Construction

I am writing this during week three of an outside remodel of our garage and deck. It sounds so simple when written, but the remodel was pretty extensive, and is still ongoing, although winding down. However, I believe there is at least another week to go. Alas.

Dealing with construction workers around the place, I suspect, is like dealing with servants. You know they are there, going about their business, but you have to ignore them. I’ve never had servants, so I can’t say this with any certainty, but the analogy seems fitting. Rather than cooks, housemaids, footmen, and char girls, I have Cement Guy, Back Hoe Guy, Plumber Guy, Electrician Guy, Drywall Guy, and Painter Guy. Directing this team of subcontractors is my Major Domo, or General Contractor. I like him, and my husband and I have known him for about fifteen years. He is also the one building the new deck, with the help of his fifteen-year old nephew, while overseeing the rest of the destruction/construction.

And, as with servants, you lose a lot of privacy, at least during the day. It is disconcerting, to say the least, when typing away at the computer, to suddenly have a strange man right outside the window. And since a lot of these guys go in for colored, mirrored sunglasses, it’s like being peered at by an alien. Also, invariably when I’m in the middle of something, I’ll hear a pounding on the back door, and then a guy sticks his head in and shouts, “Hello. Hello...M’am, are you there?” Even more surreal, is using the restroom, since the window faces the front of the house, right where the new deck cover is going up. Even though the window is opaque, there you are, sitting on the throne, while just outside men are talking about lumber and batteries for screwdrivers.

Then there is the noise. Oh, I can deal with hammers, saws, and heavy equipment. It is the battle of the boom-boxes I object to. In the garage, Drywall Guy likes to listen to hard rock at the decibel of a jet engine, while on the deck, the GC is listening to Christian rock—I suspect that when these two sound waves meet, it creates a black hole in space...somewhere. The Cement Guy loves talk radio, including Rush Limbaugh, who drives me right up the wall. On the rare occasions when the Electrician turns up (he is a bit of a prima-donna, and my least favorite), he changes the dial on the Cement Guy’s boom box (when Cement Guy isn’t there) to a heavy metal rock station, and he and his son loudly sing along...loudly off key. I like the plumber. He wears an Ipod on his belt and uses earphones.

Lastly, there is the dust. Dirt dust, saw dust, drywall dust, plaster dust—it goes everywhere and gets into everything. The floors are gritty with it, and the furniture coated with it, the cars shrouded in it—and I can’t describe how grubby the windows look. And, unless I make sure to close the lid on them, the water in the toilet bowls are rimed with dirt like a back-bay tide line. I have decided to ignore it until the construction is over. Why bother cleaning, when within 24 hours it will all be back?

So, I preserver. I try to ignore the battle of the boom-boxes, the strangers lurking outside the windows, and the new plaster which smells like a cat box. Instead, I walk out on our almost completed new deck and take in the view, I relax in the new hot tub, and revel in having, for the first time in my life, a house with air-conditioning, and heating, instead of only a wood stove. My husband is happy that when all is done, the converted garage will hold three cars instead of two.

Yes, our little place has been brought into the 21st century at long last...but I will be oh so glad when the “servants” leave for good and I have no more dust, no more noise, no more bug-eyed aliens looking at me through the windows, and no one sticking their head in the back door and yelling, “Hello....M’am, are you there?”

Chinatown—San Francisco

Although I have been to San Francisco many times, I have never had the opportunity to visit Chinatown. So, Father's Day weekend, when my husband and I planned our yearly trip to Vallejo, CA for the Northern California Pirate Festival (of which we are participants) we drove down a day early, and spent the preceding Friday exploring this very interesting community.

Since we were staying at a hotel in Benicia, our day started with a ferry ride from the Vallejo ferry terminal, to Pier 1 in San Francisco, an enjoyable trip of about 45 minutes. We were traveling with four other pirate buddies who had come early for the festival, and like us, were playing tourist for a day. Three of us headed off toward Chinatown, and the other three stayed on the Ferry, heading for Fisherman’s Wharf’s Pier 41.

