Kris and Tiffany's Aunt Jenefer and Uncle Bob were in Portland last night (with Bob's mother Irene), so the six of us gathered at Sungari for a Chinese feast. Dinner was awesome.

Tiffany and I had pre-ordered the Peking Duck. I had never eaten Peking Duck before. The preparation process is so elaborate that the dish must be ordered 48 hours in advance. According to the wikipedia:

Peking Duck requires a duck with its head still attached. First, it is inflated with a pump or other object, separating the skin from the body (this was done by blowing through a straw by someone with a strong lung in ancient times). Then the skin is scalded with boiling water to make it drier and tauter and brushed with molasses so that it acquires a dark, rich color with the slight aroma of caramel during the subsequent cooking process. After drying for half a day, the duck is hung by its neck in a hot oven where it is roasted for an hour or more, during which time the copious fat of the duck melts off and the skin becomes crispy. Because a large oven is required, as well as other complicated preparation techniques, Peking Duck is not usually prepared at home.

Serving is a production, too. At Sungari, the duck is served table-side. The waiter brings two dishes of flaming hoisin sauce (as in, the sauce is on fire), the duck, some scallions, and some mu-shi (flour pancakes) which look like nothing more than homemade Mexican tortillas. The waiter then spreads hoisin sauce on a pancake, fills it with duck and shallots, and then puts them on a platter. A single duck makes about a dozen wraps.

Because I had ordered the most expensive dish on the menu, I decided to order the most expensive drink too: the monkey-picked tea.

"I don't like it," Tiffany said, after taking a sip.

"It tastes like grass," I agreed. But after a few more sips, and after a few bites of Peking Duck and Sesame Beef, I was hooked. I drank a pot-and-a-half. (I'm not ever going to get to sleep.)

It was fun to see Bob, Jenefer, and Irene. Special thanks to Bob for picking up the check. It was a generous gesture, especially after I'd ordered the most expensive stuff in the restaurant!

Dinner was especially fine because:

• It had been a Day From Hell at work, and
• I was just beginning to get sick. (I'm very sick now.)

"Well, it's only temporary," I said. "I'm moving to new blogging software. In a couple weeks, the new site will look mostly like the old site."

"What do you mean mostly?" she said. "It had better have the calendar, and it had better have the comments on the main page. I hate all the clicking around I have to do now. It's terrible.

"And you should write more. I don't care about comic books or personal finance. I hate all those links you put up. I want more stories."

Kris smiled. She's been telling me for weeks that I shouldn't make my proposed changes. She's been telling me for weeks that people like foldedspace just the way it is. She's been telling me for weeks that I spend too much time writing for Get Rich Slowly, and not enough time writing here.

So, dear readers, I put it to you: what are your feelings? What do you like about this site? What do you think needs to change? Should I simply go back to the way things were? I can ratchet up the spam protection to see if it does anything. If I can make the new front page look and operate the same way as the old page, will that keep you happy?

The ball is in your court. Let me know how you feel.

But I've found that I love to watch television shows on DVD (or via download). Kris and I have watched The Office, Arrested Development, Homicide: Life on the Streets, and more.

Recently Sabino loaned me some Seinfeld DVDs. I loved the show during its first few seasons. It gave me some big laughs. But I haven't actually seen the show since it went off the air.

Over the weekend, instead of doing the writing I had planned, I watched the first nineteen episodes of Seinfeld. The early episodes aren't as funny as those from the middle of the run. The writers and cast are still finding their way. But there are glimmers of the hilarity to come.

I especially like the DVD's included "notes about nothing", captions used to annotate each episode as it progresses. These "notes about nothing" include information on guest stars, behind-the-scenes info, trivia, and — best-of-all — explanations of some of the jokes. I'm surprised at just how smart this show is. Head writer Larry David — the inspiration for the character of George, and the force behind the current HBO series Curb Your Enthusiasm — was a history major. There are many literary and historical jokes in the show, and the "notes about nothing" explain them. (Which is nice, because about half of them make no sense to me otherwise.)

I've also enjoyed the emphasis the special features place on the show's writing. The bonus interviews and the "notes about nothing" provide glimpses into the writing process, especially how scenes were developed and revised. As a writer, I'm fascinated to see just what gets cut and why.

Meanwhile, Kris has spent the last several months watching every episode of M*A*S*H. She's almost finished with the tenth season, just in time for the eleventh (and final) season, which will be released on DVD early in November. The show seems strident to me — lots and lots of yelling — but Kris says it's still funny after all these years.

Meanwhile, we've continued to explore films that people recommended to make me laugh. That isn't going so well. Galaxy Quest? Lame. Just dumb. Makes no sense at all. Bowfinger? It had promise (and I love Mindhead), but ultimately very average and not so funny. Still, I'll continue to explore the list of potential funniness.

