The Snownami of 2012

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So when it snows in Seattle, everything shuts down and anyone with any sense holes up and enjoys a day or two off.  It is, arguably, the most aggravating time to live in this part of the world, and you have to treat a snow day in Seattle as you would an anthrax attack, or a zombie apocalypse; you don’t go out.

People from east of the Cascades refuse to believe this reality, and as a rule try to go out and live their same non-snow lives, and as a result  they all lose their shit, which the local news media loves, because it helps them fill their 24-hour winter weather coverage.  They always manage to blame Seattlites for their own dumbassery.

This was yesterday’s quote, it was on local and national news:

man in a car:  It’s because people in Seattle don’t know how to drive.  I’m from Chicago, they get more snow than this but everyone knows how to drive.

reporter:  so what’s the problem?

man in a car:  My car can’t make it up the hill.

How, as a Seattle driver, did I cause that man’s car not to go up the hill?  Oh right, he’s a jackass.

Today it was a guy who had run his car into a median:

“all of a sudden, the car in front of me decides to start sliding, what could I do?”

Here’s what you do, chief:  you go back in time and make a decision to not frakking tailgate.  They flashed his name on the screen, and I had a hunch… so I looked him up on facebook and yes, he was from Florida.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but all those people that they put on the news who are so frustrated because of traffic problems… they are never from here.  You never hear them exclaiming “I’m from Tacoma!” or “I grew up in Magnolia!”  Of course, we locals get frustrated, too.  But we, in contrast, handle it by chaining up, driving slow, avoiding hills… or better yet, staying off the roads.  In 24 hours, it will all have melted away anyway.

So here’s how the week went…

Saturday:  started snowing.  It looked bad enough that I didn’t want to meet my friends on the Eastside, bad enough that they didn’t want to meet me at the Gate.

Monday:  Dr. King’s birthday, no school.  Slushy snow on the ground.  The call to cancel school on Tuesday came in the early afternoon.

Tuesday:  Doomsday forecast; meteorologists were predicting a storm of glaciers would form and bulldoze our sorry hamlet halfway to San Francisco.  The only problem:  there was zero snow on the ground everywhere south of Downtown Seattle.  My friends and I actually went on a happy hour crawl through Downtown and South Lake Union.  Would they call a snow day when there was no snow on the ground?  Admin finally made the call around 8pm:  no school Wednesday.

Wednesday:  woke up to snow on the ground.  The big storm?  Didn’t happen.  Instead we had a minor snow event, the white and fluffies falling through the morning, and then tapering off through the afternoon.  Tomorrow, said the weather folks, is ice storm.  Admin finally made the call around 7pm:  no school Thursday.

Thursday (today): Oh, there was an ice storm.  North Seattle got more snow, but South Seattle, where I am, got snow, freezing rain, freezing temperatures, and solid sheets of ice on every surface.  In Olympia, my hometown, the ice was building up on trees, which would then snap under the weight of the ice.  It crushed cars, houses… people said that they’d hear gunfire; the sound of a tree snapping every 30 seconds, it sounded like a sniper battle was going on.  There was one fatality in south King County; a tree split and fell on a man who was backing out his ATV.

The weather folks had been saying that the rains would start tonight, so I was counting on the big melt. I was hoping that I could go out of Indonesian food.  Well, it didn’t happen; they’re saying now that the big melt won’t start until midday tomorrow.  Most public schools have already called off classes for Friday, my school is holding out.

I wasn’t scheduled to go into work tomorrow, but it was my plan since last week that I’d spend tomorrow at work, grading papers.  Now it seems like even that will be impossible, and with all the snowdays, the two weekends, and Dr. King, we will have had nine consecutive days off of school.

I’ve been really lucky not to have lost electricity–frozen branches are taking out powerlines everywhere, I heard 200,000 households are blacked out, and it will be 3 to 4 days for full restoration.  I’ve also been lucky that my heat hasn’t quit, since my heater tends to freeze up and die when I need it the most.  Not this time, anyway; knock on wood.

So the big melt happens tomorrow, and by this time tomorrow night everyone will be driving to their little hearts’ content.

UPDATE:  They called it, 8pm.  No school tomorrow.

Blackout

I’m blacked out for the day to protest the SOPA and PIPA bills that are before Congress.  The reason why I’m against them is because I believe they would lead to internet censorship.

When I lived in China, I lived behind the Great Firewall, and experienced all kinds of internet censorship first hand.  Not only did they make some sites inaccessible, but they also slowed service to certain sites, and they had the ability and authority to monitor my communications.

For me, this is an issue of speech and commerce, both of which are protected by the US Constitution.  If the goal of the legislation is to stop online piracy, they should find a solution that does not infringe on the rights of Americans.

Both Google and Wikipedia provide more info about the campaign against SOPA and PIPA, as well as ways to contact our representatives in the federal government

Stick With Love

"I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear." Dr. King

the Last Days of 2011

Today is New Year’s Eve, and I’m still not sure where I’m going to spend it; probably on the beach, but we’ll see.  

There has been plenty to blog about lately, but not a lot of will to blog it.  I’ve had adventures here in Seattle, and in Las Vegas… my friend Tristan’s e-book has dropped… just all kinds of blog-worthy things that I haven’t sat down to blog.

Anyway, here are three shorts from the last couple days.  Happy New Year to all my friends and readers!  Sure hope the 2012 apocalypse doesn’t cramp anybody’s style.  ______

Walis!

So my cowsin I and his family came over for dinner last night.  I made mussels with sausage and beer; they brought crawfish.  So we had an awesome messy seafood dinner.

As soon as I got in, cowsin C asked me if my little nephew L could play with the broom.  Sure, I said, and then little nephew L started SWEEPING MY FLOORS.  The kid’s not even 2 years old, but damn that kid loves to clean.  Later I gave him a dry washcloth, and he went to town on my coffee table.  ”Oh, he loves to vacuum,” says his mom.

Awesome!  I kept asking him to walis (sweep) the house.  The kid could have been named “Wallace.”  _______

Deen vs. Minnelli

It was not a fever dream, as some of my skeptical facebook friends suggested.  It was real, it was real, it was reaaaaaal:  Liza Minnelli was a guest on the Paula Deen show.

Inevitably there was a too-much-butter moment.  There was plenty of fake cooking show chemistry, where they embarrassingly act like they’ve been best friends for years and years.  And, no surprise, there’s the moment of ecstasy when they taste the German chocolate cake with too much butter.