Once off the ferry, we walked...and we walked...and we walked—through the financial district, past the famous giant winged pyramid building, on up the hill to Chinatown. It’s easy to tell when you’ve arrived. All the store signs change from English to Chinese. The people around you are all speaking Chinese. Well mostly, but since Chinatown is a huge tourist attraction, we also heard people speaking French, German, Spanish, and East Indian. What struck me most, though, was that despite its touristy popularity, it is still very much a neighborhood community.

The main street, from the Chinese Gate to where things start changing to the North Beach Greek and Italian neighborhoods, runs maybe a little over a mile? Within that core, there are the usual tourist traps selling...well, junk. But there are also markets where I saw everything from pressed ducks hanging in the windows ( it turns out they were actually roasted ducks, but they were so flat they looked pressed to me!), Chinese BBQed pork also hanging in the windows, barrels of dried whole fish or just fish heads, packaged dried herbs from China, and dried mushrooms. The mushrooms fascinated me—from tiny little things to giant sponge-like specimens the size of a dessert plate, amazing mushrooms were everywhere.

We passed a fish market, where a very busy shop owner was selling live, still flopping, fish to customers, who took them away in clear plastic bags. Bins of fresh produce lined part of the sidewalk, the peaches and melons looking like jewels among the corn and greens. So many scents filled the air it was impossible to identify them all—a heady mix of ripe fruit, fish, strange spices, tea, cooking food from the many Dim Sum shops, and maybe incense, but so much more. I loved it.

Lunch was at the Oriental Pearl Restaurant, where we ordered the Dim Sum variety for three, along with a pot of tea, and a bottle of Chinese beer for our friend. The food, brought in sets of threes, was fascinating, both in looks and presentation. One dish, wrapped and tied in lotus leaves, was rice, bean paste, and a wonderful Chinese sausage. I kept getting behind because as I ate each little package I was trying to figure out what was in it and how they were made. The last treats were small custard tarts, a perfect ending to a lovely meal.

After lunch we walked around a bit longer, exploring the import shops, where they sold everything from wind chimes to rice bowls, wood carvings to jewelry, and everything in between. I was hoping to find more pieces of the Phoenix and Dragon china I had started collecting when I lived in Southern California and used to visit the Chinatown district in Los Angeles. No luck with that, unfortunately. The three of us visited a tea shop, sampled some of the tea for sale, and were amazed at the prices on some of the jars. Rosebud tea for $800 a pound. Our friend bought a canister of tea (I don’t remember what kind it was) for around $25. After he paid for it, they put it in a lovely shopping bag with a string handle. I bought some pressed tea wrapped in paper (mainly for the novelty factor) which cost me only $4. When I paid for it, they put it in a plain plastic grocery bag.

By this point it was late afternoon, and we hadn’t heard anything from our other three companions. We decided to head toward Fisherman’s Wharf. To get there, we walked...and we walked...and we walked. Through North Beach, then down the hill through a residential area, and finally to the mega-tourist area around Piers 39-41. At the Clam House we went upstairs for a drink in the bar, contacted our friends by cellphone, who were still exploring and not ready to head back to Vallejo. We took the ferry back to Pier 1, relaxed with another round of drinks at a sidewalk cafe waiting to see if our friends would turn up. They didn’t, so we hopped back on the ferry and returned to Vallejo.

Many things fascinated me about Chinatown. I liked that it was still a thriving community where people lived, worked, and shopped despite the fact that their neighborhood had become a form of entertainment for thousands of others. I was surprised at how clean the neighborhood was, and how polite the people were. And although I know it’s not the same thing as going to someplace like, say, Shanghai, I liked the feeling that I had visited, in a much condensed version, a foreign country.

Bent & Twisted

Some might think the current title refers to my personality. Okay, I may be a little bent on occasion, but I don’t think I qualify as twisted. What I’m actually referring to is my decision to add worked wire to my jewelry pieces.

On beginning the new learning curve, I quickly discovered that wire has a mind of its own, and that mind can be kinda kinky at times. I also learned straight away that working with wire is a lesson in tweaking, futzing, and cursing. The rewards, however, are quite nice.