At first, we tried to pawn Max and Duke on unsuspecting souls. (We did well with shop cats during the mid-nineties, but our recent history is less keen. They tend to get squished in the road, or they simply disappear.) We found no takers, though, and soon we came to bond with our little boys; now we wouldn't think of giving them away.

Both Max and Duke are sweet — sweet in a way that I haven't seen in a cat since Tintin died.

Duke is black. He looks like a miniature Toto, only he's not so fat, and he's not so grouchy. In fact, he's a little overbearing. He has a squeaky meow, which he uses often. He loves to sit on laps, or to sit on my desk while I'm working. He has a hand fetish — he nibbles and gnaws on fingers, and if you let him, he'll lick lick lick until your hands are clean. Duke's specialty is sleeping. He's been practicing hard, and soon will be ready to enter the sleeping event in the cat olympics.

Max, on the other hand, is training for the bottle cap competition. Even at this moment, he's out in the hall, delivering a succession of stunning blows to an unfortunate cap. Max is grey with a bit of white on his bib and his paws. He's sweet, too, but not as willing as Duke to sacrifice his inherent cat dignity. He's actually quite catlike in demeanor already. Max is fond of play. His favorite trick is to crouch in the grass along the sidewalk and then to spring on passers-by. He's deadly.

As I say, I worry about their longevity. Cats generally aren't prone to roaming, despite notable exceptions. They like to have a set territory. Because of this, I've tried to convince Max and Duke that their base of operations is the shed in which we first found them. I feed them in the shed. I water them in the shed. (Max likes to drink from the stream of water as I'm pouring it into the bowl.) I encourage them to sleep in the shed. It would be more convenient to have them on the porch, the porch is much closer to the road. It's my hope that with the distance, and with the trailer as a barrier, the kittens will have no reason to go near the road.

The truth is that if Kris would let me, I would bring these home. If only Toto would croak, maybe I could justify it. They're a fantastic pair of cats, as fine as any I've seen in a long time.

p.s. Yes, the chicken is still around.

First, there are the obvious dangers: on-line pedophiles, filthy language, risqué pictures, bullying, and addiction. But these are just the tip of the iceberg. A greater danger is that blogging gives a person a "voice".

Whether or not it is effective, as soon as something is posted the person has a larger voice. It often makes the blogger feel good or makes him feel as if his opinion counts—when it is mostly mindless blather!

The horror! There are other evils, too. Bloggers are too open. They're vain. They write too many idle words. What's The Restored Church of God's official position on blogging?

...No one — including adults — should have a blog or personal website (unless it is for legitimate business purposes). When this policy, now being instituted, was discussed with Mr. Pack and other Headquarters ministers, there was not a shadow of doubt in anyone’s mind that blogs are something youth should not be doing in any way. As has been said before, Jesus Christ and His Church have standards. Those who desire fewer standards should go to the splinters or to the world.

I would comment on this, but it would just get me into trouble. Suffice it to say that I believe you should simply go forth and blog!

[From the Restored Church of God's own blog, and via waxy.]

Sometimes it's cats, too, but not very often. Cats are generally smarter than that. They don't freeze in the face of oncoming traffic the way a squirrel does. Cats get it when they're making some mad dash across traffic. They're too cocky about their speed and agility, and they don't quite make it.

There aren't many cats around our place, but once you get toward Canby, it's the cats for sure. Just on the bluff, near the fruit stand and the trailer park, that's where you start to see them. And then down toward the Foursquare Church, and certainly after driving through town, heading out into the country again. The cats hit me in the gut. "That was somebody's pet," I think. "That was Toto or Simon or Nemo."

But once you get through town, it's more than the cats. Mostly it's skunks and coons, depending on the time of year. It used to be the possums, but frankly I don't see them much anymore. But I see the skunks and the coons. The coons make me sad — though not like the cats — because I think of them as smart. It makes me sadder still when it's not one coon, but two, as it sometimes is. Sometimes it's one coon in the middle of the road and one coon at the side. "Husband and wife?" I wonder. "Do coons mate for life?"

Today, at the bottom of Good's Bridge, it was a deer, lumped in the middle of the road. I came upon it fast in the melting light, and at first I thought it was a body. A human body. But it was a deer, a small doe, slumped and bleeding from the head. It was in the center of the road, which is a good thing, because otherwise maybe it would have been human bodies, too, and twisted metal and shattered glass.

It was a deer at almost the precise spot where a week ago it had been a horse. I didn't know it was a horse. I drove past in the morning, and it was a mound on the side of the road, like a pile of barkdust maybe, or a pile of dirt. It was covered in some crazy-quilt blanket, and I thought, "That's odd." But I didn't know it was a horse until Nick got to work and said, "Did you see the horse?" "What horse?" I said. "The one at the bottom of Good's Bridge," he said, and then I knew it wasn't a pile of barkdust or a pile of dirt.

