The Accidental Tourist - Part Two

Lorelai walked into the kitchen to find Sookie pacing, her face contorted in thought.

"You okay there, Sookie?"

"Lorelai! Thank God." Sookie pulled her over to the counter. "I gotta talk this out with you. Someone's got to have an idea around here. No offense!" She shouted out to the crew, who all kept their heads down.

"What's the problem, hon?"

"Fruitcake. Fruitcake is the problem."

"Well, that'd be a first," Lorelai muttered.

"It's like ... it's the Gordian knot of cooking. It's a formula, it's a pattern, a series of steps, and you can't mess with any of those steps without unraveling the whole dadblamed thing!" Sookie’s hands flew to illustrate unraveling, and Lorelai flinched in spite of herself.

"Okay. So ... what does any of that mean?"

"That means it's Christmas, and I have to work up some of my magic! I've got to do something special for the season - everyone's expecting it.”

“So … egg nog?”

“Already done it.”

“Christmas ham.”

“Christmas ham, Christmas turkey, Christmas cookies, pfeffernusse…”

“Gesundheit.”

“I needed something new. I decided this year that it was going to be fruitcake..."

Michel poked his head into the kitchen. "Lorelai, line three is for you."

"Okay. Hold that thought." She picked the phone. "Hello?"

"Is he there yet?"

"Is who there what?"

"The guy! The guy who bodysnatched Taylor!" It was Babette.

"No, I can't say I've seen any bodysnatchers around here. But hey, I'm in the kitchen, so I can check for pods while I'm here."

"Look, toots, I’m standin’ outside Luke’s. He left here about ten minutes ago, headed your way. Whatever you do, don't let your guard down, okay?" And click - she was gone.

Michel appeared again. "Now line two. And I have four messages for you when you're finished with zis one."

"Are they all about the ... what’s his face?"

He flipped through the messages. "Six blocks away ... just passed here ... don’t say I did not warn you … batten down ze hatches..."

"Okay. Look, hold my calls. Unless it's a supplier or ... someone who's not crazy."

"I will do my best, but you and I will differ on who fits your second criteria," Michel cooed.

"Go!" She pushed him toward the desk. She turned to Sookie. "I don't know what I can do here. You need ideas?"

"Yes! Inspiration, ideas, a miracle..."

"I haven't heard about Smokey Robinson booking a room this weekend, so you're stuck with me. Let's start at the beginning. What goes into your normal fruitcake? And I know that normal doesn't really apply here, but just for the sake of argument."

"Well, it's just your basic dense cake, soaked with brandy..."

"Can't go wrong there."

"And then there's the fruit."

"Like what?"

"Well, your standard candied fruit, also soaked in brandy…”

“Well, why mess with a good thing?”

“Dates, walnuts, raisins…”

“Raisins?”

Sookie nodded. “Oh, and the maraschino cherries.”

“Where?”

“They’re all over. Red and green.”

“Wait, stop,” Lorelai said, puzzled. “Those green things are cherries?”

Sookie looked up. “What else would they be?”

“Well, I don’t know. Pistachios?”

“Well, maybe. So what I’m trying to do is come up with a new fruit cake. Fruit cake remix!”

“Okay, so what have you got?”

Sookie’s hands tried to show excitement. “Tropical.”

“Oh.” Lorelai’s face couldn’t hide her alarm.

“Mango.”

“Oh.”

“Papaya. Pineapple.”

“Oh.”

“And maybe topped with toasted coconut?”

Michel burst in. “Lorelai, I can’t put zem off anymore. Every line is people calling about ze man of mystery. He’s approaching, he’s coming zis way, he has a machete strapped to his back…”

“A machete?!”

“I may have misheard that one. But we’re under siege. Lorelai, who is zis man? What does he want? Why are you getting field reports like we are CTU and Jack Bauer is missing in the desert?”

“He’s … look, I don’t know who he is. All I know is that Taylor has suddenly disappeared – and I don’t mean he’s hiding, I mean he went poof, vanished, disappeared in a cloud of smoke and no one heard him going hi ho silver. He’s gone, this guy’s here. Luke says his name is Sawyer, but is that his first name, his last name, his secret service code name? No idea. No one knows anything about him.”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, Mrs. Kim says he’s a generous tipper.”

“Well, kudos to him, but that still tells us nothing,” Michel sneered.

“Ooh, I’ve got a plan!” Sookie burst in.

“Does it involve coconut?”

“Well, not unless you’re feeling naughty…”

Lorelai glared at Sookie. “You’re not going to even say it …”

“Well, if anyone’s going to seduce him, you’ve got the moves, sister!”

“Aw, come on now...”

“Seriously! This guy might be a threat to the town. The state. Our … whole way of life! You’d be doing a service for your country. Plus, Miss Patty says the guy smolders.” She put her hand to her chest and repeated, “Smolders.”

“Why do you assume I’d just throw myself at someone like that?”

“Well, I don’t know if you would, but I might if I were available. Could be fun.”

Lorelai’s jaw unhinged. “Um, hello. Not exactly Mata Hari here. How did I become available? Christopher and I …”

“Lorelai, come on. Christopher is a rebound. The chances of you and Chris becoming a real item is about the same as me winning the lottery.”

“Thanks.”

Outside, a bell dinged. “Hey, anyone back there?” called a drawly voice.

“Okay. Here’s the plan. I’m not seducing anyone. Michel, see what he wants.”

“What if he wants to slit my throat and drink my blood like a fiend of the night?”

“I doubt very much that is going to happen. He’s new in town, probably needs a room for the night. But stall him – get whatever info you can, where he’s from, why he’s in town, anything.”

“Perfect. I will be your shield. When you hear the blood-curdling shrieks, you can take that as a sign things are not going as planned.”

“Michel, please … just see what you can do. Thanks.”

---

The man was inspecting the lobby. Running his calloused fingers over the books, touching the drapes and the tables, and now he was sitting down in the best leather chair, looking like he’d rather be on the back of a Harley. His clothing was midway between ‘rebel” and “young college professor who still wants to be a student” – tight blue jeans, clean cowboy boots, and a tan suede jacket that was thankfully bare of fringe or “ZZ Top” buttons. He was handsome, Michel had to admit, in a shaggy, rakish, bad-boy way.

Michel waited at the desk for a moment before he delicately cleared his throat. The man spun, and Michel saw for the first time that he wore spectacles.

“Welcome to the Dragonfly Inn. How can I help you?” You murdering fiend.

“Well, hey there yourself. Say, what kind of a joint you running here, Pepe?”