At least we have butter over here, sorry Tommy… actually, not sorry at all.

Anyway, Paula and Liza sliced their cake, picked it up and ate it with their hands, goozing with foodgasm ecstasy.  Then they kissed.

I won’t make too much of them kissing, sometimes people gotta kiss.  The amazing part was when they took their freshly baked German chocolate cake with too much butter out to the chicken coop and FED IT TO THE CHICKENS.  Here are the comments that we made.

“Oh my God, they’re feeding the cake to the chickens.”  ”Whaaaaaaat?”

“You know there’s eggs in that cake.”

“That seems disrespectful.”

I feel like some poor people would have enjoyed that cake.  Not to say that Paula Deen’s well-fed chickens did not… _______

My New Bed

The day after I got back from Vegas, I gave myself a mission:  to buy a queen-sized bed.  I had one before, but then I sold it to a newlywed couple when I was leaving for China.  When I finally moved back to Seattle, I pulled out the xl twin which I had stashed away in my storage unit, and slept on it for over a year.  I had meant to buy a new one all this time, but my money had other priorities, including travel, electronics… mortgage payments, etc.

So finally I got my December paycheck, and it was finally time for Operation Bed Time.

• Step I:  Mattress.  I went to the mattress store and picked out a mattress and box spring that I liked.  Got it all done before 11am.  Bam.  Delivery scheduled for the next day.  Great start to the mission.
• Step II:  Frame.  I broke my “no new Ikea” rule for the second time for this… simply because beds are cheap there and they look solid enough.  I picked out the Nyvoll in dark brown and scheduled it for same day delivery.  Bam, check it off the list.
• Step III:  Wait for delivery.  I treated myself to some kalbi and kimchi at Toshio’s, came home, cleaned my kitchen, moved some furniture around, prepared myself mentally to put together my new bed.   I’m all over this.
• Step IV:  Receive delivery.  Ikea delivery arrives late, after 9pm.  Boxes are soaked on the ends to the point where the cardboard falls off.  The wood has absorbed some water, and is a little warped on the ends.  Guh.  I sign for it. Disappointing, but still on schedule.
• Step V:  Assembly.  I put dutifully follow all the instructions and assemble the bed over the next few hours.  By then end, my hand start hurting from all the screwdriver action, as there are several screws that go straight into wood, without a pre-drilled hole.  I don’t have a drill, or the Scandinavian ice-pick-looking tool the assembly illustration booklet wanted me to punch screw holes with, so I had to do it animal style.  Rowr!  Still on schedule.
• Step VI:  Mystery packet.  What is this business?  I found a plastic packet, separate from the other instructions, with it’s own set of illustrations, exhorting me to add these extra metal braces on the inside corners of my bed.  Again, screws were going straight into wood.  My hands hurt too much from all the animal style screwing with my little screwdriver, and it was nearly 2am… But I’m almost done!  So I screw the brace in, only to realize I had the wrong corner.  Guh.  I puled the brace out… animal style, and started screwing it into the correct place.  Ouch, my hand hurts, my hip hurts from sitting on the ground all night, and it’s late.  Go to bed, leave it for the morning.
• Step VII:  Borrow a drill. The next morning my neighbor came over with his power drill and screwed the braces into the proper corners for me. I am a winner.
• Step VIII:  Slats.  The bed is assembled.  Lay down the slats; mattress and box spring arrive in an hour.  Soooo, I lay down the slats, and they’re the WRONG SIZE.  It takes me a moment to realize that I had a queen sized mattress on the way, but a fully assembled full-sized Nyvoll.  Dammit.
• Step IX:  Mattress Arrives.  Delivery guys confirm, yep, you built the wrong sized bed.  Why didn’t I check the size on the boxes?  Oh yah, because they label had been soaked off in the delivery truck, remember that detail?  Dammit.  I feel like weeping.
• Step X:  Plan B.  Call Ikea Customer Service.  ”Bring it back,” they say.  How do I do this?  I call U-Hall and rent a cargo van; it will be ready in six hours.  I am heart broken.
• Step XI:  Disassembly.  I take the full-sized bed apart, animal style.  Now my hands really hurt, and my hip joint which gets sore when I sit on the floor is now clicking when I walk.
• Step XII:  Cargo Van.  So I pick up my rental cargo van and park it in my alley.  The bed is now in several big parts, which I load into the cargo van by myself in the dark alley.  It’s raining hard as I drive back to Ikea.
• Step XIII: Exchange.  I get down to Ikea and park in the loading zone.  Unload my bed in parts, and wheel it over to the exchange counter, take a number.  As I’m waiting, by boy B texts me, wanting to get a drink.  Grrrr.  Can’t do it.
• Step XIV:  Home again.  I park in the ally again, unload my new bed in flat-packed boxes, return the damn rental van, and come back home.  It’s 9pm.  I’m tired.  I veg on the couch for 2 hours.
• Step XV:  Final Assembly.  I rally during the 11 o’clock news and start building my new bed, this time I’m sure it’s the right size.  Too late to call the neighbor for the drill, so it’s all animal-style, sitting on the floor and crawling around on my knees just like the night before.  I finish it before the end of Last Call with Carson Daly, and drop in the box spring and mattress.  I stretched the fitted sheet over the mattress and got out my comforter, updated my facebook status, and slept in my new bed for the first time.

So sleeping in my new bed is exquisite.  It’s a “firm” mattress, but the top is soft, and it feels like I’m sleeping on money; money that cares very deeply for me.  When I wake up in the morning, I feel like I fell asleep in an expensive spa or some kind of rainy northwestern all-inclusive resort.  My new bed makes me want to live longer, so I can spend more time in it.  I’ve never felt this way about a bed before.

Notes: 30 Minutes to Christmas

It’s 30 minutes to Christmas in Las Vegas.  Here’s what I’ve been up to.

• H and I landed at McCarran the other day in the early afternoon.  It was just as cold here as it was in Seattle, but the air was dry and the sun was shining bright.
• We had reserved a rental car, ended up with an Elantra.  Not bad.
• So far there has been bibimbab, mool naeng myun, crawfish,  And a lot of food at home.  For Noche buena my sister and I stopped off a the Argentinian deli and came back with some jamón serrano and queso manchego.  My parents came back with a roast chicken and a roast duck.
• I got bored during Sound of Music, so I instigated an early gift-opening at around 9pm.  Hey, it’s midnight somewhere… and Christmas morning somewhere else.  I got a crab-cracking brick and tool, a stainless-steel insulated French press pot, a cocktail shaker, an oven mitt….
• My folks’ house is filled with booze, which they don’t drink, but they get for free…. there’s free booze all over Vegas.  My sister and I chilled a bottle of champagne; mama says it’s from the Hard Rock.  We’re drinking it in pajamas and watching Mass at St. Peter’s.  They’re still singing the Gloria, but I’m gonna go hit the rack.