But you know what it never is? It's never dogs. I don't get that. It must be dogs sometimes — I hit a dog once. But why isn't it ever dogs on the road? Do people pull them off? Maybe they're just not let loose outside like they used to be.

About a month ago, I drove from Custom Box to Sandy, by way of Estacada. Turning off the highway, heading up the hill toward Sandy, traffic had slowed to a crawl. "What gives?" I wondered, but then I saw: up ahead two dogs — a silky Golden Retriever and some little mixed mutt — were strolling down the middle of the road, following the striped line. It was like they were out for a pleasant walk after lunch. The Golden Retriever walked evenly, following the striped line; the little mixed mutt orbited around it. Traffic in my lane crawled along behind. Oncoming traffic came barreling around a blind corner to halt abruptly and then creep past the pair. That's how it went: a car came barreling around the blind corner, and I held my breath because I was sure one of the dogs would get it, but the car would brake hard, stop, and then creep past. The dogs didn't care. Traffic followed the dogs for a quarter mile before the pair found a side street they preferred and ambled off to find whatever it is they were looking for.

I wonder why it's never dogs.

This trailer, which is now the business office, I once called home. Sometimes it still feels like home. At this moment, with the warm sun slanting through the window, with the wind moaning, with the kitten by my side, it's hard to imagine that it's not home. It even smells like home.

I slip into a reverie, find a memory from childhood that seems almost real. A Sunday afternoon from just this time of year. Lunch is over. Mom is washing the dishes. Jeff and I are in the living room with Dad, who is sprawled on the couch in the tipout. He has his shirt off, and Jeff is using a felt pen to draw faces on his big belly. I am stretched on the shag carpet (harvest gold), have claimed a rectangle of sunlight, and am reading the paper. I am reading the comics. I am reading the sports section (the Beavers lost again, and so did the Ducks). I am reading the poems in Northwest Magazine. Maybe there's a cat, or a dog, or a bird in the room. Maybe Tony is here, coloring quietly.

Outside, the wind blows dully, and, if I listen carefully, I can hear the trailer moan. I can smell —

— and then I'm jarred to reality by a fourteen minute conversation with a customer who is woefully confused about an item we made in August, but which he cannot recall...

I'm always amazed at how little things — like sunlight on a kitten's forehead — can trigger waves of nostalgia.

This morning on the drive to work, the sun was shooting God-rays through the lingering mist. You know the ones: the great shafts of light that slice through the trees, as if they're something real, something tangible, something that you might be able to touch and hold.

But the thing is, cork'd is frustrating to use. It feels like an application where the designers were able to get it to work for them and the way they work with this information, but failed to test it in the real-world. (I'm not saying that this is what occurred; it just feels that way.) It's also an application that's prettier than it is functional. (It's very pretty.)

Here are some specific things that bug me about cork'd. (And this list comes after only entering half a dozen bottles!)

The idea is that this is a social wine site. That is, after one person has entered the data for a particular bottle of wine, anyone else can use that information without having to re-enter it themselves. For example, here's a bottle of two-buck chuck. If you go down to Trader Joe's and pick up a case of this, you don't have to enter the data because it's already in the system.

But what if you find the wine you want and the information is incorrect? That is, what if you find this entry for the exact same bottle of two-buck chuck. What do you do? Well, you probably try to create one of your own. So right away, there's one problem: with a system like that, you're likely to have multiple instances of the same bottle of wine.

So should the designers limit the information that people can enter? That presents problems, too. Speaking from my own experience, here's a bottle of Willamette Valley Vineyards 2003 Pinot Noir that I'd like to add to my wine cellar. The information is basically correct, except for two things:

1. This user paid $23.99 for his bottle — I paid $14.89 the same wine. It does me no good to have this in my cellar with his pricing information. I want my pricing information.
2. The region listed is wrong. Yes, it might make sense that a bottle from a Salem winery called "Willamette Valley Vineyards" would have an appellation of "Oregon - Willamette Valley", but in reality the correct appellation for this body is simply "Oregon". A small thing, but it bugs me. I'm not allowed to edit this information if I want to add the bottle to my cork'd wine cellar.