That took Michel by surprise. “Pepe? I have not heard that before.”

“Oh, pardon me,” he said. A tiny smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. “Pepe’s just … one of those, what is it, terms of endearment. It’s a Southern thing.”

“And what does it mean?”

“Oh, I’ve never really known, it’s just one of those friendly things you call someone from Europe. It’s like, you know, buddy or something. Pal.”

“Ah. So you are from the south?”

“Yeah, ‘Bama. Alabama. You’re not, I take it.”

“Oh, no, no,” said Michel, and he flushed a little. “So … how long will you be staying with us?”

“Oh, not sure. All depends on whether I find what I’m looking for.” He laid a black Visa card down on the desk with the single word "Hanso" emblazoned in green across the top.

---

“So?”

Michel was beaming, which was so rare as to be shocking. “He’s not a fiend of the night.”

“Well, your head is still attached to your torso, so that was reassuring,” said Lorelai.

“He doesn’t know why he’s here. He’s not a killer or a spy. He spent some time on an island, and he says he’s looking for something but he doesn’t know what it is. He will know when he finds it. He’s in 215.”

“So, what, he’s on some kind of spiritual quest?”

“it appears that way, yes.”

“Why are you all lit up?” Sookie asked, and finger-circled his face.

“He just … he called me Pepe.”

Lorelai nearly spat out the coffee she had just lifted to her mouth.

“Pepe?”

“Yes. It was quaint. He said it was a Southern expression, a term of endearment.”

Sookie and Lorelai traded glances. Then they began snickering, but tried heroically to stop.

“What? What are you not telling me?”

Lorelai composed herself. “Michel, watch a lot of cartoons growing up?”

“We watched ‘The Adventures of Tintin.’ That was the only one. We never watched those repulsive American cartoons, Punch and Jerry and the rest of them.”

“Bugs Bunny ring a bell?”

“No.”

Sookie offered, “Elmer Fudd?”

“No.”

“Pepe LePew?”

Michel’s eyes grew wide. “Who is this Pepe LePew?”

“Where is the guy now?” Lorelai asked cautiously.

“He went up to his room,” Michel said, his voice a bit tighter. “Who is LePew?”

“He’s a ... skunk. He was a little cartoon skunk who spoke with a French accent.”

Michel’s face tightened, blanched, reddened, and then changed an even deeper color.

Sookie added, “He wore this little beret…”

“Where are your knives?” Michel, tight-lipped, asked Sookie.

“Michel…”

He spied a santoku knife lying on a butcher block, and lunged for it.

“No!”

It took both Lorelai and Sookie to restrain him.

From Crosscut: Who, What, and I Don't Recall

I thought this was pretty clever. Derivative, obviously, but still clever.

President Bush uses nicknames for his White House staff. Karl Rove is nicknamed I Don't Recall," while White House Chief of Staff Joshua Bolten goes by the nickname What. In turn, the president is known to his staff as Confused.

Once you understand this, Attorney General Alberto Gonzales' testimony before the Senate last week, quoted below, becomes clear.

Sen. Leahy: Who told you to fire eight attorneys general?

Gonzales: I Don't Recall.

Leahy: You don't recall the name of the preson who told you to fire the U.S. attorneys?

Gonzales: I do recall the name.

Leahy: Then tell us who told you to fire the attorneys general?

Gonzales: I Don't Recall.

Leahy: You don't recall?

Gonzales: Not You Don't Recall. I don't recall.

Leahy: That's what I asked, "You don't recall?"

Gonzales: And I answered, "Not You Don't Recall. It was I Don't Recall."

See the whole piece here, at Crosscut, Seattle's new online magazine or news blog or something or other.

The Accidental Tourist (Interlude 1)

"What did you do with Sawyer?"

He was tied to a tree. It had been a long time since that had happened, and it wasn't any more fun now than when he was in high school. He was underneath a canopy of palm trees, tied to a tree. Something had happened that he didn't understand, and now here he was, his shirt torn open, covered with sweat - Connecticut was never humid like this, so it obviously wasn't Connecticut - and tied to a tree. And now he was getting the third degree from two very sweaty and very angry men.

"Who in the Sam Hill is Sawyer?!" Taylor protested. "I don't even know anybody named Sawyer!" Then, after a moment, he said, "I suppose I've read Tom Sawyer, I mean, hasn't everybody? But Sawyer, that's a new one on me. Say, is that a first name or a last..."

"I want you to listen to me," growled the dark-skinned one. "I would urge to listen very carefully. A member of our party has gone missing. We want to know his whereabouts. "

The man pulled a large ... was that a machete? He pulled a machete out of his waistband and aimed it somewhat haphazardly toward his ribcage.

"There are many ways that I can use this to cause significant pain, and not kill you. Many ways."

Taylor swallowed hard.

"I can think of eight that immediately come to mind."

"Sayid, let's talk about this." The bald one suddenly stepped in between him and the crazy man with the machete.

"No! No more talking, John! You don't seem to understand that we're under attack from these ... these savages. And if he's a part of it..."

"I don't even know where I am! Now I'm supposed to be part of some ... terrorist group? Come on, people. Look, if this is some kind of prank, then point me to the camera. You win. I'm scared.
I'm ... not really sure what's going on at all.

"This isn't a prank, is it?" Taylor's voice broke unexpectedly.

"Sayid, I don't know who this man is, but he obviously isn't one of the Others. Look at him."

With that, they looked him over - a humiliating feeling if there ever was one. He felt exposed, felt ashamed of what he was wearing - his blue striped shirt, his chinos, his favorite high top sneakers that now felt childish and impulsive.

They exchanged a glance that seemed to mean something. The bald one whispered something about another person - Ethan? - and then, raising his voice slightly, said, "For the love of Pete, he's not trying to blend in anywhere. This guy got plucked from off the streets and dropped here, as far as I can tell. He's no infiltrator. He's just like us. He just ... fell out of the sky."

"Yes!" Taylor tried to point and then, painfully, remembered his hands were still bound. "That's exactly what happened. I ... I was standing in my ice cream shop, and I went outside to see if it was going to rain - the weatherman said rain, but the skies were clear as crystal - and suddenly the sky turned purple, or maroon... maybe it's that color magenta ... anyway, it's not important... but the sky turned this ominous color and then whoosh! All of a sudden, I'm hanging down from a tree and then you two ..." He trailed off then, unsure of how to end his thought without offending the people who still held him captive.

