So guess what city Nick and I visited back in ... ahem ... May? Nick had a conference to attend in Leesburg, Virginia, so the two of us made a week of it. The trip was incredibly fun, although the whole experience of driving in the DC area left a great deal to be desired. It was bad, man. Really, really bad. I took the rental car to one of the outreaching metro stops while Nick was attending workshops, and it was pretty much the definition of a nightmare. First of all, it took me an hour just to get to the metro station. Apparently, in this part of the country, twenty miles away = at least an hour's drive. Next, I drove around this massive complex for another hour, going from parking area to parking area, and there was NOT A SINGLE PARKING PLACE TO BE FOUND. On my second run-through, just before giving up, I saw this man walking to his car and stalked him dangerously until he pulled out in his car and I was able to snag his space. Whew. I was very lucky. Everything went swimmingly once I was actually on the metro, but once I returned to the station at the end of the day, the fun continued. Somehow, I managed to exit out the wrong side of the station. I walked around for an hour in the baking sun, trying in vain to find my car, before realizing that there was a whole other set of lots that branched off from the other side of the station. And then....oh yes, it gets better...I sat in traffic for AN HOUR AND FORTY-FIVE MINUTES just to make it those scant twenty miles back to Leesburg. Words cannot express the frustration of this. Just sitting there, bumper to bumper, moving perhaps an inch every few minutes. But there was nothing to do about it, so I just popped in the Creedence and tried to lower my blood pressure stereophonically. How do people do this commute thing every single day? I cannot even imagine the sheer hell this must be.

Fortunately, the next day Nick and I found a metered lot, made a trip by a very cooperative bank, dumped $7.00 worth of quarters into the meter, and had a very pleasant ride into DC. And since there were two of us, on the way home I just pulled out my iPhone and mapped an alternate route for us so that we could avoid the snarl. It was actually quite lovely going the backroads of Virginia. We saw palatial houses, Civil War era homes, and a few huge, lush greens where people in jodhpurs were training horses. Sometimes heading off the main roads is the best possible thing you can do while traveling.

I spent two days on my own--one in DC, one at the Smithsonian Air & Space Museum Annex just outside of Leesburg--and then Nick and I spent a few more days exploring the city together. Here is a not-so-brief sampling of the stuff we saw. I'll try to keep the explanations short so as not to try everyone's patience, since there are a LOT of photos here.

The first place I went to see on my own was the National Gallery of Art. It's an extremely impressive museum, filled with many of the most famous pieces of art in the world. It's also very welcoming to people who wish to come in with paints and a palette and do their own renderings of the art, as the gentleman above is doing. His portrait is quite faithful, although I have to say it looks a tad more like Bob Dylan than the original.

"Sacre bleu! An army marches on its stomach!"

This is the atrium of the beautifully designed Holocaust Museum in DC. There was very little else that was beautiful within, although it was very, very well done. Incredibly informative and presented in such an educational way that you can almost endure the soul-crushing horror of it all. Almost.

Here is the White House! On a rainy day! From a great distance but captured through a rather impressive zoom! Needless to say, we did not see the president, although it did look like there was some kind of press conference taking place right when we arrived. Impressive building.

And speaking of impressive, this is the World War II memorial.

I felt compelled to take this photo since my grandfather on my mom's side fought in Okinawa. It was one of the deadliest battle zones in the war.

The Korean War Memorial. Isn't the design of this gorgeous? I love how it incorporates the greenery to give a sense of the soldiers' environment.

Lincoln!!! Much, much bigger in person. I can see why those people were so impressed with it at the end of Logan's Run.

And this is the famous reflecting pool, undergoing some seriously unattractive renovation. Sigh. No re-enacting the Jenny scene from Forrest Gump for us.

This is in the Air and Space Museum. It's the actual Spirit of St. Louis.

One of Amelia Earhart's jackets! How cool is that?

Here's the exterior of the Air & Space Museum annex, just outside of Leesburg.

The Enola Gay. Like Lincoln's statue, this was much, much larger than I would have imagined.

Here's a German Messerschmitt, which looks as if it's seen a bit of battle.

And this is the type of plane flown by the kamikaze pilots.

There was a whole wall of engines in this museum, and some of them were downright gorgeous. This one looks kind of organic, like a deep sea creature or something.

This was the model alien craft used in the filming of Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

And here you will notice that the creators of the model embellished the surface with some recognizable characters (since they were too small to show up in the finished film). See R2-D2 right in the center there?

Ford's Theater. See the old-fashioned lampposts still in use?

Here's our lovely hotel in Leesburg. Would you ever guess it was a Holiday Inn? By the way, the hotel restaurant served primarily Indian food, and the rogan josh was so unbelievably delicious it nearly made me cry. For reals. Probably the best Indian food I've ever had.

Oh! And last, but not least, here's the famous Dulles airport, where large parts of the immortal Die Hard 2 were filmed. Yippee kai-yay....uh....melon farmer?

So this past week I was at Martha's Vineyard, attending the Viable Paradise Writer's Workshop! For those unfamiliar with VP, it's basically a boot camp for writers of science fiction and fantasy, and it's taught by some of the big names in the industry. (John Scalzi, Elizabeth Bear, Steven Gould, Laura Mixon, Debra Doyle, and James Macdonald, as well as Tor editors Teresa and Patrick Nielsen Hayden.) It's a veritable geekfest! There are lectures about writing as both a business and an art. There are one-on-one critiques with the instructors, wherein the student is given detailed feedback on his or her submission piece. There are impossible-seeming writing assignments that need to be completed by Thursday. It's exhausting, yes, but it's also incredibly confidence-inspiring. Once you get to Thursday afternoon and you actually have a finished story after having stayed up all night writing and rewriting it, well . . . there's just nothing like that feeling. Plus, VP only accepts about 24 students at a time, so the whole experience is really intimate and mentor-ly.

Highlights:

1. Thursday night some of us went out night swimming (well, night wading, in my case, since I didn't bring a swimsuit). There was no moon, and it was very, very dark. The Milky Way formed a huge stripe down the center of the sky. It was incredible.
2. Some of the best curry I've ever had (thanks Mac!).
3. Drinking beer and reading aloud from Twelfth Night.
4. Endless games of Thing and Mafia.
5. Bioluminescent jellyfish. Gorgeous and utterly unphotographable.