There are other problems, too, such as:

• cork'd calls appellations "regions". I can deal with that, I suppose, but I can't deal with the fact that you have to choose your region from a drop-down menu of pre-defined choices, a menu that out of seven bottles, was missing two of the regions I wanted. I want a way to add appellations.
• I'm attempting to add all of my wines to my cork'd wine cellar at the same time. First, there's no obvious way to add a wine from the front page at all. I eventually found out how to do so by clicking to a different page where adding a wine was an option. But why not on the front page, too? And after I add each bottle of wine, I'm taken to that bottle's individual page. That's fine, but there's now way to just immediately add my next bottle of wine from this page. I have to click through a bunch of stuff again.
• I want a "personal notes" field — something that isn't a review, but something that isn't a "description" either. I want to keep track of where I bought a wine, or who gave it to me. I just entered "purchased at Costco on 07 October 2006" for several bottles in the description field, and now that's part of the permanent record. Oops. But it doesn't belong in a review, either. It's a personal note.
• The search system seems broken. Searching for "willamette valley vineyards pinot" generates a "can't find it" message, even though there are several wines that should return matches. But searching for "willamette valley vineyards" works as expected.
• When I add a wine to my cellar from search, I'm given a choice of how many bottles to add, but when I add one by entering the data, I'm not. It just enters one bottle. If I actually bought four, I have to go to my cellar, find the bottle, and change the quantity there.
• I'd love the ability to add actual images of each bottle instead of the generic graphics that are currently used.
• Wines are rated using an Amazon-like star system. My ratings are shown in a sort of brightish pinkish red. If I haven't rated a wine, its rating is shown in a sort of darkish winish red. This is fine if both colors are on the same page, but when they're not, I have a hard time remembering whether what I'm seeing is my rating or the system-wide average.

Don't get me wrong. I like cork'd and think it's a fun idea. I'm hoping that several friends will join and we can have quite the drinking party. But in its current form, it feels very much like a piece of software in beta.

I like the idea of Cork'd but it still feels very beta to me...

First, you may wish to visit my previous entries about this Portland group:

• 24 Jan 2004 — The Decemberists (Live in Concert)
• 17 Mar 2005 — The Decemberists (Live in Concert, 2005 Edition)

With one exception, this is a fantastic album, a tapestry of words and music unlike anything I've heard before. (Well, actually, it reminds me some of Natalie Merchant's Ophelia.) It's like the promise of The Decemberists come to fruition. The more I listen to it — and I've heard it about forty times in the past month, according to iTunes — the more I love it. It just gets better and better.

The Decemberists are a hard band to describe. They're sort of alt-folk-rock with lots of pirates and death and stuff thrown in for good measure. Colin Meloy, the lead singer and primary "face" to the band, is a big fan of The Smith's Morrisey (and, in fact, has released a solo CD covering five of his songs). Meloy has a penchant for penning witty songs filled with archaic words and vivid images.

Though their last album had a couple of standout tracks, it was actually the group's weakest effort to date, marred by too much topicality. They're best at doing quirky, quaint story songs; they're not so good at political statement.

The Crane Wife, I'm pleased to say, is a return to form. It features many lovely songs, and they lyrics are Meloy's strongest to date. In fact, I like the album so much that I spent most of my free time today transcribing lyrics and annotating them. (You can see the results at the end of this post.)

This album is built around a theme: the Japanese folk story of the crane wife. Three of the songs (contained in two tracks) are directly related to the story; the others are less so, but still fit thematically, except for the woeful "The Perfect Crime 2", which is the one track I've unchecked in iTunes (so that it never plays unless I specifically select it). ("The Perfect Crime 2" isn't the worst Decemberists song. That would be "The Sporting Life", which is simply painful to listen to.)

Here, then, is my attempt at transcribing the lyrics. I made a pass on my own, then googled for other people's efforts (such as here and here). Some of the other transcriptions make sense; others don't. What I've posted here is my best guess at most of the lyrics. I welcome corrections. I've annotate the more obscure lyrics — I welcome corrections on these, too.

Enjoy!

The Crane Wife
by The Decemberists

01. The Crane Wife 3 (4:17, played 31 times in the past month)
And under the boughs unbowed
All clothed in a snowy shroud
She had no heart so hardened
All under the boughs unbowed

Each feather it fell from skin
Til threadbare, she grew thin
How were my eyes so blinded?
Each feather it fell from skin

And I will hang my head, hang my head low

A grey sky, a bitter stain
A rain cloud, a crane on the wing
All out beyond horizon
A grey sky, a bitter stain

And I will hang my head, hang my head low

02. The Island, Come And See, The Landlord's Daughter, You'll Not Feel The Drowning (12:38, played 26 times)

There's an island hidden in the sound
Lapping currents lay your boat to ground
Fix your barb in bayonet
The curlews carve their arabesques
And sorrow fills the silence all around
You come and see

There's a harbor lost within the reeds
A jetty caught in overhanging trees
Among the bones of cormorants
No boot-mark here, nor fingerprints
The rivers roll down to a soundless sea
To come and see

