via Associated Press

Actually, if you click on the title you will know why. And if you're too lazy to do that, all you need to know is that this is the full list of approved hurricane names for this season:
• Ana
• Bill
• Claudette
• Danny
• Erika
• Fred
• Grace
• Henri
• Ida
• Joaquin
• Kate
• Larry
• Mindy
• Nicholas
• Odette
• Peter
• Rose
• Sam
• Teresa
• Victor
• Wanda

Astute readers will note the alphabetical order, the choice of one name from nearly every letter of the alphabet and the fact that these names are generally short. You may also have noticed the alternance between typically male and female names. I can't help but notice that these names are pretty - um - not fashionable. I get the distinct feeling that the organization responsible for The Names is not at all interested in recent child naming trends. Two of my favorite girl names are on the list, and they are very old-fashioned names. Rose and Grace. But they'll come back into fashion, just you wait. All it may take is a hurricane or two.

In the comments section to an article about Hurricane Bill, a poster named jiminy cricket made this comment: "Can you lengthen the name to Hurricane Bill O'Reilly? You know, lots of noise and commotion, huffing and puffing, with its greatest influence being in the South with waning impact as its influence moves north."

Facebook mon amour

UPDATED

What kind of Facebook bore are you? What kind of Facebook bores really get your goat? There are at least 12 types to choose from. In my opinion and empirical experience, multiple answers are not only possible, they are likely (link to cnn article by clicking on the title):

1. Let me tell you every detail of my day bore
2. Self Promoter
3. Friend Padder
4. Town Crier
5. TMIer
6. Bad Grammarian (or Speller)
7. Sympathy Baiter
8. Lurker
9. Crank
10. Paparazzo
11. Maddening Obscurist
12. Chronic Inviter

My personal pet peeve is number 10, which describes people who post photos of me that I haven't authorized or even seen. How about a brief email or phone call of the "do you mind if I post this photo of you" type? I have learned to stop grinding my teeth over the examples of bad grammar and spelling, on Facebook and elsewhere. I was afraid of wearing my teeth down into stubs and then being forced to eat through a straw. TMIers bug me too, and I see them as a version of the let me tell you every detail of my day bores. Does the world really need to know that you are looking forward to your workout? Or that you just had a tall soy latte? One exception for me is my cousin Susie. She is a recent Facebook user and posts these wonderful photos of where she is, always with her feet visible in the photo. I love that. And no comments, just the photos with her feet in them. Showing rather than telling. She gets it.

But truly, the most annoying Facebook bores are the ones who spend all day taking STUPID quizzes, playing STUPID games, and sending STUPID presents that just clutter up my Facebook page. I have been told that this problem can be fixed by changing some settings (asking for less information about so-and-so), but I haven't been able to figure out how to do this yet. Sometimes I find myself avoiding my own Facebook home page because I can't stand the clutter left by these STUPID quizzes, presents and games. Stop asking me to engage in food fights! Stop sending me magic Easter eggs! I generally ignore Facebook requests of any kind.

It's a bit like telephone solicitation. A couple of years ago, I signed up via a website to put an end to it. And this has mostly worked. The only problem is that the person who had our phone number before we did seems to have skipped town, leaving a number of creditors in the lurch. And now, three years later, we routinely field calls for Jim and Susan Lxxxxxxxx. (Why am I being so nice to them and not revealing their name? After all, they thought nothing of leaving behind a mountain of debt that I am now routinely pestered about.)

Wouldn't it be nice if, on Facebook, you could sign up for a service that would block these mindless requests for/information about quizzes, presents and games? It would be even better if any old ninny was not encouraged - yes, encouraged! - to make your own quizzes and inflict them on the world. No wonder there are so many quizzes in broken English! The Japanese are making half of them. The application of choice is called “Make Your Own Quizz” (the key word is spelled wrong, of course). This is from the Facebook app page. Read it and weep:

“Making a Quiz has never been easier! Making a Facebook app has never been so fast! Make your own quizzes and turn them into your own real Facebook applications!”

I hope the global recession ends very soon and people go back to at least looking busy at work.



I am so lazy. I finally checked out the little tab that says "hide" on the side of each news feed post and discovered I can rid myself forever of feeds about food fights, Easter eggs and jewels. Quizzies? Gone! Testes? Too!

Lance who?

Evelyn Stevens left Wall Street and investment banking for Italy and a run at a career in cycling

MSN reposted an article that appeared recently in the Wall Street Journal, about Evelyn Stevens, age 26, who recently discovered that she has a talent for riding a bicycle and who just may become the next sensation in the less flashy world of women's cycling (click on blog entry title for link to WSJ article). Female professional athletes often do not get the attention that their male counterparts command, and tend to toil away in obscurity while the men get the endorsements and television time.

Stevens worked in investment banking until recently, when she decided to devote herself to cycling full-time. She was working for Lehmann Brothers, which famously collapsed last September. It sounds like she chose the right time to shift gears. A graduate of Dartmouth, she is no stranger to competition and excelled there on the women's tennis team.

Stevens even looks like she would be a natural at cycling. When I looked at her photo, I immediately thought of the Frenchwoman Jeannie Longo, arguably the greatest female cyclist in the history of the sport. At 50, Longo is still kicking asses and taking names. Like Stevens, Jeannie Longo has the perfect body type for high-performance cycling. Also like Stevens, she was an accomplished athlete in another sport before she turned to cycling. In the case of Longo, it was skiing. Not surprising, since she was born in the French Alps. Her longevity as a professional athlete is truly amazing, however. Why all the fuss about Lance Armstrong, who is a mere 37 years old? Jeannie won her first world title in 1984, before her most recent rivals were even born! She has won 69 national and international titles. So far.