Suddenly, the dark-skinned one seemed to deflate. Taylor's hands were freed (using the machete to cut his hands loose seemed like overkill, but he was in no position to complain) and he rubbed his wrists absently.

"Well, I'm glad that's settled. So now what? Are you two going to let me know what game's being played here? Or maybe you can just let me go, and I can call a cab to take me back into town."

The Learning Tower

Kids like to climb up and sit on things. This is a fact. At some point, they just love making themselves bigger and getting a new perspective on their world. Unfortunately, the things they choose to climb into aren't always safe. For example, step stools are fun, but there are no handholds and kids can easily fall unless someone helps them up and down.



Chairs? Definitely not safe for a kid still learning about gravity.


So we got this thing called a Learning Tower. (Dorky name, I know, but stay with me.)

The tower's about three feet high. It has an adjustable platform he can stand on, with four different levels. When he stands in it, he's at the perfect height to reach the kitchen counters. So he can play, eat, or help us cook dinner. (Heh. Usually, this means that he puts vegetables in a bowl, or something fairly safe and simple. He's not quite ready to mash potatoes or julienne carrots.)

According to the literature, kids use this until age six and beyond. It cost nearly $200, but we saw it as a long-term investment.

He loves being around us in the kitchen, and before we got the tower, he would just get underfoot and drive us crazy. Now, we can keep an eye on him while we cook, and with a snack or a toy, he can easily occupy himself.


He's had it for around a month now, and has grown to love it. He now calls it his tower. "My towa!" (Yeah, he sometimes sounds like he has a New York accent.


He learned to climb into it the first week we had it, and that was a frightening discovery for us. So we have to watch him carefully, and stick to the rule that he can't be in the tower without mom or dad nearby. It does have handholds, and he is enclosed on all four sides. But that hasn't stopped him from falling out once or twice.

(Note: if you get one of these, don't let your kid sit on their butt on the platform. It's meant for standing. It's too easy for kids to slip out the sides and tumble out when they sit.)

It's caused a bit of commotion for us, as we adjusted to the idea that he needed free rein of one counter when he was in it. That means rearranging appliances (the coffee pot, toaster oven, etc.) and moving anything breakable out of his reach. But it's worth the trade off. He feels proud and independent when he's up in his tower, and he can happily keep himself occupied for a long time.

If you get one of these, you really have to have a wide open kitchen. Assume that you're bringing in something roughly three feet high with a two-foot square base into your kitchen. Make sure you have the room first. (We never would have gotten this in our previous apartment, with the hallway kitchen.) But if you can fit it, and you can afford it, this is a great idea for a toddler or a preschooler.

The Accidental Tourist - Part One

And inexplicably, he woke up laying on a sidewalk, in the middle of a Norman Rockwell painting.

Sawyer patted himself down. Nothing appeared to be damaged except his ego. But where was he? And what happened to everyone?

He looked around to get his bearings. It was your typical small town. Quaint street lights. Little gazebo in the town square. Ice cream shop - oh, excuse me, shoppe - probably run by some tubby townie. The diner looked all right - it was hard to go wrong with a diner. Hamburgers, biscuits and gravy, homemade apple pie. Maybe if he was lucky, they'd have decent fried chicken. And the waitresses were always pretty young things, working after school to earn money for their first car. Eye candy. He stepped inside and the little bell over the door rang out in greeting.

An Asian woman was wiping down a table, and flashed him a glare like he'd just farted in church.

"Sit."

"Beg your pardon?"

"You wish to eat here, or are you just going to stand there, letting in flies? Close the door and sit. Or, if you want to eat where you were resting, we can get you a doggie bag."

He put his hands up in surrender. "Okay, alright, I give. Where ... you got a booth available?"

"Don't be cute. Find a table. Sit down. Would you like coffee, or did you bring your own bottle of Mad Dog?"

"Uh, coffee. Sir." He grinned a little.

The glare came back, more menacing than before. This was a woman who had killed people before. He quit grinning and put on a humble face.

"Ma'am. Excuse me. Ma'am." He tipped an invisible cap to her.

She flipped over his coffee cup and filled it. If it was possible to pour a cup of coffee with malicious intent, she did it.

He ignored the food items - he knew what to eat in a diner - and stared at the logo on the front. "Luke's," it proclaimed in cartoony letters. Great. Where was Luke's? Where was he?

A scruffy guy in a baseball cap came rushing over. "I'm really sorry," he whispered.

"Sorry for what?"

"Well, Mrs. Kim's a little short with people sometimes," he said, still whispering. "Don't take offense. She's just covering some of her daughter's shifts until ... "

"Over medium is not one of the options!" the woman shouted from across the room. "No over medium, no over sort-of, no over part-of-the-way, no over just-a-little-bit. Do you want your eggs over easy or over hard? This is not rocket science!"

A terrified patron squeaked out, "Over easy! Easy!" He brandished his menu to protect himself.

The man grimaced a little and then stuck out his paw. "Luke Danes."

"Luke." And then the light went on. "Luke's Diner."

"Yeah," he nodded.

"All right, now I getcha. Don't worry about it. I've beat up meaner women than her."

He didn't quite smile, but he wanted to.

"Hey, listen, I don't want to seem like some kind of crackpot..."

"Well, you were the one sleeping on the sidewalk, so you might have some more work to do there."

"Yeah," Sawyer muttered sheepishly. "Still trying to figure that one out. Anyway, where the hell am I?"

"Blasphemer!" shouted Mrs. Kim, from somewhere behind the counter.

Luke peered at him. "Excuse me?"

Now Sawyer was whispering. "I don't know how I got here. Why I woke up on your sidewalk. How I got off the island."

"What island?"

"Never mind. But look... where is this place?"

"You're in Stars Hollow. "

"Mm." He considered that for a second. "Is that some kinda code name?"

"No, it's the name of the town. Stars Hollow, Connecticut. Look, mister, I don't know who you are..."

"The name's Sawyer. "

"...Sawyer, fine, but listen... You need to get yourself together. It's a small town, and you're already at strike two. No one knows who you are here, and you just suddenly appeared when the Town Selectman just went missing. "

"Missing."

"Yeah. Nobody's seen him. People are out looking for him. Which, if you knew him..."

Sawyer suddenly realized what the diner guy was saying. "Okay, wait a second. I showed up and at the same time, Mayor McCheese goes missing, and now all of a sudden everyone's giving me the evil eye. All right, here's the deal, Mel."

Luke glanced at him, suddenly confused. "Who's Mel?"