The tides will come and go
Witnessed by no waking eye
The willows mark the wind
And all we know for sure
Amidst this fading light
We'll not go home again
Come and see

In the lowlands nestled in the heath
A briar cradle rocks its babe to sleep
Its contents watched by Sycorax
And Patagon in parallax
A foretold rumbling sounds below the deep
You come and see

The tides will come and go
Witnessed by no waking eye
The willows mark the wind
And all we know for sure
Amidst this fading light
We'll not go home again
Come and see

******

As I once rambled
Down by the water
I spied in sable
The landlord's daughter

Produced my pistol
Then my saber
"So make no whistle
or thou will be murdered"

She cursed, she shivered
She cried for mercy
"My gold and silver
If thou will release me"

"I'll take no gold, Miss,
I'll take no silver
I'll take those sweet lips
And thou will deliver!"

******

I will dress your eyelids
With dimes upon your eyes
Lay you close to water
Green, your grave will rise

Go to sleep now, little ugly
Go to sleep now, little fool
Forty-winking in the belfry
You'll not feel the drowning
You'll not feel the drowning

Forget you once had sweethearts
They've forgotten you
Think you not on parents
They've forgotten too

Go to sleep now, little ugly
Go to sleep now, little fool
Forty-winking in the belfry
You'll not feel the drowning
You'll not feel the drowning

Hear you now the captain
Heed his sorrowed cry
The weight upon your eyelids,
Is dimes laid on your eyes

03. Yankee Bayonet (I Will Be Home Then) (4:17, played 31 times)

(Him)
Heart-carved tree trunk
Yankee bayonet
A sweetheart left behind

(Her)
Far from the hills
And the sea-swelled Carolinas
That's where my true love lies

(Him)
Look for me
When the sun-bright swallow sings
Upon the birch bough high

(Her)
But you are in the ground
With the wolves and the weevils
All a-chewin' upon your bones so dry

(Chorus)
But when the sun breaks
To no more bullets in Battle Creek
Then will you make the grave
For I will be home then, I will be home then
I will be home then, I will be home then

(Her)
When I was girl
How the hills of Oconee
Made a seam to hem me in

(Him)
There at the fair
When our eyes caught careless
Got my heart right pierced by a pin

(Him)
But O did you see
All the dead of the Manassas
All the bellies and bones and the bile

(Her)
No I lingered here
With the blankets barren
And my own belly big with child

(Chorus)
But when the sun breaks
To no more bullets in Battle Creek
Then will you make a grave
For I will be home then, I will be home then
I will be home then, I will be home then

(Him)
The stems and bones and stone walls too
Keep me from you
This skein of skin is all too few
To keep me from you

(Both)
O my love though our bodies may be parted,
Though our skin may not touch skin
Look for me with the sun-bright sparrow
I will come on the breath of the wind

04. O Valencia! (3:45, played 27 times)
[this song is very R and J]

You belong to the gang
And you say you can't break away
But I'm here with my hands on my heart

And our families can't agree
I'm your brother's sworn enemy
But I shout out my love to the stars

So wait for the stone on your window, your window
Wait by the car and we'll go, we'll go

When first we laid eyes
I swore to no compromise
Til I felt my caress on your skin

But how soon we were betrayed
Your sister gave us away
And your father came all unhinged

So wait for the stone on your window, your window
Wait by the car and we'll go, we'll go

But O! Valencia!
With your blood still warm on the ground
Valencia!
And I swear to the stars, I will burn this whole city down

All I heard was the shout
Of your brother calling me out
And you ran, like a fool, to my side

Well the shot, it hit hard
And your frame went limp in my arms
And an oath of love was your dying cry

So wait for the stone on your window, your window
Wait by the car and we'll go, we'll go

But O! Valencia!
With your blood still warm on the ground
Valencia!
And I'll burn this whole city down

Valencia!
With your blood getting cold on the ground!
Valencia!
And I swear to the stars, I will burn this whole city down

05. The Perfect Crime 2 (5:33 of hell, played 12 times)
Sing muse of the passion of the pistol
Sing muse of the warning by the whistle
A night so dark and waning
A dawn obscured by a slate sky, raining

Five-and-twenty burglars by the reservoir
A teenage lookout on the signal tower
The mogul's daughter in hog-ties
The mogul fingers the wrong guy alright

It was the perfect crime (ad nauseum — worst chorus ever)

The bagman's quaking at the fingers
The hand-off glance a little lingers (???)
A well-dressed man in the crosshairs
A shot rings out from somewhere upstairs

It was the perfect crime (ad nauseum)

It was like a ticker-tape parade
When the plastique on the safe was blown away
And we all gaze from eye to eye
As we mouth our silent good-byes