So yeah, here are some photos from my fantastic week. Enjoy!

Jeepers Creepers, where'd you get those eyes?

A gorgeous park near the Island Inn.

This sign seemed appropriate somehow. Seen in the reflection is Micah.

Ferries, ferries everywhere.

The awesome Elizabeth Bear holding court after an afternoon lecture. Also pictured: Michelle Mcguinness, Sean Patrick Kelly, Jake Kerr.

Here's a photo of the whole VP group. Look for me about halfway up, leaning against the wall.

Waiting for a lecture to begin. From left to right: Mary, San, Fade Manley, Sylvia Volk, Spencer Ellingsworth, Peter Sursi.

More waiting around before the lecture. From left to right: John Scalzi, Mary, Jessica, Sylvia, Cheryl, Spencer, Peter. Steven Gould is in the background.

Downtown Oak Bluffs.

A line of creepy Prisoner-inspired houses in Oak Bluffs.

John Scalzi being . . . well, Scalzi.

Nicole Duson playing camera tag with me. I believe she won.

San trying to keep out of the frame and failing. Muahaha!

And finally, here's a shot of Zooey after I got home. She was so excited she swiped my name tag and wore it around for the rest of the weekend. Aww....

I know, I know. More travel. Nick and I headed out to L.A. last week to visit our friends Ron and Brandi, and to get a general feel for the city at large. And wow, is it large. Flying in at night, all we could see was a massive tapestry of lights extending to infinity in every direction. It's the size of a small country, I swear. Anyway, aside from wishing that I was Superman so that I could just fly to my destination instead of having to deal with the airports and the TSA and all that, I really have no complaints about the trip. It was relaxing and the weather was heartbreakingly mild. Here are some photos from our time there.

This is Ron and Brandi's daughter Maddi, being adorable and spazzy on the beach.

Check this out. Remember the movie Mars Attacks!? There was a part where Lukas Haas was working in a donut shop, watching on the television as the aliens stepped out of their spacecraft and drew a slow, dramatic circle in the air. "Wow," he said, "he made the international sign of the donut." This was the actual building from the movie. Oh yeah, and they have really good long johns.

Here are the famous La Brea Tar Pits. They are still bubbling and, oddly enough, smell strongly of tar.

This was a little grotto we found at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery.

And these were some lovely monuments in the same grotto.

As you can see, this cemetery actually backs up against the Paramount Pictures backlot. You can see spotlights and other equipment jutting up from behind the wall.

Yes, this vault houses the last remains of the beautiful and notorious Rudolph Valentino, from such films as The Son of the Sheik (1926) and The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (1921). Incidentally, Valentino died in the hospital of blood poisoning, because the doctors were so afraid they would make a mistake on him that they delayed treatment until it was too late. Way to be professional, guys.

As I understand it, this is only a monument to Johnny Ramone, not his actual grave. Still, I think it's pretty cool.

Last up. You can barely see it, but the Hollywood sign is also visible from the cemetery. It's far away and shrouded in a heavy haze, but it's there. Trust me.

So that's it. We came, we saw, we took cheesy tourist photographs. L.A., baby!

Last week I took a trip to Philly to see my friends Thomas and Colleen, and to check out their adorable little bundle of baby-ness, Christopher. Here are some pictures of the visit. Enjoy!

A few buildings in downtown Philly.

And here is the amazing Mutter Museum, which houses such medical novelties as a life cast of Chang and Eng (the original Siamese twins), the secret tumor of Grover Cleveland, and a gigantor colon that resembles Jabba the Hutt's tail. I'm not even kidding.

Here are a few shots from the famous South Street in Philly.

Thanks to Thomas, Colleen, and Christopher for a wonderful trip! Love you guys.

Nick and I just got back from our Colorado trip, so here are some vacation shots for anyone interested. Enjoy.

This shot was taken in west Boulder.

Our first full day, we had a lovely picnic at Boulder Canyon. The creek water is extremely cold. You could go from 0 to hypothermic in a matter of minutes.

Shuttles, Spindles & Skeins. Definitely in the top ten of Things That Make Nick Happy.

Yep, this is definitely Boulder.

These guys were right near the road at the top of Trail Ridge Road. They're just hanging out.

Driving through clouds.

Rocky Mountain National Park. Here are some fishermen (and woman) taking advantage of the cold, fish-filled waters within the alluvial fan.

Nick at the alluvial fan.

Also at the alluvial fan. This tree just seemed sort of beautiful to me, although it's clearly had a rough year.

Gratuitous mountain shot #1. I love the shadows.

Gratuitous mountain shot #2.

This was taken just outside the Alpine Visitors Center. If you ask me, that deer was totally taunting us.

Also taken from the top of Trail Ridge Road.

Donut Haus! This Estes Park bakery was a childhood favorite of mine. Yummy maple donuts.

The Stanley Hotel, for all you King/Kubrick fans. I won't lie to you—I got a little creeped out just being on the premises.

This is the REI flagship store in downtown Denver. These guys are your all-purpose recreational outfitters, selling everything from everyday sports equipment to the kind of stuff you'd need if you were climbing Everest. The store is set up inside the converted Denver Tramway building, which dates back to 1901. In the event of a zombie apocalypse, we're making a beeline for this store.

Downtown Denver. Obviously. By the way, the best quote from our trip was heard on a street downtown. The speaker was a shoeshine guy who had his wares set out on the corner. "If you're wearin' flip-flops," he said, "you're a shoeshine hater."

Last week Nick and I went to my friend Erin's wedding in Atlanta. It was beautiful and perfect, but what I really want to talk about is the Kansas City airport, because that's where we spent a great deal of our time during the trip. You see, we had originally planned to fly out Thursday at about 4 o'clock, but that morning we got an automated message from Delta telling us that our flight had been cancelled. "We have protected you," the voice said, "on Flight Blah Blah Blah departing Friday at 7:10. Sorry for the inconvenience." First of all, I love that they used the term "protected," like we were surrounded by wild dingoes and then Delta the Barbarian came charging in with his gleaming deltoids and Austrian accent, wrapped us in a non-flammable blanket, and carried us to safety. Yeah, thanks for protecting us on a flight that leaves at 7 o'clock in the freakin' morning. We really appreciate that.