"I'm going to level with you. I don't know what in the hell I'm doin' here. I don't know how I showed up, how I just ... I guess, I just materialized on your sidewalk or something..."

"That's not what happened."

"What?"

"You didn't materialize. A lot of people saw it. Some guy pushed you out the side of a Volkswagen bus."

Sawyer looked incredulous. "A Volkswagen bus?" He thought for a second and, unconsciously, muttered, "son of a bitch."

"Blasphemer!" bellowed Mrs. Kim.

The phone rang then, violently.

"Excuse me," Luke said and walked around the counter. Mrs. Kim appeared then, with catlike speed.

"Your order."

For a second, Sawyer forgot he was in a diner. He looked at the menu in his hand, a foreign thing, and then snapped out of his haze.

"I ... uh ... I haven't had time to look at this yet. Can you give me..."

"I will give you the food you order, when you order it. I will not give you time. Time is precious. Some of us have lives to return to, tasks to accomplish. Not like you, and your party-hearty buddies who think it's funny to throw people out of moving cars. I won't give you time, so you can put your head down and fall asleep on the table for a few hours and sleep off whatever drunken adventure you obviously had. Make a decision!"

She stood there, in silent furious vigil, while he scanned the menu desperately.

Chicken-fried steak." He tapped the menu with his fingertips. She made a noise in the back of her throat and ripped it from his fingers.

"Something else to drink? We don't serve beer, so you'll have to settle for non-alcoholic refreshment."

"Hey, I'm good with coffee." He consciously added, "ma'am." She swept around the counter to deliver the order to Luke, who was animatedly talking on the phone.

"I know he's sitting right here," Luke whispered, looking around uneasily. "I've got eyes, you know. Look, I don't have a lot of options here. Cesar's sick, so I'm pulling double duty behind the grill. Lane's out, and Mrs. Kim's ... well, I've got my hands full.

"Okay. I'll tell him. But you stay away from him. I'm not kidding."

Sawyer was so engrossed in eavesdropping that he didn't see the man come up behind him. Slowly, the man pulled out a huge butcher knife and lifted it above his head in one hand.

"KIRK!!!" Luke shouted. He came tearing around the counter.

Sawyer started, and then he saw the scrawny man standing behind him, wielding a knife at the back of his head.

The man raced around the table, across from Sawyer. "Aw, geez, Luke, I'm not going to kill him. I know how hard you work to keep these floors clean."

"Give me the knife, Kirk." Luke's eyes were huge.

"Can't do that, sir."

"Kirk..."

"Calm down, boss. This is all I was going to do." With his other hand, he put down first a hand-drawn map and then a brochure for the Dragonfly Inn. Then he raised the knife again.

"NO!"

"Fine." He spun the knife in his hand deftly, and tucked it away in his belt. Then he rapped on Sawyer's table with his knuckles.

"What you need can be found here," Kirk said.

And he spun on his heel toward the door. Sawyer was too dumbstruck to even move.

"Who the hell are you?! And what the ... what are you talking about? 'What I need.' How'n the hell do you know what I need?!"

"I think I may know you better than anyone. James."

At that, Sawyer flinched.

Kirk leaned against the door frame. Unexpectedly, the door opened and he stumbled. "Ahh, cripes." He stepped out the door as Babette and Miss Patty walked in.

"Ooh, look," said Babette in the loudest stage whisper imaginable. "There's that creepy guy who pulled the ol' bodysnatch on Taylor!"

You call that humiliation?

Film director and Python Terry Jones seems disappointed with the Iranians' efforts to humiliate British soldiers. From his recent editorial in the Guardian:

We would never dream of treating captives like this - allowing them to smoke cigarettes, for example, even though it has been proven that smoking kills. And as for compelling poor servicewoman Faye Turney to wear a black headscarf, and then allowing the picture to be posted around the world - have the Iranians no concept of civilised behaviour? For God's sake, what's wrong with putting a bag over her head? That's what we do with the Muslims we capture: we put bags over their heads, so it's hard to breathe. Then it's perfectly acceptable to take photographs of them and circulate them to the press because the captives can't be recognised and humiliated in the way these unfortunate British service people are.

The full editorial is here. Definitely worth your time to read.

Hello to Gilly's readers!

And, lest I forget, fuck the fucking Yankees.


(Note: that's not my kid.)

Hi to everyone who came over here from Steve and Jen's blog. Like most - maybe all - of you, I've been anxiously watching Jen's posts and monitoring Gilly's health. I don't know Steve. I've never met him. But he's someone I feel connected to, through the voice on his blog. I know that some people have worried about him losing readers if he spends months rehabbing, but I'll be there. Hope you will, too.

So the story of this blog is pretty simple. I'm a former community organizer for the local affiliate of a national organization (you'd recognize the name), former stay-at-home dad, and I spout here occasionally about politics, the world of non-profits, parenting, and whatever hits my radar.

I have an intense interest in grassroots politics and tend to see a lot of things through that filter. Politics is better when more people are involved, plain and simple. The best thing happening in the Democratic party is that more rank-and-file members are getting involved. John Edwards and Barack Obama impress me because they're really working on motivating their supporters - and not just motivating them to work for their candidacies. They want people to be involved, to give a damn, to pay attention.

I liked this exchange from the Couric interview:

Katie Couric:
Some people watching this would say, "I would put my family first always, and my job second." And you're doing the exact opposite. You're putting your work first, and your family second.

John Edwards:
But this is not work. Work is what I did as a lawyer. This is service. This is... this is a country that I love – both of us love, as much as we love our lives.

Politics should be about serving the country and the greater good, not about craven seeking of power. I haven't decided who I'm supporting for the Dem nomination - it's still very early in the race - but I'm going to go with the candidate who looks most like he's working to make us all better, not just him or herself.

So anyway, welcome to my corner of the blogosphere. Hang around. My little boy is named Oliver, and I talk a fair amount about him. I've railed about ACORN. I live in Seattle, so I occasionally talk about what's going on here (read: the bullshit viaduct debate.) Occasionally, I'll talk music. Look around. Welcome.

Bad Interviewing 101

The interviewer: Katie Couric.

Interviewees: John and Elizabeth Edwards.

First question: establish the terms of the discussion.

Elizabeth, first and foremost, how are you feeling?

Translation: we're not going to talk about anything except for your cancer.

Next, keep the interview focused on the single area that you've selected.

Have you found that people are relating to you a bit differently with this news?

Have you received any additional information the last couple of days about where the cancer might have spread other than this area of your ribs?

Tell me about that roller coaster.

Tell me what went through your mind when you looked at that bone scan?