La Reine Jeannie is almost 51 years old

Neko meets her match

The law of series is alive and well. Since Neko joined us in February of 2008 and until last Monday, we had never come across another shiz-tsu/pug. But as we were leaving Le Pichet restaurant on 1st and Virginia with an out-of-town visitor last Monday, a woman stopped us to ask what kind of dog ours was. She thought Neko looked like her 17-month old rescue dog and showed us a photo. Hers was clearly a Putz like ours. She took Neko's photo and went away happy in the knowledge that a mystery had been solved.

Today I took Neko on her favorite walk on Alki. It's a long one, from the water taxi parking lot to Duke's and back. But there are three spots with water and dog bowls, and lots of cool grass on the non-waterfront side. So we love it and show our love at least three times a week. Today we met Lily, a 10-month old Putz. I saw her from a distance and knew it had to be. She and her owner are from Normandy Park. Luckily I had my exploding iPhone, so I got a couple of photos. I tried to get one of Neko and Lily side by side, but they refused to cooperate. But Neko had an extra bounce in her step when we left. She knew Lily was kin.


Neko at ten months

Baez en Ville

We drove to the Woodland Park Zoo under thunderclouds, pouring rain and even lightning. It didn't look promising for an outdoor concert. But as we rushed through Woodland Park with our Chinese footstools and borrowed umbrellas, the sky began to brighten and the rain turned to mist. We heard Joan Baez before we saw her; her voice has mellowed with age but is still power and purity. And she still does that vibrato thing.

She was relaxed and funny on-stage, telling anecdotes between songs and even one dirty joke about the benefits of charm school ("I learned to say 'that's nice instead of fuck you'" is the punchline). She did a solo, acoustic guitar version of Diamonds and Rust that was haunting and lovely. She doesn't get enough credit for her guitar-playing, in my opinion. Dylan is one of the few who has noted that she is the most gifted of her peers in this department. She did a couple Dylan songs (Forever Young and Don't Think Twice), and even delighted the crowd with her nasally Dylan imitation. Like Joan, the crowd was grey-haired for the most part. There were noticeably fewer small children in attendance than for the previous Zoo Tunes show I went to (Cowboy Junkies on July 22), probably because of the inclement weather.

The concert ended with Baez's cover of The Band's The Night They Drove Ole Dixie Down.

Her most recent album was produced by Steve Earle, one of my favorite songwriters and also a great guitarist and singer. She did a couple of Earle's songs, including the one where he begs Woody Guthrie to come back (Christmas in Washington).

Among her musicians were a talented guy who played everything from the piano to the violin, and her son Gabriel, who is her percussionist.

May you stay Forever Young, Joan.

Note: The title of the blog entry refers to a headline in Libération that was published when Joan Baez came to Paris years ago to give a concert. The term "baise-en-ville" is slang for a small overnight bag that contains everything one might need to spend the night away from home. Here's an example of its use that is given in Cellard-Rey, 1980: "Avec salle de bains? me demande la dame de la réception. Il n'y a plus qu'en France qu'une telle alternative est offerte! (...) Elle me file le 12. Un groom me monte mon petit baise-en-ville avec une mine dégoûtée" (SAN ANTONIO, Passez-moi la Joconde, 1954).
Baiser means to kiss in French, but is also a vulgar term that means to fuck. There is a huge and critical difference between "donner un baiser" et "baiser".

Exploding apples

Ten days ago, the Times reported that the Apple iPod suddenly blew up in the hands of its owner, in response to which Apple tried to buy her silence. According to the young woman, the device starting heating up in her hand and, after about 30 seconds of this, it began emitting smoke and then exploded in the air!

Now an 18-year old kid in France (click on blog entry title for link to the article in Le Monde) has apparently experienced something similar with his girlfriend's iPhone, the screen of which exploded, hitting him in the eye. They boy's mom is considering filing a formal complaint against Apple.

According to Marie-Dominique Kolega, the mother, who is a physician, the eye injury was not serious. But the explosion was scary. The iPhone started crackling, like it was frying bacon or something. Then, the screen cracked, sending tiny shards into the air.

Mom, understandably shaken up by this incident, contacted the customer service department of Apple in France. The initial reaction was incredulity. Mom had this to say: "Que Apple fasse celui qui n'est au courant de rien, qui lave plus blanc que blanc parce qu'ils sont Apple, ça me dépasse, je trouve cela inadmissible !" a-t-elle protesté. "Quel fabricant peut prétendre avoir des appareils au-dessus de tout souci mécanique ? Pour Apple, non, ça n'arrive pas, ça n'est pas possible chez eux (...) c'est une honte !" [The fact that Apple pretends not to know a thing about it, and that they're pure as the driven snow just because they're Apple is just totally beyond me. I find that unacceptable... What manufacturer in the world can seriously claim that the malfunction of any of its products is outside the realm of possibility? According to Apple, this never happens, it's not possible at Apple... that's shameful!]


Apple has declined to comment on this latest incident.

Okay, I'm recharging the battery on mine right now. It is sitting two feet away from me. What do I do? Unplug it, turn it off, walk away? I use it to listen to music when I take my walks. It's in a plastic cover. Would that protect me if it exploded? Would I smell the burning plastic before it exploded? Are these incidents related to intensive use? If so, I should be okay. My iPod has never blown up, but it sure acts weird sometimes. Refuses to turn off, makes funny noises. Should iDevices be banned from use in flight until Apple deals with the problem? I don't want to be sitting in the nearest seat when someone's iPhone explodes in midair.

Imagine the lawsuits. Within a week, the major airlines will ban their use or (more likely) issue a disclaimer to the effect that they are not responsible for any third party damage due to exploding hand-held devices used in-flight.