So we went to bed at about 9, although I wasn't able to sleep until well after 1 o'clock (thanks to the utter inflexibility of my circadian rhythms). We got up at 4, packed up our stuff, and drove blearily to the airport. On the way, we saw a billboard reading, "Weed: The more you smoke, the less you care," which struck us as funny because, if a person is looking for something to distract him/her from a difficult life, that slogan is the perfect advertisement for lighting up a big fat spliff. We would invoke this notion several hours later while we were watching the sun make its long, slow ascent over Terminal C, feeling like Charlton Heston stranded on a primitive alien planet where no branch of the NRA has yet been established. Once we arrived at the Delta gate, you see, we discovered that our second flight had been cancelled as well.

Kierkegaard, in his "The Sickness Unto Death," describes the principle of existentialist despair. Such despair occurs when a person, due to the uncertainty and absurdity of the world around her, experiences the loss of self, and this is exactly what happens when you sit in an airport for seven hours with only a Sudoku booklet to entertain you. Things get all strung out and abstract. You hear ethereal voices in the air, telling you not to accept packages from unknown persons. Everything outside the airport loses its concreteness and becomes purely hypothetical, a poor man's Schrodinger's cat scenario. Is the cat still alive, you ask yourself, noshing on Meow Mix and coughing up hairballs? Or is it dead? Perhaps the cat never existed in the first place. Perhaps the cat is only an idea projected onto the world by our human brains to fill a void in the universe, a desperate yearning for the notion of cat-ness. The nonbeliever might be called a cat-theist, while the faithful flock aspires to the feral grace of their feline benefactors.

As you can see, it's not a good idea to put me in a situation with drastically reduced stimuli. The imagination runs rampant, drowning out every reasonable impulse. If I were stranded on an island, it wouldn't take me 20 years to reach Ben Gunn's wild-eyed state of exaggerated eccentricity. I'd get there within a day.

At any rate, we were told that we could get on a flight that departed shortly before 1 pm, so we camped out a sheltered corner of the airport...and waited. This is what we saw:

School Girl. School Girl gets the top of the list because she was by far the most memorable person in the airport. She was forty-ish, very tall, and dressed from head to toe in a classic school girl outfit. Pigtails, demure white shirt, white knee socks, and a very short plaid skirt. Sounds good, right? The thing is, she walked in a distinctly unfeminine way, with her shoulders hunched, and practically stomped through the baggage-check line. From a distance I felt sure she was a man, but when she approached I realized she wasn't. Who was this oddly built woman, I wondered, whose proportions gave her the appearance of a redneck anime superhero? What sort of person dresses like this in public? Where was she flying to? What sort of life did she lead? Speculations about this woman's mysterious life staved off boredom for a good long while, and for that, I thank her. Go go School Girl!

Montana girl with Zeppelin Dog. Nothing was particularly strange about Montana girl or her dog but, watching the airport guys prepare the dog's plastic crate for the flight, I started thinking about what the dog had in store for him. What would it be like for a dog to fly for the first time...the revving of the engines...the sensation of changing pressure...what would it be thinking? "What in blazes is that noise," it would ask itself, as it sat among the luggage and wondered where its humans had gone. "It sounds like a really loud air conditioner. Perhaps we're going to war, and I've been drafted." As for the zeppelin part...well, I called it Zeppelin Dog because I had this idea about how awesome it would be if the airplanes could tow all the traveling animals in a zeppelin behind it. That way they would have, like, their own aircraft, as well as a completely separate flying experience, untainted by those pesky humans. As you may recall, I was operating on very little sleep at the time.

Crazy mafia wife with her daughter. Clothing by Spiegel. Attitude by Zsa Zsa. Crack cocaine courtesy of Whitney. This platinum-haired diva was dragging her poor daughter around by a pink sleeve, looking about as focused as the Hubbell telescope before it got its prescription upgraded. (Now Mr. Telescope, is it better this way, or this way? Number 1 or number 2?) But to be fair, she was weighed down with so much gold jewelry that it was probably having an impact on her circulation, which in turn prevented adequate oxygen from reaching her brain. The poor dear. At any rate, I like to think she and her daughter made it safely to their destination, courtesy of the Witness Protection Program.

Angry businessman. Self-explanatory. One of the most common species seen in the wild at the airport. This particular gentleman barked into a microscopic phone for well over an hour, first to the Delta people and then to his business compadres, keeping up an incessant stream of chatter about how The Seminar just couldn't go on without him. This guy was noteworthy because it was obvious he was performing for the benefit of everyone around. You've seen this type, right? The type with so little sense of self (hello, existential despair!) that they feel the need to impress everyone within earshot at every moment? Trust me, Angry Businessman, we don't give a crap about your company's vision goals or your new company car. It's not that we hate you. In fact, we wish you well. Your luxury suite at the Radisson? Yeah, we hope it's full of hookers and booze. Just please give the phone theatrics a rest.

There was also:

The laid-back army guys. These guys missed the same flight we did, so we ended up sitting by them for the better part of the morning. They were funny and nice, but they were wearing those fatigues that look like really comfortable pajamas so I kept getting sleepy.

H.P. Lovecraft child. Little boy wearing yellow pants and a paper crown. Get it? Yellow pants. Cause he was like the king. In yellow. But probably not as evil.

Lolita & Humbert Humbert. A be-ribboned high school girl on the arm of middle-aged man. We knew Lolita went to high school because of the letter jacket. At first we thought the man was her father, but then things got creepy and we weren't so sure. Unfortunately, they left before we could more thoroughly assess the situation. As a side note: They were both native Kansas Citians, so unlike the characters in the book, this couple didn't work as a metaphor for Europe as a declining, sophisticated figure in love with a seductive, adolescent America. Just thought you should know.

Over-earnest Starbucks employee. Very nice guy behind the counter who sincerely wished me well after handing me a cinnamon roll. This one was rough on me. See, I feel guilty enough about being at a Starbucks in the first place (I was in dire need of a cinnamon roll and the Cinnabon store was in another terminal) without this guy's niceness complicating things. All I want is to believe that Starbucks and anyone associated with it is evil. Is this too much to ask? But then here comes this friendly guy making me realize that while Starbucks may in fact be a soulless entity (and, along with Wal-Mart, a viable contender for corporate antichrist), its employees are human. Why, Starbucks employee...why? It's not fair to change my worldview this early in the morning.