Were you terrified you might lose your wife?

Note: use loaded, subjective words whenever possible. If you can, tell the interviewee what to think.

That must have been hard once again to have to face your kids and to talk to Emma Claire and Jack who are 8 and 6. That is tough.

Make sure to remind your interviewee about their children and their ages. They may have forgotten.

Can you describe the decision making process for me in terms of what should we do now? Do we stay in? Do we suspend it temporarily? Do I call the whole thing off? Do we call the whole thing off? How did that unfold?

If you ask about another subject, make sure it's in the frame of your chosen subject. In the case, ask about the presidential race in terms of the cancer. Don't ask any questions about why the interviewee might actually want to run for president.

At your press conference, you were both extremely confident, very upbeat.

Elizabeth said, “Right now we feel incredibly optimistic. I don’t expect my life to be significantly different.”

And I think some people wondered if you were in denial, if you were being realistic about what you were going to be facing here.

"Some people" is a good way to avoid saying "cynical right-wing commentators."

Your decision to stay in this race has been analyzed, and quite frankly judged by a lot of people. And some say, what you're doing is courageous, others say it's callous. Some say, "Isn't it wonderful they care for something greater than themselves?" And others say, "It's a case of insatiable ambition." You say?

Again, use the pronoun "some" to cover up that you're pulling questions from right-wing blogs and commentators.

Here you're staring at possible death...

And you're thinking, "I don't want to deprive the country of having my husband lead us."

Politics, as you know, can be a cynical business. You didn't know that? Glad I... (laughter) I’m glad I could teach you something today.

It's a clever strategy to make jokes about cynicism while you're asking cynical questions of the interviewee. It throws them off.

Some have suggested that you're capitalizing on this.

See how helpful the "some would say" construction is? This is a great way to call someone a goddamn liar without actually putting yourself on the spot.

Some people watching this would say, "I would put my family first always, and my job second." And you're doing the exact opposite. You're putting your work first, and your family second.

I guess some people would say that there's some middle ground. You don't have to necessarily stay at home and feel sorry for yourself, and do nothing. But, if given a finite – a possibly finite period of time on the planet – being on the campaign trail, away from my children, a lot of time, and sort of pursuing this goal, is not, necessarily, what I'd do.

They're 6 and 8. They're still baby birds.

Again, they may have forgotten how young their children are. If you can, bring photos so they remember what their children look like.

Even those who may be very empathetic to what you all are facing might question your ability to run the country at the same time you're dealing with a major health crisis in your family.

Can you understand their concern, though, Senator Edwards, that gosh, at a time when we're living in a world that is so complicated and so dangerous that the president cannot be distracted by, rightly so, caring about his wife's situation?

If you talk politics at all, make it as vague and meaningless as possible. Extra points if you can subtle refer to terrorist threats without using the word "terrorism."

You said, this weekend, "I am definitely in the race for the duration." If you want to give the honest answer, how can you say that, Senator Edwards, with such certainty? If, God forbid, Elizabeth doesn't respond to whatever treatment is recommended, if her health deteriorates, would you really say that?

Some people would say that Katie Couric should lose her job. Others have suggested that Couric should be kept on light-hearted stories: interviewing musicians, actors, and Muppets. You say?

ParkSlope47 - the Mystery is Revealed

So the guy who created the Obama/Hillary 1984 ad has revealed himself to the world. His name is Phil deVellis. And he works for a technology company that provides support to several campaigns, including - in some capacity - the Obama campaign.

Now, some people are going to come out with guns blazing, charging that he did this on behalf of the campaign. I don't believe that for a second. I don't think the story about this ad is even about Obama or about Hillary Clinton. Read his manifesto/announcement, and tell me what you think.

Hi. I'm Phil. I did it. And I'm proud of it.

I made the "Vote Different" ad because I wanted to express my feelings about the Democratic primary, and because I wanted to show that an individual citizen can affect the process. There are thousands of other people who could have made this ad, and I guarantee that more ads like it--by people of all political persuasions--will follow.

This shows that the future of American politics rests in the hands of ordinary citizens.

The campaigns had no idea who made it--not the Obama campaign, not the Clinton campaign, nor any other campaign. I made the ad on a Sunday afternoon in my apartment using my personal equipment (a Mac and some software), uploaded it to YouTube, and sent links around to blogs.

The specific point of the ad was that Obama represents a new kind of politics, and that Senator Clinton's "conversation" is disingenuous. And the underlying point was that the old political machine no longer holds all the power.

Let me be clear: I am a proud Democrat, and I always have been. I support Senator Obama. I hope he wins the primary. (I recognize that this ad is not his style of politics.) I also believe that Senator Clinton is a great public servant, and if she should win the nomination, I would support her and wish her all the best.

I've resigned from my employer, Blue State Digital, an internet company that provides technology to several presidential campaigns, including Richardson's, Vilsack's, and -- full disclosure -- Obama's. The company had no idea that I'd created the ad, and neither did any of our clients. But I've decided to resign anyway so as not to harm them, even by implication.

This ad was not the first citizen ad, and it will not be the last. The game has changed.

I don't think he did this to support Obama so much as he did this in order to prove a point. It'll get blamed on Obama, and the people who blame him will be missing the entire point.

The last sentence of his post says it all. "The game has changed." Suddenly, it's not just campaigns and shady 527s who can make attack ads or support ads. It's everybody. The democratization of technology means that we can all make our voices heard, all at the same time.

Will there be more ads? Sure.

Will some of them be ugly? Sure.

But ultimately, this is good for democracy. Howard Dean changed the rules of fundraising when he started soliciting small donations - $10, $20, $50 - off the web. This one ad has changed the rules of who has a voice in the national elections. And, as it turns out, we all do.

So, this will surely cause some consternation amongst the Obama campaign, and it's possible (but it wouldn't be smart) if Clinton said some things about the ad's creator. But the legacy of this ad and ParkSlope47 is going to last much longer than the fight between those two candidates. This was a cultural watershed. The future just happened.

Vote Different

Everybody else is talking about this ad, so I thought I'd add my two cents. I think the ad is as interesting as a cultural signifier as it is a political comment. Many of the typing class and the talking heads seem most interested in who created it, what it says about Hillary, whether or not it's violent, whether it was made by a Republican. These are classic old world political analyses.

This is a political statement, obviously. But it's also a way of individuals interacting with politics in a way we haven't seen before. Someone (or several someones) spent a tremendous amount of their personal time to put this together. They had an idea - a new way of looking at the Clinton/Obama paradigm - and painstakingly crafted this ad together. This is much more than just a prank or throwing spitballs at a poster of a candidate. Someone worked hard to get this exactly right.