The valley's sleeping like a bastard
It stinks of slumbering disaster
Two words are spoke on the tapwire
The agent's ploy was a sure-fire backfire

It was the perfect crime (ad nauseum)

06. When The War Came (5:04, played 22 times)
With all the grain of Babylon
To cultivate to make us strong
And hidden here behind the walls
Our shoulders wide and timber on (???)
Til the war came — til the war came

A terrible autonomy
Has grafted on to you and me
A trust put in the government
Who told their lies as heaven-sent (???)
Til the war came — til the war came

And the war came with a curse and a caterwaul
And the war came with all the poise of a cannonball
And they're picking out our eyes by coal and candlelight (???)
When the war came, the war came hard

(This verse is a mess...)
We made our oathes to Avalon
We'd not betray the sole soul anon (???)
The acres of hysterisy (???)
To our own pangs of starvation
When the war came — when the war came

And the war came with a curse and a caterwaul
And the war came with all the poise of a cannonball
And they're picking out our eyes by coal and candlelight (???)
When the war came, the war came hard

With all the grain of Babylon...

07. The Shankill Butchers (4:37, played 31 times)
The Shankill Butchers ride tonight
You better shut your windows tight
They're sharpening their cleavers and their knives
And taking all their whiskey by the pint

Cuz everybody knows
If you don't mind your mother's words
A wicked wind will blow
Your ribbons from your curls
Everybody moan, everybody shake
The Shankill Butchers want to catch you
Awake

They used to be just like me and you
They used to be sweet little boys
But something went horribly askew
Now killing is their only source of joy

Cuz everybody knows
If you don't mind your mother's words
A wicked wind will blow
Your ribbons from your curls
Everybody moan, everybody shake
The Shankill Butchers want to catch you
Awake

The Shankill Butchers on the rise
They're waiting until the dead of night
They're picking at their fingers with their knives
And wiping off their cleavers on their thighs

Cuz everybody knows
If you don't mind your mother's words
A wicked wind will blow
Your ribbons from your curls
Everybody moan, everybody shake
The Shankill Butchers want to catch you
The Shankill Butchers want to cut you
The Shankill Butchers want to catch you
Awake, awake, awake, awake

08. Summersong (3:27, played 32 times)
Ramblin', where to begin
I taste the summer on your peppery skin
Been saved, the warm of the waves
I felt a slip into a watery grave

My girl, linen and curls
Lips parting like a flag'll unfurl
She's grand, the bend of her hand
Digging deep into the sweep of the sand

And summer arrives
With a length of light
And summer blows away
And quietly gets swallowed by a wave
It gets swallowed by a wave

Waylay the din of the day
Boats bobbing in the blue of the bay
In deep, far beneath
All the dead sailors slowly slipping to sleep

My girl, linen and curls
Lips parting like a flag'll unfurl
She's grand, the bend of her hand
Digging deep into the sweep of the sand

And summer arrives
With a length of light
And summer blows away
And quietly gets swallowed by a wave
It gets swallowed by a wave

09. The Crane Wife 1 and 2 (11:23, played 39 times)
It was a cold night and the snow lay round
I pulled my coat against the falling down
And the sun was all, and the sun was all down
And the sun was all, and the sun was all down

I am a poor man, I haven't wealth nor fame
I have my two hands and a house to my name
And the winter so, and the winter's so long
And the winter so, and the winter's so long

And all the stars were crashing round
As I laid eyes on what I'd found

It was a white crane, it was a helpless thing
Upon a red stain, with an arrow in its wing
And it calling cried, and it calling cried so
And it calling cried, and it calling cried so

And all the stars were crashing round
As I laid eyes on what I'd found

My crane wife, my crane wife
My crane wife, my crane wife

And now I helped her, and now I dressed her wounds
And now I held her beneath the rising moon
As she stood to fly, as she stood to fly away
As she stood to fly, as she stood to fly away

And all the stars were crashing round
As I laid eyes on what I'd found

My crane wife, my crane wife
My crane wife, my crane wife

******

My crane wife
Arrived at my door in the moonlight
All starbright and tongue-tied
I took her in

We were married
And bells rang sweet for our wedding
And our bedding was ready
We fell in

Sound the keening bell, and see it's painted red
Soft as fontanelle, the feathers in the thread
Well all I ever meant to do was to keep you
My crane wife, my crane wife, my crane wife

We were poorly,
our fortunes fading hourly
And how she loved me
She could bring it back

But I was greedy
I was vain and I forced her to weaving
On a cold loom in a closed room
Down the hall

Sound the keening bell, and see it's painted red
Soft as fontanelle, the feathers in the thread
When all I ever meant to do was to keep you
My crane wife, my crane wife, my crane wife