Let's see. What else? Well I could mention that during our extended stay, we made friends with one of the Delta employees. Stockholm Syndrome, I suppose. And did you know that you're not allowed to bring chainsaws on board an airplane? I mean, seriously. What is Leatherface supposed to do when he travels?

That's about it, really. Once we got to Atlanta things went smoothly (mostly), and on Sunday we hopped a flight back without incident. Our airport vigil is now just an amusing blur. But what you really want to know, I'm sure, is what did Nick get me for my birthday when we got back? Well I'll tell you. It was an iPod, a Che Guevara doll, and three rolls of Bubble Tape. Score!

They Did, They Did

The last weekend of October, I flew to Philadelphia for a close friend's wedding. Everything went well until Hester Prynne announced that she was pregnant with Reverend Dimmesdale's baby. Oh man, was that awkward. Seriously, though, the ceremony itself went smoothly and the bride was beautiful. There was an open bar at the reception, and the flower girls performed some traditional Irish dances. Oh, and there was a swan sculpted from potato salad, which I thought was neat. All in all a lovely event.

Maybe you'd like to know what kind of bra I wore with my dress? Well you see, the bridesmaid dresses were sleek and fitted (with spaghetti straps and a fairly low back), so it was a bit of a challenge to find something that provided support without being too obvious. (In my opinion, if your bra is showing at all, you might as well be wearing it over your clothing like that woman from Splash.) Originally, I was planning to wear one of those Nu-bra things with the self-adhesive cups, but I didn't like the way it looked under the dress. And besides, I was worried it would come unstuck during a critical part of the ceremony and slingshot across the room, perhaps landing on a statue of the Blessed Mother. That would have been bad. In the end, I opted for the standard strapless bra and left it at that.

I'm sure you were all dying to know this information. And that's what I'm here for ... to provide you with the details you care about.

On the morning of the wedding, my friends and I ate at a diner for a bit of local flavor. This is where we discovered a lovely little dish called scrapple. Scrapple is a regional specialty, and it is most often eaten as a breakfast side dish, in lieu of bacon or sausage. It's a salty blend of ground pork and cornmeal that is sliced and then fried, and it looks sort of like a loaf of banana bread. I thought about trying it but didn't. After we left, one of my friends did a little research into the composition of scrapple and discovered that "pork" in this case actually indicates a whole lot more than just your most oft-eaten pig parts. According to Wikipedia, scrapple includes "everything but the squeal." Yes, we're talking skin, tongue, heart, and brains. Classic. My instinct served me well in that instance. (It's been known to let me down in the past, as evidenced by the time I tried a beautiful brown pinwheel thing from a buffet in Israel. What I felt sure was chocolate turned out to be whipped liver paste.)

Sunday, a bunch of us took the train into central Philly. Up until that point we had spent our entire trip in the suburbs and we were aching to see something besides the standard sprawl of Bed, Bath & Beyond stores. The problem was, we only had about 40 minutes, so once we disembarked we decided we had time to visit a single historical site. The Liberty Bell was the lucky winner, by virtue of being the closest. Once we got there, of course, we still had to go through security, and by that point we were already past the 20-minute mark. Our time was pitifully short. Here's how the conversation with myself went.

"Wow, I'm actually standing in front of the Liberty Bell."

(we're going to miss the train)

"This was the actual bell that was rung on the first public reading of the Declaration of Independence."

(screw the founding fathers, we're going to miss the train)

"It's interesting when you think about how some of our historical landmarks came to be of such cultural importance. I mean, the Liberty Bell didn't really gain epic significance until the abolitionists appropriated it as a symbol for their cause. It's almost as if legend and symbolism have more impact on our perceived national identity than the literal historical truth."

(ARE YOU FOR REAL? JUST SHUT THE HELL UP AND GET MOVING BECAUSE WE'RE GOING TO MISS THE TRAIN!)

We did not miss the train, nor did we miss the plane, although the latter was a very close call. Still, I'm glad we did it. It would have been a shame if my mental image of Philly looked just like my mental image of Olathe, Kansas.

Halloween

By the time I got back from the wedding on Sunday night, I didn't have much time to devote to pulling together a costume. What I ended up doing was converting a plain ringer t-shirt into a "Camp Crystal Lake" shirt. I drew some happy little trees on it, and the lettering looked ... well ... campy. Then I took a red sharpie and made a large blood stain on the left side. It looked pretty cool, if I do say so myself. I wore barrettes in my hair, just like one of the campers in the original. To be entirely in character, of course, I would have had to run around in my underwear, screaming. But the evening was a little too chilly for partial nudity, and our neighbors would probably have objected to an entire evening of blood-curdling shrieks.

Reading Comprehension

I made an apple coffee cake a few nights ago. It turned out reasonably well, although I seriously botched my first attempt at preparing the crumbly topping. The recipe read "fold in 2 Tbl firm stick butter into dry ingredients," but for some reason, I read it as "fold in 2 firm sticks of butter." As you can imagine, the result was disastrous. I spent a very long time straining with the wire whisk, grinding the materials into a hideous gray-brown mush, before concluding that the contents of the bowl were never going to be crumbly. The laws of physics simply wouldn't permit it. Once I re-read the recipe and reduced the volume of butter by about a thousand percent, however, the topping turned out quite nicely. Note to self: recipes require at least a modicum of attentiveness. Which reminds me. Thanksgiving is coming up, and I'm debating about whether to make another turkey. Some of you may recall my exhilarating experience from last year, in which I tried to remove the wire kegelmaster thing too early and nearly succeeded in flinging the poor bird across the room. Good times, good times.

Well, that's about it.

What's going on with you?

Will somebody please finance a trip for me to Antarctica? I've been wanting to go there for years, but my interest has recently been rekindled after reading "At the Mountains of Madness," a campy yet engrossing H.P. Lovecraft story set at the astral pole. Basically, some scientists conducting research in Antarctica run across relics of an ancient civilization. Some of them get munched on by primordial baddies, and one of them is driven out of his mind by the horror of it all. The horror! It's awesome. And it makes me want to visit Antarctica more than ever.