Happy Christmas to all my dear friends and readers all over the world.

Just Some Food Photos

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Wrong Number Texter

Wrong number texter:  So what’s good, bessfriend.
Me:  Who is this?
WRT:   Tay tAy
Me: I think you got the wrong number
WRT:  r yu sure.
WRT:  Bessfriendd. Dnt play
Me:  You’re right.  Whoever you are, come over and bring me a chicken pot pie.
WRT: Ok.  After I get off work.  And that’s 4:30.  But I’ll give yu more than pot pie!!!!
Me:  Yah, now I’m positive you go the wrong number.
WRT:  Yeah. Sorry bout that.  Haha.  No hard feelings??? Lol.

Weekend in Manhattan

Some of my boys from college proposed a big New York weekend a while back, when they found out the UW would be playing Duke at the Madison Square Garden.  In the end, only a  few of us could actually make it, and the game turned out to be awful.

It did turn out, however, to be a great weekend of catching up with New York friends.  I stayed with Fancy S and Belgie, who are awesome, lest I don’t say it enough.

So I own a sock-monkey hat, which people are very impressed with.  I remember watching Harry Potter and seeing Luna Lovegood’s enchanted lion hat.  What is the point, I thought, of NOT owning a goofy animal hat?

Seriously?  Are there drawbacks?  Head:  warm.  ears:  warm.  Onlookers:  impressed.

Fancy S agreed, to the extent that she bought herself a sock monkey hat at a booth on St. Mark’s.  She was happy!  And warm!  And halfway down the street, a little black girl walking with her mama tells Fancy S, “I like your hat!”

I didn’t have too many food objectives when I went to New York, but I did want to get a lox bagel from Pick-a-Bagel.  Here’s a photo from my memory…  So I made my way down to Battery Park City, past the WTC (Freedom Tower is going up nicely, finally) and got to Pick-a-Bagel, and it was CLOSED FOR RENOVATION.  Guh.

Now by this time my left knee was stiff; all that New York walking.  And to compensate for the left knee, my right ankle was getting all stiff as well.  So I was moving slow.

Add to that, hungry, and disappointed that my favorite bagel place was closed.  My phone told me that Shake Shake was around the corner, in the old Lili’s Noodle spot.  So I got myself a shack burger with cheesy fries, cheese on the side.  It was ok.

I walked by the Whiskey Tavern on Saturday, but it was packed with dozens of slutty and douchey Santas.  Apparently Saturday was Santacon, which is a shit show.  Sunday, however, was Santa-free, and when I walked into the Whiskey Tavern, Rob immediately greeted me from behind the bar.  A few minutes later, another bartender was finishing a conversation he was having with another customer, exclaiming, “I almost made out with that guy!” indicating Rob.  I looked him in the eye and said, “yah, I can see the appeal.”  The other customer laughed into his beer.

Then the bartender shook his head, despondent, saying “the other day I saw him with his shirt off….”  Rob was nowhere in sight, so this performance was for our benefit.

Next thing I know, Rob is sitting next to me, shaking my hand, commiserating with me about SantaCon.  Even when I was living in Manhattan, I was only an occasional customer over a span of about four months (March Madness until I moved away in June).  Then I was gone for a year and a half, and here’s Rob, shaking my hand, remembering my name.

Rob came by a little later, to say goodbye, asked if I’d be around when he came back from his errand.  I doubt it, I said, but it was great to see you again.  I finished my drink, chatted with the other bartenders… and there was a moment when we were all throwing ice cubes into another customer’s cleavage.  I ordered a pickleback for old times’ sake, and it was delicious.  When I went to settle my tab, they told me nope, the pickleback was on Rob.

This man keeps buying me a drinks!  Is he trying to get me into bed?  It’s probably not going to work…  probably…  I’d definitely help him move, or pick him up from the airport.  I told another bartender, a younger guy, about the man-crush I was developing for Rob, and he said, “yah, get in line!” shaking his head in frustration.

The next day, I couldn’t resist, I went back for another pickleback before my flight.  Rob teased me about showing up two days in a row, and about my sore leg, saying I was out of New York shape.  He was impressed by my thank-you gifts for Fancy S and the Belgie… I had bought some asian pears, persimmons, and a dragon fruit on Bowery.

The asian pears were bigger than my fists, and so were the persimmons.  I was practicing my Chinese with the vendor:  four persimmons, four pears, and a dragon fruit.  Four of these?  he asked… and four of these?  And four dragon fruit?

No no, I said, one dragon fruit.

Oh, he said, oh good.  I was gonna say, four dragon fruit is pretty 厉害。  ”厉害” (lìhai) is a funny word, it means something like “intense, hard-core,” or as my kiwi friends would say “full-on.” It made me wonder if dragon fruit had some kind of erotic properties.  In any case, I only bought them one.

There are other stories to tell about my weekend in Manhattan, and some to keep to myself.  I’m not sure when I’ll make it back, but I hope it’s soon.  I’m definitely a Seattlite, and even if my career takes off and I can live the jetsetting lifestyle I’ve always dreamed of having, I’m sure I will stay in the 206.  But I sure would love to spend some more time in New York.

Free Food and some Blasts from the Past

4am:  My phone wakes me up with a series of chat alerts.  It’s Kiwi J with a drunk wrong-window chat, which he realizes and rescues with comments about jazz.  I wonder if I should answer, and think “what would Kiwi J do if the roles were reversed?”  I decided to email him in the morning, and go back to sleep.

7am:  I get dressed and ready to leave for work.  I check out the chat stream… as expected, it is baffling and delightful.  Kiwi J had chatted a few lines in Chinese that I don’t understand… so I activate my Chinese expert network (an American, a Canadian, and an Aussie).  None of them understand it either, but it does feel good to touch base with them, even just with a quick question.

10:30am:  Advent Mass in the gym.  I screwed up all the new responses, especially “And with your spirit.”  Blech.  The archbishop celebrated, and before the final blessing he stopped to remind us:  1) God loves you, 2) pray, 3) he (the archbishop) will be happy to pray for you if there’s something on your mind.  I decided I really like this new archbishop.