There's a bend in the wind and it rakes in my heart
There is blood in the thread and it rakes in my heart
Rakes in my heart, heart, heart, heart

Heart, heart, heart, heart
Heart, heart, heart, heart

My crane wife

10. Sons And Daughters (5:11, played 44 times)
When we arrive, sons and daughters
We'll make our homes on the water
We'll build our walls, aluminum
We'll fill our mouths with cinnamon

These currents pull us across the border
Steady your boats, arms to shoulder
Till tides won't pull our hull aground
Making this cold harbor now home

Take up your arms, sons and daughters
We will arise from the bunkers
By land, by sea, by dirigible
We'll leave our tracks untraceable

When we arrive, sons and daughters
We'll make our homes on the water
We'll build our walls, aluminum
We'll fill our mouths with cinnamon

When we arrive, sons and daughters
We'll make our homes on the water
We'll build our walls, aluminum
We'll fill our mouths with cinnamon

When we arrive, sons and daughters
We'll make our homes on the water
We'll build our walls, aluminum
We'll fill our mouths with cinnamon

When we arrive, sons and daughters
We'll make our homes on the water
We'll build our walls, aluminum
We'll fill our mouths with cinnamon

Hear all the bombs fade away
Hear all the bombs fade away
Hear all the bombs fade away...

I can tell that autumn is officially here because Kris and I just made our first Fancy Meal of the season. It was a quickie, and only for ourselves, but it was very, very tasty. We had:

• Caprial's port- and soy-glazed beef tenderloin, using meat from the side of beef we bought last winter
• Fresh corn from the garden
• Fresh apples from the "orchard"
• A salad containing cheese from the farmer's market and various veggies from our garden
• Some bad wine

From April to September, our meals are rather simple. But October arrives and suddenly we're ready for complex flavors and gourmet cooking. That's how I can tell that autumn is here.

Enough of that.

Today we have Crocodile Hunter jokes collected from around the internet. (Inspired by this AskMetafilter thread.) They're all variations on a theme. If you think you might be offended by these, you should go look at kittens.

In a recent interview Steve Irwin was asked what his favorite TV program was. "Thunderbirds", he replied, "But Stingray will always have a special place in my heart."

Guess who's singing at Steve Irwin's funeral? Sting.

Steve Irwin's Australia Zoo is now serving stingray. It's Expensive, but Steve reckons "It's to die for!"

Q: How many croc hunters does it take to capture a sting-ray?
A: Apparently more than one.

What were Steve Irwin's favorite sunglasses? Ray Bans.

Did you hear that steve irwin died like he lived? With animals in his heart.

After Steve Irwin's death we discovered Terri Irwin is pregnant. If it's a boy, she'll name him Ray — if it's a girl, she'll name her Barb!

How many respected biologists have been killed by stingrays? None.

Did you hear about Steve Irwin's tombstone? It reads 'Ray Sting Peace'.

What's the difference between the Croc Hunter and Princess Di?
He brought his own camera crew.

And for the grand finale: Norm McDonald on The Daily Show.

Who knew Norm was so funny?

Okay, we can go back to being respectful now...

In Salem, Kris and I were fond of Tong King Garden, a little hole-in-the-wall with spotty service, cheap prices, and good food. Compared to other Chinese places, it was delicious. (It probably helped that it was the first Chinese restaurant I ever tried.)

Here in Oak Grove, I'm a fan of Imperial Garden, which sits on the Superhighway, next to G.I. Joes. Imperial Garden has the best service I have ever encountered in any restaurant. Their lunch specials are awesome: $4.50 gets you tea, hot-and-sour soup, steamed rice, two pork wontons, a spring roll, and an entree of your choice. The food is good — it's the only other good Chinese restaurant I know besides Tong King Garden.

Except for Sungari, that is.

Sungari is in a class of its own. Using a bell-curve scale, if Canby's Gold Dragon is a 2, most Chinese places rate a 4, and the two places I mentioned above rate a 7, then Sungari rates a solid 9. Maybe higher.

What makes Sungari worth raving about? The food is just so damn good. Dave introduced me to the place (as he's done with so many other good restaurants — Nicholas Lebanese springs immediately to mind) a couple years ago. I was only mildly impressed. I was in a foul mood, and wasn't focused on the food.

Last year, Kris and Tiffany and I stopped there before our tour of the Portland Underground. Though we were rushed, our dinners were good. So good, in fact, that Tiffany has been back a couple times since. And when it came time to choose a restaurant for her birthday dinner, she requested Sungari.

Last Sunday we went back — our meal was fantastic.

To start, we shared an appetizer plate of prawns, spring rolls, and five-spice beef. (The latter of which was the only dud of the evening.) For dinner:

• Tiffany ordered the Chicken with Honeyed Almonds
• Kris ordered the Sesame Beef
• I ordered the Salt and Pepper Pork Loin

Really, though, I could have eaten the Sesame Beef all night.