From the time I was a child, I have loved reading stories of Admiral Byrd, of Roald Amundsen and Robert Falcon Scott—stories that evoke the mystery and heroism of exploration (when people still had curiosity enough to explore). Some of these adventurers succeeded, and others fell prey to the alien and unpredictable terrain. In truth, one element of these tales that fascinates me is the idea of living on the very periphery of what is known, of surviving in a place of such extremes that a single degree Celsius can mark the difference between life and death. Even more compelling to me is the fact that so much of Antarctica is uncharted and unknown to human eyes. It's a place where you could forget you live in a "civilized" society, where you could imagine millenia passing in weird, cold silence. Where you could maybe get ambushed by horrific slime creatures in the night. (Wait, that was the Lovecraft story again.)

I hope you're all giving my sponsorship some serious thought.

Sure, I have kind of a problem with the cold. When the mercury drops below thirty degrees, I start crying tiny ice cubes like that penguin in the Bugs Bunny cartoons. But I'm willing to endure a little personal discomfort for a greater purpose. Besides, I know they have quite a development down there at McMurdo. They have a water purification plant, a waste disposal system, telephone lines—all the amenities of a thriving community. I don't think they have a movie theater yet, but if they did, I'd totally peddle popcorn for a chance to hang out with the seals. Maybe some scientific agency needs a good technical writer who's willing to relocate. Those scientists certainly know their material. But their writing? Not so hot. Or here's another thought. Maybe Rolling Stone would pay my way to do some gonzo journalism. Oh, that's right. Rolling Stone doesn't have articles anymore, only pictures of attractive pop stars and couture ads that ironically feature mostly naked people.

The price for a weeklong cruise to Antarctica is about 4 grand. And that's the cheap package, the one where they give you a raft, a paddle, and an insulated parka. The ones that involve an actual boat are so far out of my price range it's not even funny. So if anyone would like to foot the bill for such a trip, I'd be forever in your debt. Literally. Until then, I'll be here. Waiting patiently. Checking the live webcam on an hourly basis.

My recent flight to Atlanta was an uneventful one. However, when I reached my destination, threw off my pants, and exhaustedly opened my suitcase to retrieve my jammies, there was a small innocuous-looking piece of paper on top. It was a note from the Transportation Security Administration telling me they'd just been looking through all my personal belongings. And laughing. "Man, I didn't know anyone used conditioner anymore," they were saying. "And what is up with that sweater? Could she be any more of a fashion victim?" I've never gotten one of these notices before, so I read it thoroughly and tried to figure out what they had moved around. (Honestly, they did a good job of replacing things as they had been.)

I don't really have a problem with this procedure, even though it's kind of an annoyance. After all, I've been to the airport at Tel Aviv (which I've heard has the tightest security in the world), and believe me, they search everything. They go through your stuff slowly and deliberately, asking you about the intended use of all sorts everyday items. They take out your toothpaste and manipulate the tube to see if you've hidden anything inside. They ask if there's anything in the bag you don't recognize. Leaving the airport in Tel Aviv, you feel pretty sure that nothing bad could get through. Ever. (By the way, don't even think of smuggling oranges from Jaffa.) I don't so much get that warm, confident feeling at American airports, though. Mostly, it seems that the screeners are focusing on the wrong sorts of things, inconveniencing ordinary people without providing any real payoff in terms of security. But whatever. I'm glad they do it, I guess.

Below, I have written out the text (and subtext) of this friendly message from the TSA, who are making us all safer, one diaper bag at a time.

NOTICE OF BAGGAGE INSPECTION

"To protect you and your fellow passengers, the Transportation Security Administration (TSA) is required by law to inspect all checked baggage. [Where 'inspect' is defined as funneling the bag through an x-ray machine while flipping through an old copy of Maxim.] As part of this process, some bags are opened and physically inspected. [As opposed to that mental inspection process, which is much trickier and more time consuming.] Your bag was among those selected for physical inspection. [Maybe next time you won't plaster a huge skull-and-crossbones patch onto your luggage. Idiot.]

"During the inspection, your bag and its contents may have been searched for prohibited items. [Like flame throwers, machetes, cocaine, Twinkies, carburetors, books by Noam Chomsky, and anything Art Deco.] At the completion of the inspection, the contents were returned to your bag. [Your electric ear cleaner was placed neatly inside your shoe, just the way we found it.]

"If the TSA screener was unable to open your bag for inspection because it was locked, the screener may have been forced to break the locks on your bag. [This caused us a great deal of mental anguish at first, but then we summoned the cold-blooded apathy that served us so well in our previous career as bank robber. After a while, we began to enjoy breaking the locks. Sounds sick, doesn't it? Our therapists certainly think so. But we believe sometimes people who hold certain jobs have to have a little moral flexibility in order to be good at what they do. If our perverse pleasure in looking at your belongings results in greater safety for all the passengers on an aircraft, then it's worth it, don't you think? Well, don't you?] TSA sincerely regrets having to do this [that is, we regret that we weren't able to break your locks more than once], however TSA is not liable for damage to your locks resulting from this necessary security precaution. [Just like we're not liable for fashioning a big happy face out of shaving cream on your best trousers. Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!]

"We appreciate your understanding and cooperation. If you have questions, comments, or concerns, please feel free to contact the TSA Contact Center. [At which point we will laugh until we choke, and then promptly enter you into the database of terrorists. You will never fly again. Buh-bye now.]

One afternoon, Erin and I hiked around Fort Mountain park. The mountains are certainly different from the ones I'm accustomed to (think Rockies), but they're pretty beautiful just the same. Halfway up the mountain, we saw something burning in the distance and snapped this picture. Someone must have been trying to boil water.

I spent a good five minutes trying to capture this bird in flight (and not fall off the edge of the mountain). This is the only one where it's actually in the frame and not hidden behind a tree branch or something.

This struck me as exceptionally funny. If someone were to "enter" the designated area, he or she would just be stepping off into empty space like Wile E. Coyote in the cartoons. I doubt many people would have done this, even without the sign to warn them.

We saw this old lookout tower along the trail, after climbing about ten thousand stone steps. I wanted to climb up through the high window on the other side (which was roped off), but Erin advised me not to. She said it was probably full of dead rats.

This kitsch-peddling store is in a funky section of Atlanta known as Little Five Points. The area features all sorts of unusual shops: tattoo parlors, vintage retailers, feminist bookstores, etc. Great fun.