11:50am:  “Gratia.”  Free food! So one day a month, the parents do a big potluck lunch for the faculty. It is AWESOME.  In fact, when I was in China, my friend C once busted his leg, running to one of these potlucks.  This one was put on the the moms of the freshman football team, and I think they were trying to outdo each other, because the food was all bomb.com.

2:40pm:  ”Thunder”  More free food!  The development office, communications, and HR decided to have a reception for the faculty and staff.  They hosted it at the Eastlake Bar and Grill.  And when I say “hosted,” I mean that they reserved a section and then paid for everybody’s food and drinks.  My favorite was the smokey cheesy waffle fries.

7:00pm:  Free movie, and even more free food!  The World Market decided to treat it’s loyalty card customers to the new Tintin movie.  When I showed up, they put a party band around my wrist, gave me my 3d glasses and a $10 gift card for concessions… and also a $10 off coupon for the store!  With my gift card I got a vitamin water zero and a hot dog, and then went in to the screening.  I kept waiting for some marketing or some survey or something, but no, they just plain treated us to this movie, and asked for nothing in return.  There weren’t even any commercials or previews!

9:30pm:  I come home and check my mail box, and I got a package from my boy D in Alaska… two cans of his own smoked wild salmon!  … and one can of mints.  Think he’s trying to tell me something?

Finally I got a goofy reply from S, who is either in Charleston or Brooklyn. Hearing from him always brings me back to great memories of samba and pandeiro practice.

Ok, one last night of grading, and one more day of school tomorrow, and it’s Christmas Break.

Japanese super model

Cab from JFK to Manhattan is over $50 bones. I was kind of meh about taking the subway, which yes would have ben the cheapest. I’m on an airport shuttle to Grand Central Station now.

I actually could have caught an earlier shuttle, but I stopped to help a Japanese super model find the Air Train. I told her to get off at Federal Circle and find the Comfort Inn shuttle. I asked if she understood… a white dude chuckled and said “just smile and nod.”

Sucker. She belongs to him how.

On the way to Grand Central now.

Spreading the news

JP in Bryant Park, Summer 2009

It’s Monday night.  By this time Friday night I’ll be back in Manhattan.

I’m taking a long weekend and spending it in New York City.  Some of my friends from college proposed meeting back in the Big Apple to attend the UW vs. Duke game at Madison Square Garden, and I said yes, yes, yes.

It’s funny, when I lived in New York, I went to Madison Square Garden every day; my office was directly above the arena.  Of course I never had the occasion to go in, so this weekend will be a pretty cool first.

I’m most excited to see my friends of course.  There will be reunions, and a karaoke party–it’s J’s birthday, coincidentally, so it’s gonna be fun.  I’m looking forward to checking out a few of my old haunts, and maybe some new ones.  I was thinking of getting back my favorite Pick a Bagel in Battery Park City and getting the traditional lox bagel on toasted poppy seed.

It’s funny, the thing I’m most looking forward to is getting a $10 haircut at my barber in Chinatown.  It’s cheap, they know how to cut my Asian hair, and I get to practice my Chinese.

So fly in Friday night, fly out Monday night.  Then the following week is Christmas break.

It’s gonna be great to visit my old friends in Manhattan.  I’m working on a plan to visit Shanghai again; we’ll see how that goes.  Most of my Shanghai friends have scattered, and are now all over the world; unfortunately I’ve lost track of a few of them.

Anyway, New York this weekend; let me know if you want to meet up.

Why didn’t I know this before?

This is a two and a half minute video showing that reheating leftover pizza in a skillet on the stove is BY FAR the best way to reheat pizza at home, firing up the pizza stone.

Seriously, when it comes to reheating pizza, the microwave and the toaster oven can both go to hell.

After a year in New York, I have to say I like the bottom of my pizza charred.  So the other night I brought home a pizza from Padrinos, which is kind of a working-class pizza around the corner from my house, run by some Russians, who are perfectly nice.  By the time I got it home, it was still warm, but it had already steamed itself in the box and got all chewy which hurts my stomach.

So I threw a slice on the skillet over a medium flame, and I got a sweet char on the bottom,  and the floppy slice became structurally sound.  Don’t add oil or anything, there’s plenty of oil in that pizza.

Why did I not know this before?  It’s not life changing, but it’s a significant improvement to the floppy leftover pizza experience.  Significant.

New Look

Ok, I really should be grading exams, and not posting right now.  But it’s been a while since I posted, and I have, if you haven’t noticed, changed my blog template.  

There was a request to go dark text on light background… that’s for you, Elena!  This new theme I found is called “twenty eleven,” and I like the clean look.  I also went a little crazy on the random custom headers…  I’ve uploaded 15 of them.  So every time you reload the page, you’ll see one of 15 header images.  You can click on the header image itself if you want it to change.  

Ok, back to grading…

A Chinese Afternoon

So I’m doing these Chinese conversation lessons with my former Chinese teacher, who, if I have not said so before, is awesome.  For some reason, today I felt I could understand 95% of what she was saying, talking at normal speed, even though there were words and structures I wasn’t familiar with.

After class I was tempted by this review on Tasting Menu to stop by Yang’s Dumpling House.

I walked in, and it totally reminded me of China; the non-decorations, the two guys working in the back, the dumpling menu (dumplings, noodles, buns… not much more).  They had strong northern accents, and were very 热情，very warm and friendly.  They were very surprised by my Chinese, and asked me if I was ethnically Chinese.  I said, no, as always, and as I usually do, I said I was Filipino.  They asked when I arrived in the USA, and I said, well, I was born in the USA, but ancestral home is Philippines.

Then the cook, who spoke zero English, said to me, then you should say you’re American, not Filipino.

Oh the irony.  I guess it’s cool that these guys learned them some sociopolitical identifiers before they even learned English!

I told him, yes, when I was in China people asked me which country I was from, and when I said America they always got confused, because I’m not white people.  But here in Seattle everybody knows that nationality is different from ethnicity.

He smiled and went back to his hot pepper beef strips… smacking and chomping loudly.  The owner put my dumplings on the table and recommended the soy sauce.  I usually use vinegar and garlic, I said, and he was ELATED; he brought me half a head of garlic, peel and all.  I thought, well, I usually crush my garlic, but I suppose I can nibble on it, Taiwan-style.