I started out simple, using fine wire to wrap around beads. This got me a few interesting pieces that resembled leaves on a vine, but the wire was too fine a gauge to stand up to everyday wear. Next I bought a stronger gauge wire, and made simple loops with needle-nose pliers, or wrapped it around a Sharpie marker, or plastic film canister. The results were okay, and I used two of these experiments to make pendants, adding beads, crystals, etc.

Then came spirals. Spirals are fun. Spirals become hypnotizing and addictive. I made lots of spirals. I even adapted a piece of a design from an ancient Etruscan tiara and necklace into a pendant, using a bracelet slide element, which is the necklace pictured. As you can tell, I really like spirals.

Now I have a wire jig for making more complicated wire designs. Great, another learning curve. I spent three hours yesterday playing with this contraption, which consists of a metal plate full of holes, metal pins of varying sizes to put in the holes, and tiny plastic tubes that I have no idea what to do with. Bending wire around the pins is like trying to scratch your head and pat your stomach at the same time. One hand holds the wire down, the other bends it while also turning the jig plate. Most of what I did ended up in the trash, which is par for the course. Two pieces came out rather nice, and one has already been turned into a pendant.

However, more hours of practice at tweaking and futzing, bending and twisting, are needed. A lot more. Maybe I’ll just go back to doing spirals. I really like spirals.

Playing Tourist

How grand it is when you go to a place you’ve never been, and fall in love. That’s what happened to my husband and myself when we got to Seattle last weekend.

It was a crazy, wild-hair decision to battle off to Seattle to see the Abney Park “Circus at the End of the World” concert on Sunday the 11th. We arrived in the city around 3:30 on Saturday the 10th, after a seven hour drive up from Southern Oregon. It was kinda love at first sight, well, except for that exciting, sweaty-palms ten minutes negotiating the I-5 freeway and the James Street exit. Okay, and maybe trying to figure out how to get back to the hotel when all the exits from the bay street said, “No Left Turn” wasn’t a laugh-fest, but, hey, we made it. Once we settled the gear in our room, we were off exploring.

First the bayfront area where the ferry terminals are. Lots of restaurants, shops, and an arcade. We had an early dinner there—crab cakes and merlot for me, and clam chowder and a Bud Light for the husband. Then we were off again.

We walked around Pioneer Square admiring the diverse and beautiful architecture. Then we signed up for the evening “adult” underground tour. That got you all the “inside dirt” on some of Seattle’s history, and a free cocktail. The underground tour is one of those creepy-facinating experiences. It also makes you wonder if some day the whole neighborhood is going to sink back to its original level, some ten feet lower than it is currently.

Sunday morning we jostled our way through the Pike Street Market, were amazed by the hundred-yard-long display of spring tulips, the glowing citrus, lush veggies, and glistening fish and crustaceans. I couldn’t help but think how grand it was to have such an amazing place open seven days a week.

From there we walked...and walked...and walked. Seattle is a city made for people who love to walk, and you see them everywhere. Either that, or they are on bicycles. What impressed us as we walked, was how clean the streets and sidewalks were. No garbage, no litter. It was amazing. Also, there is a Starbuck’s Coffee House on every corner. We saw the original coffee house, and the full-frontal nude mermaid logo on the window—no flowing locks to cover her breasts, like you see everywhere else.

It is a city filled with art, fountains, dozens and dozens of cafes, restaurants, delis, corner markets, and fascinating shops.

We had lunch at the Owl and Thistle Irish Pub —For the husband, fish and chips. For me, Shepherd's Pie. For both, a Guinness, of course! (The only beer I can stand) Later, after even more walking, we headed back to the bayfront for drinks and an appetizer of calamari strips. Before resting our bums at the restaurant, however, I rode the carousel at the arcade. Hadn’t done that in over 35 years, and it brought back all kinds of memories of riding the wonderful carousel at Fairmont Park, back in my hometown of Riverside, CA.