The original 1984 ad was based on Orwell's dystopian book, of course. The symbols in both ads are stark and horrifying: faceless crowds, blankly staring at their Big Brother in blind obedience. The original ad's comment was on the world of computers: things are boring and predictable, and we're going to shake things up. We're going to change the way the world of computers works.

The new 1984 ad suggests a similar paradigm shift. The message is that we (the "rebels" signified by the woman) are not going to mindlessly follow someone anymore. Is she Big Brother or Big Sister? No. Does she deserve to be crushed by sledge hammers? Of course not. The focus of the new ad, in my opinion, is the runner, not the face on the screen. The message is that we - the rebels - are not going to act like automatons for the leader we've been told to follow. I've been hearing for over a year that Hillary Clinton was the inevitable nominee for the Dems. She has more money than anyone, she has deeper connections, she has big Bill in her corner. She is the establishment candidate, if you will.

The message of the ad is anti-establishment. That's why the slogan "vote different" seems an appropriate one for this spot. It's about thinking for yourself and not following the conventional wisdom. Don't just support the frontrunner because they are the frontrunner.

And there is the basic statement. It's about old, establishment politics - the old way - vs. the new generation's politics. So it's about more than just Clinton and Obama. The spot is not called "The Obama 1984 ad" or "the Clinton 1984 ad." It's called "vote different." Don't just do things because it's the way things have always been done. It seems an entirely typical statement by this generation - the generation that includes both myself and Barack Obama.

My Brightest Diamond - you're freaking kidding me.

So My Brightest Diamond has blown my mind.

Her first album is stunning and amazing. Operatic, powerful vocals, weird songs, great and unusual structures. Brilliant stuff. Shara Worden (who is My Brightest Diamond) spent time in Sufjan Stevens' band, so she knows a thing or two about creative song structures.

So what does she do then? She releases Tear It Down, which is a remix album. Yeah - remixes of every song of her album, with multiple remixes of a couple of songs.

I don't have to tell you this, but it's incredible.

So I'm poking around YouTube, and I find videos of her performing the following songs live in concert:

"Use Me" - Bill Withers
"No Quarter" - Led Zeppelin
"It's Over" - Roy Orbison
"Joy in Repetition" - Prince (it's from Graffiti Bridge)
"Be My Husband" - Nina Simone (I'm not sure if she wrote it, but she did the definitive version)
"Youkali" - Kurt Weill

ETA: I've added links to the YouTube videos, because it was cheap and lazy of me not to do that. Some of the videos (Youkali, Be My Husband) are crap, but it's worth it just to hear her.


So yeah, it's possible she's a goddess. It's a possibility. Anyway, go check her out if you've never heard her name before. My. Brightest. Diamond.

No and no.

Seattle has been facing a quandary since the Nisqually earthquake in 2001. There is a large (ugly) viaduct that carries a major highway right through the heart of downtown and someday, when the right combination of tectonic plate movement strikes, it will fall down. We need something new in its place.

But what, then, to replace the viaduct? The governor of the state has endorsed a new viaduct - bigger, more stable and earthquake-proof, and allowing more and easier flow of traffic. Our stubborn mayor, Greg Nickels, has endorsed a fanciful tunnel set below sea level, which he claims would open up the entire waterfront to tourism (because that's the answer to everything, isn't it? More tourism!) and eliminate the eyesore of the viaduct.

After the governor explained (repeatedly, with use of sledge hammer to drive the point home) that funding was not available for a goddamn tunnel, the mayor suggested a smaller tunnel. A four-lane tunnel. With narrow 11-foot lanes. That would only run for eleven blocks (requiring an elevated road of some sort to connect the new tunnel to our existing Battery Street tunnel.)

After much political facing off and gnashing of teeth, they decided to have a public vote. Ah, but the results would be non-binding. In effect, Seattle voters were being asked what they think without it having any impact or meaning whatsoever. Except that it would demonstrate our intent.

The all-mail vote concluded yesterday. The questions were simple and straightforward. Yes or no, do we want a new viaduct? And yes or no, do we want a new tunnel to replace the viaduct?

Many advocates, including outgoing City Councilmember Peter Steinbreuck, have expressed outrage that a third option - removing the viaduct and not replacing it with anything - wasn't on the ballot. The third option would involve using existing surface streets - expanding some, rerouting and reassigning others - and expanding public transit to replace the viaduct. So many people were suggesting that the best thing for voters to do is to reject both options - in effect, saying that they wanted nothing to replace the viaduct.

Yesterday, voters did just that. No, we don't want a damned tunnel. No, we don't want a viaduct.

I have been lamenting for months that politicians in Seattle and Olympia (the state capitol) wouldn't just take action and do something. They punted again and again, and the final punt was when they insisted on going ahead with the advisory vote yesterday. Finally, the voters have done the same thing - handed the ball back to the politicians. The vote yesterday was a declaration - we're not going to make your decisions for you, and we don't like the options you're trying to force down our throats.

Finally, after the humiliating vote yesterday, the politicians seem to be listening.

"We're going to find that common ground. We're going to put aside the old answers and find some new answers," said Nickels, who declined interview requests.

And Peter Steinbreuck, the politician who has decided to leave politics (for the moment) to work on the surface/transit option, seems to recognize that the politicians needed a wake-up call.

"I can't say that the voters have the precise answer," he said Tuesday night. "That's what they look to electeds for. I'm very excited. I think it's a new day."

Yeah, I'll go along with this. I'm relieved and impressed at the vote last night. And we might just get the surface/mass transit option after all - meaning one less obnoxious construction project downtown, and quite possibly, we'll get the transit upgrades that this city has needed for decades.

It's a new day for Seattle.

" I cough. I cry."

Point 1: Oliver's learning to communicate with short sentences - "I do it," "I get," "I drink." Or possession: "my ball," "my milk," "my blankie." (Of course, his pronunciation is still a work in progress, so most of these words sound remarkably similar to anyone but us.) And he mimics me and R all the time. I sat down cross-legged last night (what we used to call Indian style) and he tried to fold up his legs so he could sit like daddy. He drinks water during meals when we drink water. He takes every opportunity to do what mommy and daddy are doing, and takes no small amount of pride in it.

Point 2: He also is fighting a nasty cold that's crept into his lungs. The doctor listened to him breathing on Monday and heard some wheezing. He suggested that it might be an early indicator of asthma. As you can imagine, I freaked out.