Steamed pork dumplings were delicious, by the way, lovely mild flavor.  Not quite as cheap as in China, but what can you do.

Now that I think about it, I spoke a lot of Chinese today.

I have a lot to do to get ready for tomorrow morning, so I’ll have to blog about the Brunch Club in a later post.  For now enjoy this photo of a chilaquiles casserole from Lottie’s Lounge.

Wedding Photo Booth

So my boy Shawn of the Bread got married to Marti, and was nice enough to to invite me to the party.

I was all set to go to the UW vs. Oregon game in the morning.  In fact, I had Yones get me a ticket… but then I found out it was a night game.  Guh.

I was bummed to have to miss the game, especially with all the “last game at Husky Stadium” hype, but I couldn’t miss the wedding party.  There will be more football games.

Lunch that day I went with H to the Myung Ga Tofu House down in Federal Way, for a bowl of soon do bu, some mool nang myun, and some bulgogi…. plus panchan into the double digits, including two fried fish!

Later I drove to the River’s Edge in Tumwater for the wedding party.  I didn’t know many people, but I was glad to be there.  I was getting overly absorbed by the game on tv… but it was definitely a lovely evening.

Afterward the party moved to the 1230 Room, where they had reserved the lounge.  I was surprised by how cool it was there, sitting up in the lounge like a VIP.  The music wasn’t too loud, but it was definitely a dance club.  I think the most surprising thing is that the DJ was beatmixing som 80s music!

Ok, I know I’m not exactly living on the vanguard of West Coast nightlife, but 10 years ago I would have been surprised to hear some competent beatmixing in Seattle, let alone Olympia.  What a trip.  Shawn of the Bread put the screws to the dude to start playing some 80s and 90s music, and he came up with Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough with Culo, and then Sweet Child of Mine with Whoop! There It Is.  Girls Just Wanna Have Fun and You Shook Me All Night Long were in there too.  The mix was kind of brilliant.

I didn’t stay long at the club, I had to get back to Seattle for an early recording session the next morning.  Do check out my new show  Q&A Spanish when you get the chance!

Anyway, the photo at the left is from the photo booth that Marti and Shawn had at the party.  People were having a lot of fun putting on funny costumes for the photos, but as you can see I decided to keep it classy.

 

 

¡Qué trompa me puse!

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Last Halloween, I bought a elephant costume kit, which consisted of some ears on a headband and a little plastic trunk, a few inches long.

Next year, I thought, I’ll ask my sister to help me make a bigger trunk.

So this year’s Halloween came around, and I spent at evening at my sister’s new place, imagineering a bigger, better trunk with her; how to get good wrinkles, how to make it curl in spots, how to do tusks.  My original vision was to attach the trunk to my gray sweatshirt somehow.  Everyone who I talked to about it insisted that the trunk be attached to my face, but I thought, who cares about that.  It’s an impressionistic elephant to begin with; I’m not going to look more elephant-like with it attached to my face.

In the end, my sister got it to wrinkle by sewing uneven bunches into the fabric; random pleats in the seam.  Then she ran a thread through the length of it, creating a kind of tendon.  When she stuffed it with pillow stuffing, it gave it that nice undulating shape.  The buttons on the end were her idea, and she engineered the stick so that I could extend the end of the trunk, like a puppet.

The tusks were a piece of cake; they’re simply a couple of tusk-shaped pillows.  My sister insisted that I learn how to use the sewing machine, so one of those tusks was my first experience with a machine stitch.  We stuffed them, and then my sister closed the third side by hand-stitching.

Finally, we had the problem of making the trunk and two tusks attach to each other.  Basically I had three separate pillows, and it was too late to sew them together somehow.  So I took some of the trunk material and sewed it into a tight sleeve, and shoved the three pillows into it.  Voila.

My gray sweatshirt and last year’s store-bought ears completed the elephant costume.  Maybe next year I’ll imagineer myself some ears.  The trunk assembly, I ended up just holding it to my chest.  It was heavier than I had expected.  Some people suggested that I create some kind of sling, so that I could have my hands free, but it was too heavy.  Besides, holding it as I did gave me a lot of creativity in controlling the trunk, so that I could lift it, trumpet with it, do a feeding move, tap people on the shoulder, etc.  It wouldn’t have been as dexterous of a trunk if it had been hanging off of me somehow.

I don’t think I’ve ever put so much effort into a costume before.  That said, it really wasn’t much effort at all, on my part.  But it was cool to take an idea, develop it, and execute it.

It reminds me of the time I was studying in France, back in 1993.  I used to hang out at the Koala Bar in Avignon, which was a hang-out for English speakers.  Some Aussies opened the place up, it was staffed by members of their rugby team.  They only served Kronenbourg, and you could buy it in tall boot-shaped glasses which they called “formidables.”

There were some US Air Force officers stationed at Orange who used to hang out with me there; I am pretty sure they were pilots.  They spoke French fluently, and their American accents were just brutal.  Of course they were dashing, as fighter pilots are, and the American women were all over them.

Anyway, one of them was constantly telling us nerdy stuff he used to do, stuff you wouldn’t expect from an American fighter jet pilot.  He told us once that he once bought a mail-order pattern for a Starfleet uniform, and then taught himself how to use a sewing machine.  I remember laughing until my stomach hurt, we all did.  I mean, I liked me some Star Trek as much as the next guy, but that was an amazing amount of planning and premeditation, back then, to send away for a pattern, and then to teach oneself to sew.

We laughed at him right in his face.  It doesn’t seem funny at all to me now, poor guy.  That was almost 20 years ago.  I didn’t stay in touch with those guys, but he’s probably a general in the Air Force by now.  Me, I’m a high school teacher, and a part-time elephant.

I could get a tattoo….

I was listening to the local public radio station yesterday, and I caught half a report on people who got tattoos that were related to their professions.

Now before I say anything more, I would consider getting a tattoo, but I would first want to get  a muscle.  Once I have a good looking muscle, I’ll consider decorating it with a tattoo.  But until then, a tattoo is out of the question; no one wants to see ink on a lump of my man fat.  Think of the poor artist that would have to color the quivering mass; it’s just not decent.

But as an exercise, it does seem kind of cool to get a work-related tattoo.  I’ve seen chefs that have kitchen-related tattoos, like knives (Anthony Bourdain found them too; check out time-index 11:38).  My boy Jordan is a graphic novelist with a super cool Captain America tattoo on his forearm.  I’m sure there are more examples, but let’s get back to talking about me.