Sunday evening we headed to the Abney Park concert. What a blast. With the first salvo of the bass, I expected the windows to shatter and my heart to explode from my chest. We were only about four feet from the stage, which was great, as we could see the expressions on the band member’s faces, hear their jokes and comments, and also got a real up-close view of the between-set fire eaters and the very gymnastic woman performing on a hoop that hung from the ceiling. I came home with another signed CD, and also a signed poster. The Abney Park guys/gals are a great bunch, and mingled with the crowd after the performance, which they also did the last time we saw them, back in January in Eugene, OR.

With sore feet from walking all day, and dancing for four hours that night, the husband and I finally got back to our room and flopped into bed, tired, but very happy campers, indeed.

After another lovely continental breakfast at the hotel, we headed home, sad to have had so little time to explore such a beautiful city, but happy to have had such a grand time in so short a stay. Will we go back? Absolutely!

April Madness

Maybe it’s because the sun has finally come out, or maybe it’s because we finally took our house off the market, but my husband and I seem to be struck with crazy enthusiasm. March Madness has bled over into April. Actually, we didn’t have much madness in March, but April, now that’s a whole new bag of confetti.

To send March off, we will spend next weekend on our boat. It’s always relaxing, even if the weather is nasty, which it usually is on the Oregon coast. We read, play endless games of dueling solitaire, or Blokus, and if it isn’t raining, or the wind isn’t blowing nine-hundred miles per hour, we walk along the jetty, or drive out to one of the beaches. Sometimes we drive either North or South to go on antique/junk shop crawls, and then enjoy a lovely meal of fresh seafood. My husband always takes an early morning stroll around the marina, while I sleep in, snuggled in the warmth of blankets, listening to seagulls...and the backup warning honks of the processing plant’s forklift as its operator loads bait fish on to fishing boats, or unloads their catch of the day. All-in-all, it makes for a very pleasant weekend, and the boat never leaves the dock.

Then April rolls in and the madness begins.

We will spend Easter weekend at a primitive lodge outside of Salem. Located in a state park, it is big, cold, and the upstairs loft is lined with heavy wooden bunk beds. Why would we, and thirty other people, put up with such discomfort? Fun, that’s why. Three years ago it was dubbed The Arms of the Sea Tavern, and everyone dressed in their best pirate garb. This year it has been renamed The Time Traveler’s Tavern, and invitees can wear garb from any time they choose. There will be classes and demos on projects ranging from how to make a flag, to converting a Nurf gun to a ray gun. Saturday night is a big pot luck banquet, then afterwards is the party. By Sunday morning we will be tired, sore from sleeping on plywood, groggy from a bit too many alcoholic beverages, but happy for having had such a great time with fun, crazy people.

The weekend after that, we head for Seattle and the Abney Park Circus at the End of the World concert. This decision, made just last night, is one of our maddest. On a total spur-of-the-moment whim, we reserved tickets, frantically looked for a Best Western close to the concert site, booked a room, then printed out a map so we’d know how to get there, having never been to Seattle before. Afterwards we sat staring at the computer for a minute, then burst out laughing at the craziness of it all. But really, it’s Abney Park, and how can you resist a concert called Circus at the End of the World, where there will be fire eaters, tightrope walkers, and who knows what else? Obviously, we couldn’t.

Toward the end of April comes my birthday. Now, what maddening thing can I come up with for that, I wonder? Buahahahaha...

Focus

The title of this entry really should be Focus—Or the Lack Thereof. I’ve been drifting since last December. Can’t get enthused about anything, which is not like me at all. Oh, I did have a brief flare of excitement at the end of January when my husband and I attended the Abney Park concert and masked ball, but since then nothing. I don’t count a bathroom rehab as the high point of February, although the end results are quite nice. Nope, most of the time I feel like I’m staring off into space.

I put part of the problem down to the weather. In Southern Oregon, it can be gloomy and rainy for months. I suffer from Light Deprivation Syndrome, and by end of January am pretty much climbing the walls due to cabin fever and lack of sunlight. A few weeks ago I attempted to talk my other half into heading for Hawaii, but he wasn’t going for it. He knows by this time I’m grasping at straws, and is smart enough to ignore me. I’ve been told there are special light bulbs you can get that imitate sunlight, but so far I haven’t tried them. I’d have to buy a case and replace every bulb in the house. Not too practical.