Point 3: I have asthma. I've had it most of my life. My father tells me that they found me gasping for air at least once, face blue from the effort, when I was young. When I was older, in grammar school,I remember catching colds and laying in bed, listening to myself wheeze. Wheezing myself to sleep.

I wasn't diagnosed until my mid-20s. I had resigned myself long ago to just having bad lungs, and it was a relief to find out there was medication that could help me through the worse patches. But it's controlled, not gone. I still wheeze when I get sick, as I did last week. On Saturday and Sunday, I was wheezing loud enough to keep myself awake, and I was gasping for air all day. I was taking shots from my albuterol inhaler, along with draining the steroid inhaler that the doctor had given me for emergencies.

So Monday I went to see my doctor. He decided to treat me for bronchitis, even though it's difficult to diagnose in someone with my conditions. He prescribed Advair, which is another steroid inhaler, and azithromycin to kill the infection that was creeping into my lungs.

Meanwhile, Oliver was gasping for air himself and waking himself up with coughing spasms in the middle of the night. He was worrying us enough to take him to the doctor on Tuesday morning, where the doctor heard the wheezing in his tiny lungs. He also discovered an ear infection. He diagnosed liquid albuterol and azithromycin for the infection. So we have father-and-son courses of antibiotics.

We've kept him home from daycare for the past couple of days, and R and I have been switching off to watch him. One of us goes to work in the morning while the other stays home, and then we switch off in the afternoon. I was home with him on Tuesday afternoon, and I had a small coughing fit. As with everything, I talked about it with Oliver. I told him I was sick and that I had a cough that made my lungs hurt.

A light of recognition went off in his eyes. He pointed to himself. "I cough!"

Yes, I explained, he did cough. But it wasn't good that he was coughing - he was sick like daddy. And we both needed to get better so he didn't cough anymore. I didn't tell him that he wheezed like daddy, too. I haven't heard it for myself, and I don't want him to share this particular trait with daddy.

Later that night we were reading one of his (million-and-fifty) board books. A little gosling gets upset in the book and sheds a tear, and I pointed it out to Oliver. "Look, Ollie, he's crying because he's so sad."

Oliver pointed to himself again, that same light in his eyes. "I cry!"

Yes, kid, you do cry. You cry when you cough. You've been crying a lot in the last few days because you've been so sick. No more crying, okay? No more coughing. No more sick. There's some things that your daddy doesn't want to share with you, and asthma is high on that list.

A month?

Actually, it's been more than a month. I've got some 'splaining to do. I have no actual excuse. I haven't been sick, I haven't lost my job or my mind. I just haven't been doing it. It's kinda like your laundry when you were in college. You ignore it and ignore it until it's piled so high that you can't begin to figure out how to even sort it, much less where to get started.

So I'm just going to get started without an apology or anything so sappy. So, hi. I'm back.

It's not as if life has stood still for the last month. Things have been happening. We moved into a house - an honest-to-Pete house with four bedrooms and a back yard. Hardwood floors. A dignified kitchen. A basement. (It's about thirty blocks south of our previous apartment, right on the border of White Center and south West Seattle.)

Oliver's thrilled to have his own playroom, and we're just as happy to have a living room that's not covered with his toys.


Now, it's only sprinkled with his toys. It's an improvement.

Ollie spent the last ten days recovering from a combo eye/ear infection. He came home a couple of Fridays ago with mucus dripping from the corners of both eyes. The next morning, his eyes were nearly glued shut from mucus. He was diagnosed with a mild eye infection (I think it was officially conjunctivitis, but his eyes were only barely pink) and not coincidentally, a minor ear infection on one side. He got a course of antibiotics, and it's our good fortune that he loves, loves, loves the taste of whatever sweet stuff they put in that medicine. He was thrilled every morning and night to get his dose. He never got sick besides the occasional gunk caked on his eye, so that was a relief.

He's trying out new words every day. Unusual words, too: cracker, cookie, granola, orange. "Kitty" comes out like "diddy," so he sounds like he's chasing Puffy Combs around the house all day. "Diddy, diddy, diddy."

He's recently learned the deadly combination of shaking his head "no" and nodding his head "yes." He also says the word "no" with great gusto. It's a useful word for communication, but sometimes he seems to get the mistaken impression that he can change things by expressing a negative opinion. Like, if he says no, he won't have to get his diaper changed. Or go to bed. Or put down daddy's phone. Or get pajamas put on him. It's a sad sequence: he learns yes, he learns no, and then he learns how insignificant his opinion really is.

I kid.

(But not really.)

Anyway, I'm going to do my best to post more often here. There's lots going on, and I just need to be more faithful about running this blog. I want to make sure you're getting your money's worth. Anyone who's disappointed can email me to have their subscription fees refunded.

So, anyway, here's one more gratuitous picture:

We bought the kid an easel with a roll of paper attached, so he can color and draw with abandon without running out of his chosen medium. He loves having so much space to color now, and it's a much better option than sitting down on his teeny tiny table with a couple of sheets of paper. It's much better on my knees, anyway.

Wade Rathke - This I Pretend to Believe

Did you hear ACORN founder Wade Rathke on NPR this week? What a load of baloney.

"I found out quickly that if I listened — really listened — to what people were telling me about their lives and their problems, then I did know something. I knew what they knew."

Oh, what a pile of excelsior. I was so incensed I wrote NPR with my counterpoint. My response is below. Just for funsies, I also posted it on the "chief organizer's" blog, so he can read it himself.

I was surprised to hear Wade Rathke touting his belief on NPR last week. While I realize that every individual who submits an essay for the This I Believe series has a right to his or her own opinions and beliefs, I was nonetheless disappointed. While it was satisfying to hear a community organizer on Morning Edition - and I am speaking as a former organizer myself - I do not want Mr. Rathke speaking for me or attempting to present himself as a model organizer for others to follow.

Mr. Rathke, the founder and self-appointed "chief organizer" of ACORN, spoke about the power of listening to community members. Yet when ACORN employees in Seattle joined a union and fought for basic labor rights such as a 40-hour work week, a sexual harassment policy, and regular and accurate paychecks, they were forced to go on strike against the tone-deaf ACORN leadership. Workers in Philadelphia and Dallas were fired when they attempted to organize. And as recently as 2006, ACORN was still facing charges of not paying its workers for hours worked, this time in St. Louis.