So what kind of tattoo does an ol’ linguistics major get?

I’ve got my own graphics:  subjunctive in nominal clauses, subjunctive in adverbial clauses, map of the present tense, map of the preterit tense…  Meh, those are all too texty.  I mean, maybe if I get a ripped, muscular back, I’ll consider one of those.  But there’s no charm in any of those.

I was thinking about something in IPA, fun words like “Seattle,” or “Eyjafjallajökull”, or maybe a commonly mispronounced word like [brusˈketːa], or or maybe the IPA chart itself.   Still, these are all kind of yawn.

Then there’s this piece of comedy (right) the Australian diphthong chart.  It never fails to crack me up, and it reminds me of far away friends.  Still, it’s a little esoteric… ok, a lot esoteric.  Also I think it would annoy Kiwi Jack.

What else is there?  X bar movement?  A paradigm of the verb “comer” in the futuro simple?

Or maybe I should get a podcasting tattoo.  I could tattoo an editing screen, with wave forms.

Or maybe the infamous 101 flatlines. (snort)  Nah, no ink for the bad old days.

Sigh, maybe linguistics is not the greatest theme for ink.  Maybe I should tattoo my pork adobo recipe, instead….

 

Pflaumenkuchen: How to Own Vocab Without Studying

One time last fall, J the French teacher brought a plum cake to the office.  We all had a piece; it was delicious of course.  The taste of plum cake made from local plums is an amazing taste of fall.   Everyone had to run off to teach, so I was left alone in the office with the plum cake.

After a few minutes, K the German teacher, came into the office, looked at the plum cake on the table and exclaimed “Pflaumenkuchen!”

“Ja,” I said, “Pflaumenkuchen.”  I pronounced it slowly, and K helped me get it exactly right.  Then I said something in my broken German, something like “mmm den Pflaumenkuchen ist sehr gut!  Lecker… ja!”  We each might have said Pflaumenkuchen at least five more times before K left the room to make copies.

I stayed in the office and finished the worksheet I was working on, and then went downstairs to the make copies of my own.  While my copies were running in the machine, I found L, the other German teacher, in her office, and I asked her, “Frau, habst du Pflaumenkuchen gegessen? ”  We had a whole conversation in my broken German about how I had eaten Pflaumenkuchen, how delicious it was, how there was more upstairs, how J gemacht it for us.  I said the word “Plaumenkuchen” at least 7 more times.

Then the bell rang and I went to teach my class.  We were reading a short story or working on some worksheet or something, and my students were asking me for words absolutely joylessly.  I’d make them repeat the word, and they’d repeat it resentfully, refuse to do the gesture, and just in general be completely mentally flaccid.  And then two seconds later someone would ask for the same. damn. word.  because they weren’t listening.

I stopped the class.  I told them to put their pens down.  Do you know that I don’t study vocabulary, I asked them?  I don’t study vocabulary.  I don’t make flash cards, I don’t quiz myself with lists, I don’t do any of that crap.  I just learn the damn word.

And I proceeded to tell them the Pflaumenkuchen story.  This, I said, is the difference between me and you.  When I come across a new word, I repeat it gratuitously.  I check to make sure I’m pronouncing it correctly.  I use it in different sentences, immediately, imaginatively.  I find someone else to talk to, and then tell them about it.  I google it.  I look at pictures of it.  I write it down.

I delight in learning a new word.  I say it and use it and recycle it, and pretty soon, I own it.  And then I never have to study it.

By the end of this lecture, all my students knew the word for plum cake in German.

Then we continued with the lesson, and I encouraged them to delight in the new words, to have fun with them, and to use them in a simple sentence properly.  Before they knew it, they were owning all kinds of words.

Ten minutes later, I asked them for the word for plum cake in German.  Some of them fumbled with the word, but a few of them remembered:  Pflaumenkuchen.  Had they study it?  No; they just owned it.

Why on earth would you study vocab, when you can just own it?  What exactly is the point of not owning a word?

For a day or two after the Pflaumenkuchen story, the students can sustain owning the new words, but then tend to forget the whole lesson, and go back to mindlessly and flaccidly asking for words they won’t own because they were too tired that day, or because something was bumming them out.

I guess I’ve had days like that too.  The secret, though, is to keep the bad days to a minimum.

My new gig: Q&A Spanish

I’ve got a new podcast!

It’s called Q&A Spanish; it’s a question and answer show for Spanish language learners.  Those of you who used to listen to the ol’ SpanishPod will recognize the format… and if you used to contribute questions to the old Pa’ que sepas show, I’m counting on you all to send in your questions to Q&A Spanish!

I’m thrilled to be working with Nahyeli, who is hosting the show with me.  I’m also ecstatic to be part of the Radio Lingua Network, which is celebrating it’s 5th anniversary.  Also Mark Pentleton is a good man and a real class act; it is a joy to be working with a professional educator.

Unlike my past couple gigs, I’m teaching full-time while this Q&A Spanish project is going on.  I’m slightly worried about exhausting myself, but if I’m going to make language learning media into a career, I’ve gotta keep publishing, keep creating.

One thing; it’s been a while since I’ve had to really listen to myself in headphones.  I’m amazed by how commercial I sound, and how extremely American my English sounds.  Did I always sound like that?

As always, thanks for listening; please don’t be shy with questions comments… I love to hear from listeners, even if it’s just to say hi.

Listen to all the Q&A Spanish podcasts here.

Follow Q&A Spanish on twitter @qandaspanish!

“Like” Q&A Spanish on Facebook!

What do you want to know?

Hey, remember that Con razón demo I did a while ago?

Well, the demo has lead to a distribution deal, which means we’re back in the studio tomorrow!

There will be just a little bit of retooling and design, and that show will come out with a new name on a new network.

I know you’re dying for details, but you’ll have to wait until later this week.  Until then, you can be part of the show by contributing your Spanish-learning questions!

If you have questions about vocab, expressions, grammar, culture, or learning itself, please get your questions to me!  I’ll be answering your questions on a future podcast!

Remember, I’m much more likely to answer questions like this:

• Why do my Mexican friends keep saying “neta”?
• How do you say “um, random!” in Spanish?
• What’s the difference between “creer” and “creerse?”

…And I’m much less likely to answer questions like this:

• Explain the entire subjunctive mood.

Teaching the subjunctive mood is going to be a 10-part video series someday; it won’t be answered properly on an 8-minute podcast!

Ok, send me your questions!

What’s in the Soup?