This restaurant is called "The Vortex." The mouth of the skull is the doorway, but I couldn't get it in the frame without standing in the street. I love you all, but you're not worth losing my legs over. By the way, the Vortex sells absolutely transcendent hamburgers (so I've been told).

As Nick pointed out, I've been missing for the past five days. I flew to Atlanta last Thursday for my friend Erin's birthday and didn't get back until Monday. Erin and Wende live in a small town called Tallapoosa (formerly known as Possum Snout), which is about an hour out of Atlanta. During my visit, we saw the sights, hiked a bit, attended an opera (La Boheme), and had a lot of organic food. For your edification and enjoyment, here are some pictures of the trip.

This retired military helicopter was in a small park just outside Tallapoosa. Notice that the huey is attacking Erin. Run, Erin, run!

Erin stages a protest in front of the immobile tank. Power to the people!

Many years ago, there was quite a large Hungarian population in this part of Georgia. Here is a neat-looking cemetery hidden just off the main road.

This is one of the graves in the Budapest cemetery. Notice that the mound has been deliberately covered by natural materials—tree bark, stones, etc. I'd never seen anything quite like it.

We also visited the Carter Center in Atlanta. Apparently, it was the first presidential library to feature interactive exhibits, such as short video clips you can access that discuss portions of Jimmy Carter's presidency, like the gasoline shortage, the meeting between Sadat and Begin, and the hostage crisis. It was really cool. One of the more peculiar exhibits was a peanut ring made from gold that was given to Carter by a foreign dignitary. That's pretty weird, even for the Seventies.

This is one of the interactive exhibits designed for kids. Look familiar? Erin and I were so excited about this one that we watched it twice. "I'm just a bill..."

Stay tuned for more pictures from my travels with Charley! (In honor of Steinbeck, I have named my camera Charley.)

Karen has been missing all weekend. She charged me with posting something to her blog this morning since she couldn't. I pondered all of the obnoxious things that I could do. Maybe I could post some of her writings from when she was seven or baby pictures.

Unfortunately I don't have any of her baby pictures. I do, however have left over wedding pictures. And it is, after all, Valentine's day.

And no, I have no idea how she got the Mardi Gras beads on our Wedding day, it is sort of a sore spot.

(Witnessed while strolling the extremely sanitary sidewalks of Columbia, Missouri. Could also be Ted Nugent. The Nuge.)

Okay, America, I'm begging you. Please vote for Kerry this Tuesday. We can't afford another four years under Bush. All that has been accomplished with Bush's preemptive war is that the terrorists have been energized to greater hatred and violence than before. We've lost over a thousand soldiers, and we're less safe now than we were four years ago.

Bush sees things in cartoon terms, which is why he had no problem taking unsubstantiated claims of weapons possession and using them to justify invading Iraq, even though no links had been established between the attacks of 9/11 and Saddam Hussein's government (and still haven't). Kerry, on the other hand, sees the world as a complex place. He understands that you'd better have a damn good reason to go into another country with your guns-a-blazing. You'd better have a damn good reason for sending your sons and daughters into harm's way.

No matter your party affiliation, please please please vote for Kerry this Tuesday. People's lives are at stake. If you're a Republican, and you want to vote for a true conservative, Bush is not your guy. Your guy isn't running this time. Just think of your country—of the safety of the troops and your fellow citizens—and check the Kerry box on your ballot. Then you can go right back to voting Republican and no one need be the wiser for it. I won't tell anyone.

(Extra motivation: if Kerry wins, I'll continue to fill your lives with fanciful anecdotes and observations about our crazy planet. If Bush wins, I'll probably be lost in an existential fugue for months, during which I won't be able to write anything but maudlin prose and dirges. Keep this in mind when making your decision.)

Four-way stops.

This morning as I was crossing town, I happened to stop at a four-way stop. A pick-up was on my right, and he had reached the intersection first (by several seconds), so I sat back and waited for him to go. Then I waited some more, but he just sat there. Finally, he made one of those exaggerated "well, go ahead" arm gestures, followed by a rather obscene one. I drove through, made some gestures of my own, and considered following the guy to his destination so I could politely explain to him about the rules of the road. Okay, so first thing. What's the rule when you are at a four-way stop? The person who reaches the intersection first goes through before everyone else. Second, if there is a stalemate, the driver on the right has the right of way. So there are two reasons, right there, why he should have driven through ahead of me. Karen: 2; Idiot: 0.

2. Blinking red and yellow stoplights.

After 10 p.m., certain stoplights in town go to blinking red or yellow. It's always blinking red in one direction and yellow in the other, so that those who reach a red light will stop and proceed with caution. Those who have the yellow light can drive on through. How complicated is this, really? Yet nearly every time I come home from the gym after 10 p.m., I'm at an intersection with a guy who thinks he has to stop at the blinking yellow light. He'll just sit there—oblivious to the fact that I have a red light—and will give me the same "go ahead" gesture as Mr. Pick-up. I'll sigh and drive on through. I point fervently at the yellow light as I do so, but I know it's a lost cause because the guy is on a cell phone and isn't paying attention anyway.

3. Roundabouts.

A bunch of these have been built onto Lawrence side streets within the past year. Not only have they succeeded in slowing traffic along these thoroughfares (as was the intent), they have nearly brought it to a standstill. This is because people are utterly baffled by them. The Mr. Pick-ups of the town pull up to the circle and just freeze up. It's like those guys who go hunting for the first time, and when they're faced with the bear they just stand there, so scared they can't move. Should I enter the circle? Should I wait until this car has passed? Should I just pull out right now and broadside him? I think I'll do that. Screeeeeeccch...CRASH!!!! Gee, my car has been compressed to the size of a tuna can. Wonder what I did wrong? I'm sure those obtuse city engineers in their ivory towers are at fault for putting this roundabout here in the first place.

4. Police cars at an intersection.

Please, people. If there is an accident and a policeman or woman is standing outside the car, motioning you through an intersection, it is not necessary to wait until the light has turned green or you have fully stopped at the stop sign before proceeding. The fact that the policeman is guiding traffic manually supercedes the ordinary rules of the road (which most of you slobs are barely able to observe in the first place). The policeman is there, waving you through the intersection. He wants you to go through. It will make his job much easier if you go through. But instead, you just sit there and wait for the light to change because your name is Mr. Pick-up and you're an idiot.