So Mr. Rathke claims that listening is the way that politics really works. He claims that ACORN works for social justice, workers' rights, and a democracy where "the people shall rule." He can believe whatever he wants, but here's what I believe about Rathke. He is someone who has made a healthy living talking about poverty and community organizing, but when it comes to actually respecting the rights of his own workers, he seems incapable or unwilling to listen to them. His stated beliefs are simply incompatible with his actions and those of the organization he founded.

Now, I hate washing the social justice movement's dirty laundry in public. But I just couldn't let Rathke's feel-good, self-congratulatory snow job go without comment. ACORN's history of abusing its workers is a matter of public record - there's nothing I said that can't be found elsewhere on the web. When ACORN straightens up and starts legitimately acting like a social justice organization that cares about its workers, I'll stop talking smack about them.

Hi Jeff Tweedy, if you're reading this...

So if you know anything at all about me, you know I'm a huge Wilco fan. My very first post on the original TMBS, in fact, included a link to hear Wilco's album "A Ghost is Born." Huge Wilco fan. Huge.

So guess what?

Wilco has a new album, due May 15th.

And guess what it's called?

"Sky Blue Sky."

Yeah. I'm freaking out just a little bit.

So, Jeff, if you're reading this, um, congrats on the new record! (And if you want to do a liveblog thing or, I don't know, anything at all, let me offer an unequivocal and enthusiastic yes. Just tell me where and when, and how much to grovel.)

Cross-Plug: One Good Piece of Advice

As a former stay-at-home dad, I think a lot about being a father. The good folks at Daddy Types are soliciting one good piece of pre-dadhood advice from their readers. Here's what I came up with (I couldn't just do one piece of advice):

- Video cameras are nice, but get a microphone. If you have an iPod, get a microphone that attaches to it (iMic or something similar). Record your kid's voice (even the cries of the first few months) at least once a month, more if you can. You'll cherish these memories.

- When your wife breast-feeds, sit next to her when you can. Do not read a magazine, stare at the tv, or listen to music on headphones. Be there. Listen to the sounds. Watch your baby. This time doesn't last long, and it's really a miraculous thing. Be a part of it.

- Also, when wife is breast-feeding, offer stuff. Water. A pillow. The tv remote control.

- Get your muscles in good shape - not ripped, but just fit. Look for some easy stretching and toning exercises you can do at home. Once the baby comes, the trips to the gym are going to disappear, and meanwhile, you'll have more strain to your back and your legs than you can even imagine. And your shoulders. And your arms! Holy cripes, I couldn't believe how badly my forearms hurt sometimes, after rocking the kid to sleep for an hour.

- Stop cursing now. Listen to what you say. Start making yourself say "darn" or "fudge" or, I don't know, "hootenanny" - whatever else you can say besides actual curse words. I constantly curse when I'm in the car, driving, and I had to work to force myself to stop once I wasn't the only one in the car anymore. It's hard - start working on it now.

- Get a bunch of music you love (and audiobooks, if you're into them) and put it on your computer or on an iPod, something you can access quickly. If you're home at all with your kid, you'll have lots of down time where the kid's napping and you're stuck holding him/her.

- Don't use your wife's flouncy diaper bags with the really cute flower pattern. Buy your own. Whether it's an official dad diaper bag or just an old Jansport backpack, you need your own. Seriously.

- Don't let your wife go to ped appointments alone. You're part of this, too. Go. Have at least one question to ask at every appointment. If you need to, check with your wife for a good question.

- Last and possibly most important: take time for yourself. Dad work is important work, but take one day a month and go out for beers with your friends. Go watch a movie. Go to the ball game by yourself. Do the things you enjoy. Make proper arrangements with your other half, plan well in advance, and don't feel guilty while you're gone. (But you'll probably want to bring your cell phone, just in case.)

Go look at DaddyTypes to see the whole list of comments. The suggestions are all brilliant and worthwhile. It's an impressive showing of collective daddy wisdom.

Obama '08

Barack Obama's formed a presidential exploratory committee. You can see his pre-announcement here.

I just had to restrain myself from walking into my boss' office and telling him that I'd be taking some time off to volunteer for Obama's campaign. I like Obama a lot. I like that he's a former community organizer, something that prepares anyone for talking to everyday people as if they're actual human beings. I like his optimism. I like his gentle, thoughtful speaking style. I've read his first book, "Dreams from My Father" and was impressed with what I read. I don't know if he'll be the nominee, and I have some initial concerns about some of his stances (mostly because of vagueness). But I'm excited about him, and no other candidate has gotten me genuinely excited yet.

More Snow in Seattle

After the big snowstorm on Wednesday night, this was the scene out on our balcony. We easily had five inches of snow out there. Oliver couldn't have been happier. (Well, except for the nasty cold he's suddenly developed.) He was digging his hands into the snow outside his window, carrying handfuls of it around in a little plastic bucket, sprinkling it over his little Fisher Price play house (hey, little people, it's snowing!) We had some puddles on our floor, but who cares. We was enjoying himself.


West Seattle, by far, got the worst of the snowstorm. I bussed into downtown Seattle to work yesterday, and you could hardly tell that it had snowed. Where was some white stuff on bushes and hedges, the streets were bare.


On the other hand, getting out of West Seattle was an adventure. One bus was canceled because of treacherous road conditions. Streets here are still covered with thick ice and frozen snow chunks. The main drag, California Avenue, was plowed at some point on Tuesday night, during the snowstorm. I don't know if it's happened since. The hill next to our apartment is a solid sheet of ice. It's a bobsled run. I've seen three cars on it in two days.


Mrs. B has been off for the last two days. Poor girl - she's had a full week of snow days and various other days off due to power outages. She's going to be in school until mid-July, the way things are going. But she's pretty jittery about driving on the icy roads, and she's got a number of hills on the drive to her school, so she's happy to be home.

Well, I need a hobby...

I hadn't really considered taking up death metal appreciation as a hobby, but in case I ever did, it's nice to know someone has composed a how-to guide.

Better yet! If you want to shred your vocal cords a la the glamorous George "Corpsegrinder" Fisher of Cannibal Corpse (pictured here), there's a guide to that, too!

This inhaling technique can produce an extreme range of pitch, allowing you to both grunt and squeal like a pig. The incoming airflow will be nowhere near the volume of normal speech. You will need to speak using exaggerated lip movements and the front of the tongue while keeping the back of the tongue muscle in place. While an "inhale vocal tech" may sound "cool", be careful using it. It can (and likely will) damage your vocal cords.

Cool! I mean, gwrrraaaaaahhhhhrrrrrrrhhhhhhaaaaaarrrrr!