The soup is called “arrozcaldo.”  It’s a chicken and sweet-rice soup with lots of onions, ginger, and garlic.  It’s a Filipino recipe.

Here’s what’s in it:

• Chicken thighs (boneless skinless)
• yellow onion
• garlic
• fresh ginger (grated)
• salt
• black pepper
• green onion
• bay leaf

I’ll also bring some hot sauce and fish sauce if you want to doctor it up a little.

What I remember from Homecoming Week 1989

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One of the pictures above is from my yearbook; it’s a picture of the THS Homecoming King (Jesse) and Queen (Heidi) back in 1989, my senior year of high school.  The other is the dance photo from my Junior year; my date was the lovely Jill.

For those of you who are not American, “Homecoming” is a week-long festival that American high school and university students organize in the early fall autumn.  Homecoming culminates in a football game and dance.

The high school version of this festival is particularly baffling.  Here are some of the traditions:

• Classes are assigned certain areas of the school (usually hallways) that they are supposed to decorate.  A committee of students… often girls… meets the week before to argue bitterly over a decorating theme, and then agonize over time and resources.  They spend time after school or during the weekend painstakingly creating their decoration display, and then promise everyone they will update and maintain their decorations on every day of Homecoming week.  On Monday morning, when the student body shows up for school, they are often very positive about the decorations in each hallway.  Then by lunchtime, everybody stops caring.  By the end of the week, most of the decorations have been ripped down, trampled, and forgotten.
• The student government brainstorms and advertises theme dress-up days.  Monday of Homecoming week tends to be a low risk-factor day… something that everyone can participate in without much thought, like “hat day” or “hoody day.”  The subsequent days tend to be higher in risk-factor, like “inside-out day,” or “pajama day.”  The Thursday of Homecoming week tends to be the most costume-y day… “zombie day,” “robot overlord day.”  And then Friday, the last day of Homecoming week, is the day that everyone dresses in the school colors.  Hopefully, if the student government has played their risk-factor PR correctly, there are a lot of people dressed as superfans.  The rich kids always just wore merch.
• The Friday night of Homecoming week is the Homecoming football game.  I’m not sure how or why it’s a special game, but at least at my high school there was an expectation that a lot of alumni would be there, reliving their own high school football memories.  At halftime, the marching band preformed their regular halftime show, plus one very special and not-boring-at-all Homecoming formation.  We’d stand in that formation, and the the student government would name the Homecoming Royalty Court, which were a few boys and girls from the senior class who were nominated in a popularity contest.  The Court would come out and stand in formation, and then there would be some elaborate reveal that would name which boy and which girl were that year’s Homecoming King and Queen.  One year, the reveal arrived in an envelope, delivered by a helicopter which landed on the football field.  In my senior year, the nominees stood on some wooden stars; when we learned the names of the king and queen, we lit up the christmas lights taped to the star (which flashed and then immediately shorted out).  Then we gave the king and queen their crowns and scepters and then finally got everybody the hell out of the torrential rain.
• The day after the Homecoming game is the Homecoming Dance.  I seem to remember alumni attending that dance, but of course now that idea seems abhorrent to me.  In my day we rented tuxes, which in our day we coordinated with our dates so that our bowties and cummerbunds (which we called “cumberbunds”) would match the color of our dates’ dresses.  We’d go to a fancy dinner dressed in our freaky formal clothes, and then show up at the school and stand around with our friends, while a hired dj played some top 40 records.  Classy!

Anyway, back in 1989 it was my senior year of high school, and my friends and I were in charge of Homecoming week.  I forget most of the details of that week, but I do remember that our adviser was mad at me on Thursday for not dressing up.

We had scheduled Thursday as “Accident Day,” and I’m pretty sure that no student government in the history of our school had scheduled such a high-risk costume-y Thursday.  I had been planning… I don’t remember what I had been planning.  All I remember was that the night before Accident Day was the Loma Prieta earthquake (the “World Series Earthquake”).  And when I woke up that morning, I had no desire to dress like I had been in an accident.  Other people showed up that day with ripped clothes, blood stains; I remembere one person had make-up that looked like his eyeball was falling out; someone else had glued pieces of pipe to his shirt so it looked like he was impaled by it.  I didn’t begrudge them for dressing up that day; in fact, it was me who had helped organize that day.  I just didn’t want to dress up myself the day after so many people had died horrible deaths… mostly by crushing.

The next day, Friday, I remember we had a substitute in physics class, and the sub made an earthquake joke.  It was a dumb joke about shaking; I don’t remember how it went.  I just remember that everybody laughed.  Immediately afterward, I chimed in loudly, saying “200 PEOPLE ARE DEAD, HAHAHA!”  and then calmly went back to my homework.

Ally Barr, a junior, asked me incredulously, with alarm in her voice, “are you ok?”  as if there was something wrong with me.

“Am I ok?  Yes, I am ok,” I told her, and neither she nor the sub spoke to me for the rest of class.

And that’s what I remember about THS Homecoming 1989.

39

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Today was my 39th birthday.  Here’s how I spent it…

Rolled out of bed at 6:30am.  My carpool cancelled on me, so I had time to pack my lunch and make breakfast.  Drove into school alone.

I gave quizzes in my class today, and had plenty of time to check my Facebook.  I made it a point to answer all my birthday well-wishers, at least with a “thanks!”

My Chinese class sang 祝你生日快乐 to me after they stood to greet me.  Later LZ poked her head into my classroom and wished me feliz cumpleaños.  I didn’t stay too much longer after school; I decided to leave my quizzes for later and go home.

I tried to take a nap, but there was a media circus surrounding a former student; the plane landed, the ground transport, the press conference, the rehash, the helicopters following her vans home.  Of course, she was never put in the vans, so the media lost her.   It stopped being news after the press conference, but they don’t really know when to stop, do they.  Anyway, I couldn’t nap.

I ended up at the store, buying stuff for lunches for the rest of this week; meatloaf and roasted veggies.  I got the groceries home, but then my sister showed up to take me to dinner.

We went to Little Sheep Hot Pot, which is a big chain in China.  The restaurant was really nice; not as overstaffed or as opulent as the Shanghai branch we used to go to, but much more stylish.  We asked if it was all-you-can-eat Tuesday, but they said that promotion ended in September.  My sister let it slip that it was my birthday.

Once we had finished and paid the bill, they asked us to stay 10 more minutes, because they were making me a cake.