Don't even get me started on rubbernecking at traffic accidents, or people whose top speed is 10 miles an hour when it's raining.

Incidentally, I took driver's ed with a guy who only had one arm. He used a special knob affixed to the steering wheel, and he still drove WAY better than any of these people.

Okay, I know this is juvenile. But when my friend and I saw this building on a recent trip to Des Moines, we couldn't resist taking a snapshot for posterity. Makes you wonder how the builders ever got this thing finished, what with the metaphysical pontificating and the Taco Bell runs.

Our friends Ron and Brandi were great hosts. They showed us the sights and walked us around downtown Denver. And we spent a lot of time just hanging out with them and their two kids: Mikey, 6, and Maddi, 5 months. This was our first time seeing Maddi, and she was appropriately adorable. She has very blue eyes.

Confession Time: I've always been tentative about holding babies. I suspect that long ago, when the earth was much younger, somebody asked me to hold their colicky baby. I further suspect that the baby instantly began to scream bloody murder upon being placed in my arms, and that I was impressionable enough to take this personally. This would explain why I'm mortified that somehow I will break babies, just by holding them. Sort of like Lennie in Of Mice and Men. ("Tell me about the rabbits, George.") Little Maddi, however, seemed perfectly satisfied with me holding her, and there were no screams or secretions issuing forth, so the event was a brilliant success.

At any rate, Mikey and Maddi are great kids, and it was cool spending time with them. Mikey showed us his killer karate moves and tried to get me to play Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles with him. "I can be Michelangelo and save the world, and you can be the girl and help." That was a pretty sweet deal, I thought, but then it was time for dinner so we had to postpone saving the world.

Mikey also had a new Gameboy Advance, which kindled an envious gleam in Nick's eye, and almost as soon as we got back into town—God help us—we bought a Gameboy apiece.

Every city has its scourge. New York has a problem with pigeons. Kansas has squirrels. And Colorado? Well, Colorado has a plague of prairie dogs. These little guys are truly ubiquitous, and once you know to look for them, their little mounds can be seen mucking up the landscape in every direction. They are disease-ridden munching machines that breed like rabbits and tear up the ground, but they are the cutest infestation you can imagine. Driving by a field, scores of these tawny, weasel-like bodies can be seen peeking up from the ground, scanning their surroundings for . . . well . . . I don't exactly know what for. But they've got these elaborate underground networks, and a sentry system, so that when intruders are nearby, one of the prairie dogs shrieks out a chirpy warning and all the others obediently disappear into the holes. Mikey and I ventured into a field to look at the holes and see how close the prairie dogs would let us get to them. Here's a picture of our own venerable prairie dog sentry, giving off his falsetto alert.

We saw some peculiar things in Denver, like a sign reading "Dumb Friends League." There was a great deal of speculation about this, and a lot of laughter. We were savvy enough to deduce that 'dumb' probably meant 'mute,' rather than 'stupid.' But I was positive the 'friends' part had something to do with Quakers. And then I came up with a great joke, but I didn't say it: "Hey, isn't the School of Mimes nearby? Maybe the Dumb Friends League is one of their competitors." I was pretty proud of myself for this one, but just before I opened my mouth to speak, I realized my joke would require an explanation—first, I'd have to make it clear that I knew the proper name of the school (the School of Mines), and then it occurred to me that the joke was not all that funny to begin with and was hardly worth the effort. Ron did a bit of research after we left, and it turns out the Dumb Friends League is some sort of animal defense thing, which is certainly the most boring of all the possible options. But good for them anyway. I like animals just fine. And I guess they can't really defend their own interests, unless you count claws and fangs, which are used pretty infrequently in a court of law. (I would watch a lot more Court TV if this kind of thing was allowed.)

There's a major artery through Denver with the highly significant moniker of "T-Rex." This thoroughfare is currently undergoing construction, expansion, eradication, and evisceration. There's the equivalent of half a lane of space through which upwards of 50,000 cars are expected to drive each minute. It's absurd. In addition to the congestion, people were driving in such a way that I checked my mirrors to see if there was a tidal wave about to crash down on the road behind us. Maybe there was a giant killer robot, smashing everything in its path, and that's why these motorists were driving erratically and cutting each other off. I didn't expect this kind of behavior in a mountain city. I always figured mountain people were totally laid back and self-actualized and, literally, above the petty concerns of your average neurotic citygoer. These are the people who amended their state constitution to recognize the medical use of marijuana, after all—how could they possibly be so uptight? If anything, they should be driving about ten miles an hour and munching on Funyuns.

And I almost forgot John Elway Ford. John Elway, formerly of the Denver Broncos, owns and operates seven Ford dealerships all over the city. It's not enough that he ruled the football field with an iron fist and won a place in all of our hearts? Now he's got to muscle his way into our wallets as well? Greedy S.O.B.

Summary: Mountains cool. Friends cool (even the 'dumb' ones). Can't wait to go back.

Nick and I drove to Colorado last Thursday. Lawrence is about nine hours away from Denver, and a large portion of the drive is comprised of the brown, flat stretches of Western Kansas. The eastern half of Kansas is actually fairly hilly, but by the time you get to Abilene, it's as if an overindustrious giantess has taken a rolling pin to the countryside. There are a few Points of Interest along I-70, such as the enormous replica of Van Gogh's "Sunflowers" that can be seen from the highway in Goodland. The painting is on a huge easel that is taller than the surrounding buildings, and its presence completely throws off the scale of things, much as if you were to look into an ant farm and see a fingernail-sized Margaret Thatcher. There is also the World's Largest Prairie Dog, which is actually an enormous cement statue in a barn. As if that were not enough, this roadside attraction also boasts a living six-legged steer and a shop selling homemade rattlesnake jewelry.

You don't see the mountains for about an hour past the Colorado border. You always think you're imagining it the first time you glimpse them. There's just a suggestion of something at the horizon—the faintest outline of an inverted cone—but it could easily be a streak of dust on your windshield, or the luminous residue from some unfortunate insect's final trajectory. You tell yourself it can't be the mountains. For someone living in the Flatlands, it's too strange and beautiful to be believed. And then when you are sure, when the outline becomes clearer and those gargantuan piles of jagged rock are looming ahead of you like Greek Titans, you want to wedge your foot down on the accelerator and fling yourself toward them as fast as your little car will take you. But you don't, because the highway patrol cars in Colorado are more plentiful than deer and cattle and tourists and Big Horn sheep combined.