It's also fun that Sungari is located on first, along the MAX line. In fact, the train takes a corner around the restaurant, so that one can watch it pass during the meal. It's entertaining. It's also entertaining to watch the heavy foot traffic nearby.

The real drawback to Sungari is that it's expensive (for Chinse food). Whereas I could feed three people for $16 at Imperial Garden, it costs $72 to do so at Sungari. But what a meal!

The main entries will continue to be posted here, but all other content — including the flotch — is being routed to the new address. Note that the layout there is not final; I'm just using an out-of-the-box template.

After the sun set, the stars came out. Stayton is fairly rural, and so even the dimmest stars are visible. Jeremy, Hank, and I spent a few minutes down by the pasture, listening to the Beavers, picking out constellations from the sky. I used to be good at this, but I'm getting rusty.

"Look at that, Harrison," Jeremy said, sweeping his arm in an arc over our heads. "You see that white, milky glow? That's our galaxy. We're just one planet and one star on the edge of a bunch of other stars."

Harrison is of an age that this can almost impress him. He had lots of questions about galaxies. I remembered that Nick and I found this video last week, and I promised to post it so that Hank could learn more:

Astronomy is fascinating. Nothing makes me feel smaller or more insignificant. And yet nothing makes me feel more awed by the wonders of life.

The conversation began as a discussion of teaching foreign languages in high school. The other barbers, and one of the customers, think it's a shame that foreign languages aren't required anymore. I commented that even when I was in school, they weren't required, and that their presence has faded even more in the last twenty years.

This prompted my barber to mention that all he knows are some phrases in Vietnamese. (Warning: foul language ahead.)

"But my Vietnamese isn't very good," he said. "Once over there I found this gook on the side of the road and I pointed my gun at him" — my barber leveled his clippers at his own reflection in the mirror — "and I told him in Vietnamese to put his hands up. But he didn't understand me. I said it again, and he still didn't understand me, so I started shouting at him in English. I was scared. 'You goddman flathead, if you don't put your fucking hands up, I'm going to kill you.' Well, apparently the gook's English was better than my Vietnamese because he flipped me off and shouted back, 'You fucking pig. I don't do nothing. You fucking Marine.' And I would've shot him, too."

"They hated us over there, and they had every right. We Marines were trained to shoot anything that moved. And we did. We didn't have a choice. I mean I went over there and told myself I wasn't killing nothing, but all it takes is for those first few bullets to come flying at you, and you change your mind real quick. You kill your first man and it makes you sick. You throw up." — here he pretended he was vomiting — "You feel terrible. But then after you kill a few more, you get used to it, you even get to kind of like it. You feel powerful. It's a terrible thing, but it happens. That's war. It's how it works. You kill or be killed."

"The thing is, though, it really fucks you up. When I became a civilian again — this would have been 1970 — I was really messed up. I went to a shrink at the VA and I told him that I was having dreams. I said, 'Doc, I dream that a bunch of gooks are chasing me. They chase me to the edge of a cliff, and I don't want them to kill me, so I jump off and fall to the rocks below. But I don't break up. I bounce. I bounce off the rocks back up to the cliff where the gooks are and I flip them off. And then I jump again, but I bounce right back up. What's wrong, Doc? I have this dream all the time.' The shrink just laughed at me. 'Son, you know what the matter is? You think you're Superman.' And you know what? He was right. I did think I was Superman. I had an attitude. I was always getting in fights. I loved it. I lived to mix it up. A good Friday night ended up with a fight at a bar."

"This one time, when I first set up shop on my own, I pissed some guy off, and he got out of his chair and he was bouncing around with his fists in the air — you know, like in the cartoons — and he said, 'I'm going to kick your ass.' 'We're going to be here a while then,' I said. And that just made him madder. 'I'm going to hit you in the face,' he said. 'You'd better do it,' I told him. 'You look pretty goddamn silly bouncing around like that. You look like a kid.' He never did hit me, which was lucky for him."

"You get some crazy customers sometimes. In barber college, we used to give free cuts to the drunks. I remember one time this drunk came in and I took him in back to give him a shampoo. I'd never given a shampoo before — this was only my second or third haircut — but how hard could it be? I took him in back and lathered him up and began to give him a shampoo but his hair started falling out in clumps. 'Jesus Christ,' I said. 'What's wrong with your hair?' The drunk freaked out. 'What the fuck are you doing?' he said, and he jumped up from the chair — soap still in his hair — and he ran out of the barber college. We had to chase him down and apologize. He came back, but he wouldn't let me touch his hair."

I gave the man a $3 tip on a $12 haircut.