Soon after, this bread in the shape of an onion dome came out.  It was covered in some whipped cream that was melting fast due to the heat of the fresh bread, complete with sprinkles and a candle.  The staff sang happy birthday to me in English.  There were photos.

Biting into the “cake” was a trip.  It was fresh out of the oven, with a sesame seed salty crust.  Inside, there were pieces of green onion.  What a crazy cake!

I’d like to thank everyone who has wished me well today, it’s so nice.  I wish I could have made it to TMI Tuesday at the Bottleneck.  There are plenty of people I wish I could have connected with today; old friends from past good times.  But alas, it’s a rainy Tuesday night, and Facebook has been pissing everyone off lately, so I think I had just the right amount of excitement for a Tuesday night birthday.

According to the internet’s calendars, my 41st birthday will be a Friday night, and my 42nd will be a Saturday night.  I’ll have to go big those years.

People I Met Yesterday

I woke up yesterday morning knowing that my day would be spent doing paper work.  Grades…. guh.

So the first thing I did was get washed up and drive all over town.  I was looking for a mellow place to find a hearty breakfast, and I think sub-consciously I kept driving just to postpone the grading grind.

Matt

I ended up in the regrade, at the Hurricane.  I ordered my eggs and toast as bloody marys were served and drained at other tables.  Service there is a little slow, so I pulled out a stack of rough drafts and started marking them up.  One of my waiters, I think as he was giving me my change, saw me grading papers and asked me cheerfully if I was a teacher.

Who else grades papers besides teachers?  Whatever.

Here’s the thing… Seattlites are not talky by nature.  We sit alone in public places, pull out our work, and expect no one to talk to us.  So here was this waiter asking me if I was a teacher, and then telling me that he wanted to be a teacher one day, and I thought, wow, go away.

But he didn’t go away; he kept talking, cheerfully, amiably, asking where I worked, telling me his story.  Actually, rewind; the first thing he did after I told him that I was a teacher was to thank me for my choice of profession.  There were stars in his eyes, in admiration of my self-sacrificial choice of career/lifestyle.  And then he said he wanted to be a teacher someday.

He seemed like a perfectly nice kid, and I didn’t hear naiveté or idealism that I know is the mark of a one-year-and-out certificated teacher.  He seemed smart, and he was going into it with his eyes open.  It was down the road for him, though, as he was scheduled to deploy to Afghanistan next September.   I suggested that maybe the situation would change, and that I hoped he wouldn’t have to go.  He shook my hand and introduced himself before I left… Matt was his name.  Nice kid.  I hope he has a fulfilling career, and I hope we pull out of Afghanistan before Matt’s deployment.

______

I got a lot of my grading done, and later that evening I trucked out to Ballard to Cowsin Mikey’s surprise birthday party at the Shelter Lounge.

(I used to sing at the Shelter club in Shanghai; what a crazy time in my life.  I miss J).

Brie

I had a hell of a time trying to find a parking spot, and showed up post “surprise,” but the party itself was doing fine.  Most of everyone there were Mikey’s friends, the only people I knew were two cowsins and my sister.

I struck up a conversation with Mikey’s friend… I think her name was “Brie.”  That’s what it sounded like, anyway.  She’s Mikey’s snowboarding partner, a recreational therapist by trade… just like cowsin Frances.  We talked about Mikey, snowboarding, playing music, recreational therapy… nice lady.

Then this dude sits down and starts talking to Brie, kind of busting into our conversation.  I stay with them for a while; he mentions how men in Seattle are not required to shave the way they are in his home state of New York.  I turned to my cousin and talked to him for a while, and left Brie to talk to the dude.

Eventually he got up to get a drink or something, and Brie gave me that look, that “save me from this guy” look.

So I tried to think of options for her, but then the dude was back, with some other topic of conversation, equally as compelling as the shaving conversation he had started before.

I thought about the stack of papers I had back at home, and decided I should take off.

Obie

I said goodbye to Brie and shook her hand.  Then I turned to the dude and said, good to meet you, I’m taking off.

NO YOU’RE NOT!  he screamed, WHERE ARE YOU GOING?

I’m going to grade papers, I said, laughing, and extended my hand again.

No, he yelled, you can’t leave!  He refused to shake my hand… and then to my surprise, he said, I want a hug.

So the dude gets up and runs through the crowd, around the table to where I was, and started hugging me.  For a long time.   What do I do?  I hugged him back.  The next thing I know he’s got a leg up around my hip.

Well, I could do worse, I thought.  Haha.  Ok, that’s enough.

Then my cousin goes, “Oh, I want a picture of this!”   That was enough to renew the hugging and extend it for another minute.

We looked over at my cousin, and she’s just STARTING to get her camera to work.  ”Do it again,” she says.

So for the third time, this dude is hugging me, leg around my hip.  Just so you know, I tell him, the camera is over there… she’s not getting that you’re leg is up around my body.

It’s not for the camera, he said, it’s for you.

Sigh.  Drunk people….

Ok, that’s enough.  I said goodbye, and he introduced himself as Obie.   I told him my name was JP, and he spent a good 20 seconds trying to guess what JP stood for.

I said goodbye to the cowsins and my sister, but before I could go, there had to be a family picture…. and somehow Obie got into our family picture.  It felt wrong to leave him out.

I got home that night in time for SNL, and didn’t get back to my grading until the next morning.

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Columbia City, baby!

I once told S the dolphin-hater that 98118 was the most diverse zip code in the USA.  ”No it’s not,” he said.  ”Queens.”

Which of course is bullshit.  Queens has a lot of ethnic enclaves; lots of little areas of separation, not integration.

Columbia City, on the other hand, (census tract 103) has every “racial” group in double digits… people from everywhere all in one place.

It’s easy to forget about how diverse it is here, everybody is chill about it.  In fact I myself didn’t really internalize it until I was showing my French colleague around, and I was telling him the ethnic make-up of this end of the block… those neighbors are African American, white folks, a Cantonese lady, the Mexi-neighbors, the Vietnamese karaoke neighbors, some more white folks, the Japanese lady, I’m Filipino American… my renters were Senegalese (they run a store in downtown Columbia City; in fact, at time index 2:00, he’s the one saying si vous voulez acheter un cadeau…).

Anyway, I was excited to see this story on Evening Magazine about my neighborhood.  It’s kind of wild that they’re charging $150 for a tour of this place… gimme $150 bones, I’ll give you that tour, and a bowl of pho!

Diverse Zip Code Travel, posted with vodpod