We rolled into town around 6 at night and tracked down our hotel in Aurora. Aurora is a suburb on the east side of Denver, and it's where our friends Ron and Brandi live. Being a mile closer to the sun, Denver is the land of deceptively easy sunburns. See, in Kansas, you don't have to worry about sunscreen unless the air is warm. But in Denver, you can have the peculiar experience of feeling chilly, even as your skin crisps up like yesterday's fried chicken. The sky is also much bluer, because there's less atmospheric gunk between you and the sun and the diffusion of light is different. The clouds look crisp and white, and they remind you of the anthropomorphic clouds you see on ancient maps—the ones that are illustrated with eyes, puffed-out cherubic cheeks, and little swirly lines that indicate the wind issuing from their mouths.

I love the near-total absence of humidity. My hair never felt better.

Nick and I drove up to Estes Park one afternoon, and man does the altitude make a difference. It had been about 15 years since either of us had been to Colorado, and neither of us recalled having been affected physically by the thin air. This inter-geographic resilience must be the special purview of children, because for a grown-up traveling from Kansas to 7,000-plus feet above sea level, things start to get wacky. After walking up and down the main drag, we were exhausted. As much as I exercise, I didn't expect to have issues with fatigue—nevertheless, there we were eating overpriced pizza and feeling as stiff as if we'd just spent the night out on the Arctic tundra. We drank a good deal of water, but we still felt dehydrated. It didn't help that Nick pointed out that our problems were caused by a lack of oxygen. "Our bodies are slowly suffocating," he said cheerfully. Yeah. Thanks, honey.

This past weekend we journeyed to Ute, Iowa (population: 500) to visit Nick's extended family. Several amusing things occurred.

ONE. The outfit I had picked out for Saturday was a white, sleeveless blouse and a peach silk skirt. It was a pretty outfit, and I felt good in it. The problem was, I somehow forgot to pack ANY undergarments whatsoever, a fact that occurred to me in the car about halfway to our destination.

"Noooooooooo!" I shrieked, burying my face in my hands.

"What?!!" Nick asked, alarmed. "What's wrong?!" He checked his mirrors to see if an accident was imminent, then just looked at me quizzically.

I took a deep breath. "I don't have a bra or panties to wear tomorrow."

"Is that all?" He began to chuckle in that annoying way he does, and then he did the male thing and provided me with an instant solution. "Well, why not wear what you're wearing now? We can find a laundromat."

I shook my head, then pulled my denim shirt over my shoulder and showed him. The bra and panties were black—absolutely dark-of-night-when-there's-no-moon black—and wearing them with the planned outfit would have been unthinkably trashy. For a moment, I imagined the look on my in-laws' faces when they saw me in this Courtney Love concoction. And as if that were not enough, I had also forgotten to bring along the white tank top I usually wear beneath the blouse. Without the tank top, the blouse is quite transparent. I had a serious problem.

Nick began to laugh again, and this time he did not really stop until we hit the next rest area. He made up for it with another solution, though, and soon we were at a Gordman's in Omaha, collecting the necessary items.

I wonder—how is it that I can remember to bring every item of jewelry I might conceivably need, as well as my full regimen of hair care products, but when it comes to the most rudimentary things, like CLOTHING, I completely flake out?

TWO. We paid a visit to Ruth's Sweet Shop, which has been an institution in Ute for about forty years. It used to be the kind of soda shoppe where you could sit and drink malted milkshakes for hours. Nick, his brother, and all of his cousins have memories of buying candy and soda there while visiting Grandma. It was a kid's dream—like the candy store at the beginning of Willy Wonka.

The family said I had to see it. "It's changed, though," they warned me. "Don't expect too much. It's kind of . . . well . . . a mess." So we hiked the full three blocks to Ruth's (at which point we were on the other side of town), and stepped inside.

You know the part in Great Expectations where Pip goes to see the elderly Miss Havisham? The place is a shambles. Miss Havisham is sitting at a long table in a wedding dress that's falling to pieces. She has not cleaned, or changed a single thing about the house since she was left at the altar thirty years earlier, and in front of her sits the remains of the wedding cake. The whole scene is a fantastically Gothic depiction of decay.

That's kind of what Ruth's reminded me of.

There was a single long counter on the right when you walked in, but the entire surface was piled high with boxes and packages of ancient, wrapped candy. There was dust everywhere. Thirty-year-old packs of Topps baseball cards lay in multiple stacks—probably worth a fortune, although the gum had certainly petrified by now. Boxes littered the floor, too, spilling out from the counter like a tidal wave of cardboard. As far as I could tell, there wasn't any rhyme or reason to the way they were arranged. Some of them were completely empty. There was just enough room to walk back and forth around them. The restaurant part of the store was still functioning, and a few flannel-clad men were drinking coffee at the tables during our visit. But the candy part of the store—the part that my husband and his family knew and loved so well—was just a distant memory.

I don't know what brought about this strange lapse in upkeep. Maybe Ruth read Great Expectations, too. Or maybe she just figured out that entropy is the way of the world, and there's no use fighting it too much.

THREE. One of the great things about hanging out with family is that you get to interact with everybody's kids. Nick, especially, has fun with the kids, and he takes every opportunity to engage in maddening, logic-bending conversations with them. The night we arrived, Nick and I were sitting across from his cousin's kids. We had just started our casserole, when eight-year-old Dorian made his announcement.

"We've got a Bobcat that we ride," he said proudly. "Dad bought it."

"Oh really?" Nick replied. "I wouldn't think it would be safe to ride a big cat."

"No . . ." Dorian said, giggling. "It's a Bobcat. You drive it around and it goes 'eeeee' and it has levers."

"Your cat has levers? I've never seen a cat with levers. I've seen the big cats at the zoo, and none of them have levers."

"No, no, no . . . it's not a cat."

"But you just said it was a cat, and that it had levers."

"Arrrrrgggggh!"

Nick's logic games continued in this fashion until Dorian gave up and started banging his head against the table in frustration. I think the family now has a deeper appreciation for what I endure on a daily basis.