So in the meantime, my writing suffers or is ignored, my journal entries stop, my jewelry doesn’t get made, and my garden languishes or is flooded when the pond overflows after a downpour. As for any artwork, I look at a blank sheet of paper and drift off—might as well have snow blindness.

Spring, wherefore art thou?

Art Journals — The Good, the Bad, and the Frustrating

February 18, 2010

Over the past three years, I have been involved in three art journal rounds. I organized the first one, then participated in another two. Since this was done through a forum called the Pyracy Pub, naturally, the theme was all things from the Golden Age of Pyracy. Updates would be posted regularly to keep track of the books as they made their progress from one artist to another.

The first year only five people signed up to participate. Everyone was very enthusiastic. Most had never heard of art journals, so a lot of explaining had to be done. Books would make the jump every month, giving each artist plenty of time to fill between 2-5 pages. Within two months of the start, the frustration set in. People wouldn’t get the books out on time. One book got held up for four months, and then was sent home with no work done in it by that person. One person kept a book, and despite many attempts to communicate with him, never did return the book to the original artist. When the round finally sputtered to an end, I was sure no one would be interested in doing it again. When the person who never got his journal back volunteered to run a second round, I told him,”Good luck, but it’s like trying to herd cats.” From that point on, each organizer, whether for art journals or PTCs (Pirate Trading Cards, as opposed to ATCs) was dubbed the Cat Wrangler.

Round two started out with seven artists. Again, everyone very enthusiastic about participating. I was skeptical, but signed on because I liked the gent who had volunteered to wrangle the round. The books went out and everything seemed fine. Then problems developed. Two books were apparently lost in the mail while making the journey to Germany. This did not go over well with the two artists whose books had gone missing. One artist dropped out of the round, under accusations of really misplacing or sitting on the two books ostensibly lost in the mail. Books got stalled for months. For the Cat Wrangler, keeping the round going became a chore. Disgruntled artists posted heated complaints. I was relieved when my book came home, and vowed never to do another round. Some four months after the round was over, the two books lost in the mail miraculously reappeared, with no explanations.

The third round has just finished. This time there were eleven participants, many new to the art journal process, but again, very enthusiastic. The Wrangler for this round was one of the artist from the previous round. This time, things progressed fairly well. The books, with only minor hiccoughs, jumped month-to-month with no problems. At about month six, one artist dropped out, dumping two books on the next man in line. This got smoothed over, but then the holidays delayed books going out. As time went on, and enthusiasm levels dropped, more and more books were getting delayed. In some cases, two and three books would be mailed at one time, because an artist let them pile up without working in them. For the Wrangler, is was like pulling teeth to get people back on schedule. Then, with the round almost over, two books went missing in the mail, and one artist went incommunicado with a book still in his possession. No attempts to reach him have succeeded. The man whose book is being held, and who had mailed the two now seemingly lost, posted a virulent rant, stating in the end that he didn’t care if he ever saw his book again and would under no circumstances participate in another round. I calmed him down, but the damage had already been done. The rest of the artist were hurt by his accusations, and the two women whose books are gone were especially upset. It has been a year and four months and my book is finally home safe. At some point, a person thought my trademark “danglies” were a nuisance, and removed them.

In the end, I think the rounds were mostly fun, and I cherish the artwork in each of my books. But I will not do another. At the beginning people are excited by the idea, but don’t really understand the commitment it takes to see a round to completion. At about month four or five, they suddenly realize what they have signed on for, and end up resentful that they are trapped into doing something for which they no longer have any interest. Some bail out. Some drag their feet and hold on to books for weeks or months. Some do token work and pass the books on.

For the Cat Wrangler, it truly is a lesson on the good, the bad, and the frustration of trying to keep a group of people enthusiastic and organized over the long haul. Not a job to be taken on lightly.