June 1?
Well, I clearly meant to say June 8.
:)
03 June 2009
14 May 2009
little things
here's the next mission...
little things | interpretation is all yours
challenge! mixed media only | photo, collage, video, etc..
text | limited to the title, though words from the title can be included in the media
post date | ah, geeze. should i even set one?
| june 1 |
little things | interpretation is all yours
challenge! mixed media only | photo, collage, video, etc..
text | limited to the title, though words from the title can be included in the media
post date | ah, geeze. should i even set one?
| june 1 |
12 May 2009
flash
There were fire trucks at our house. The flames had jumped the highway, the smoke was rolling in. I was 14. It was dry as a bone, needles crackling under my feet. The pines offered the only shade for miles around. The pumice turned to powder. I was choking on 100 year old smoldering pine. We were evacuated.
That summer we had one good downpour. Long after the earth had turned to dust, the plants had withered and curled, and the surrounding land went up in flames. That storm was a welcome stranger.
The sky grew dark as the clouds pulled all the moisture from the ground. They covered the sun, casting a shadow across my desert home. The air cooled and the drops began to fall: fat, heavy drops of life. My sister and I bolted out of the house, thrilled to be soaked with sky. You could hear the ground drinking, gulping, desperate. Scent of sage and soil.
Then the lightning cracked, the sky flashed. And the fires started once more.
That summer we had one good downpour. Long after the earth had turned to dust, the plants had withered and curled, and the surrounding land went up in flames. That storm was a welcome stranger.
The sky grew dark as the clouds pulled all the moisture from the ground. They covered the sun, casting a shadow across my desert home. The air cooled and the drops began to fall: fat, heavy drops of life. My sister and I bolted out of the house, thrilled to be soaked with sky. You could hear the ground drinking, gulping, desperate. Scent of sage and soil.
Then the lightning cracked, the sky flashed. And the fires started once more.
11 May 2009
drip drop
It was the thunder and lightning in
But the daily showers are memorable too.
The wet
Now, I’m back in the land where storms come up faster than you can physically shut all the windows in the house and i'm once again enjoying the thunder and lightning.
My front step as I wrote this blog…
05 May 2009
parapluie
I have three umbrellas, each broken in a different way. One insists on being extended at all times and one has the typical broken spines and one lacks the strap that keeps it wrapped up. One is green but none are very pretty.
In New York I never carried an umbrella. When the streets were a sea of black umbrellas like in a movie set, I would duck and weave between them shielding my eyes. Sometimes I would take off my shoes because back then I was only twenty. It would be summer and warm and I would be barefoot and soaked, and the businessmen would stare and I would smile.
Now I’m as old as they were, but that’s not why I started using umbrellas. I started using umbrellas because I moved to Oregon where winter is cold and wet. I don’t mind the occasional yellow slicker but here the parka is a way of life, and I’ve never been a fan of raincoats. I find them bulky and hot, and I hate carrying around their dripping hulk when I get where I’m going.
Umbrellas, though, are poetic. Little portable shelters. Individual refuge. Together, a moving mosaic. So since spring seems to be on hold, since April showers have brought May showers, I’m treating myself to new umbrellas in the spirit of new sheets or new underwear. Out with the old. In with the white-and-yellow stripes, and maybe one really tall one, and one with a picture on the inside only. Time for a tiny celebration in the downpour.
In New York I never carried an umbrella. When the streets were a sea of black umbrellas like in a movie set, I would duck and weave between them shielding my eyes. Sometimes I would take off my shoes because back then I was only twenty. It would be summer and warm and I would be barefoot and soaked, and the businessmen would stare and I would smile.
Now I’m as old as they were, but that’s not why I started using umbrellas. I started using umbrellas because I moved to Oregon where winter is cold and wet. I don’t mind the occasional yellow slicker but here the parka is a way of life, and I’ve never been a fan of raincoats. I find them bulky and hot, and I hate carrying around their dripping hulk when I get where I’m going.
Umbrellas, though, are poetic. Little portable shelters. Individual refuge. Together, a moving mosaic. So since spring seems to be on hold, since April showers have brought May showers, I’m treating myself to new umbrellas in the spirit of new sheets or new underwear. Out with the old. In with the white-and-yellow stripes, and maybe one really tall one, and one with a picture on the inside only. Time for a tiny celebration in the downpour.
28 April 2009
23 April 2009
When I grow up.
As I describe my current lineup of 'jobs I'm applying for THIS week', my mom says to me: OOO! "I want to do that when I grow up!" And I believe her.
My mom, a hard working, well respected and well-rounded nurse practitioner, graduated with her master's when my older sister graduated from high school. This isn't to say she wasn't busy before that, but she was busy with other endeavors, trying out anything and everything she thought might be interesting.
For a while she worked in an electronics lab assembling and testing transducers. She later did some fieldwork with the US Forest Service and fought the girdling of old growth timber for lumber harvest. She quit when she realized this effort was futile. Before my sister and I came along she played guitar and sang in a band and rode dirt bikes.
In the small time slots left over, she worked as a volunteer EMT for the local ambulance service, and taught EMT I and II classes. We would sometimes spend late nights at the firehouse (also home of the ambulances) watching my mom demonstrate how to resuscitate someone. "Are you okay are you okay?" she would shout while shaking her patient, Resusci Anne. She was a life-size plastic dummy with blue cotton clothes, a big barrel chest with lungs and a trap door filled with some big batteries. She smelled a lot like my cabbage patch kids. "Call an ambulance!" Then she would check Anne's pulse. "Start CPR!" We would hear as I crawled under the nearest table and curled up for a nap. "One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three, BREATH!" and my mom would pinch Anne's soft nose and blow into her mouth, her plastic chest would double in size.
Then I was asleep. Only to wake when the radio (which lived on my mom's dresser and was never off) crackled and spouted out the description and location of some form of accident. She would fly out of bed, out of the house and tear out of the driveway in no time flat, even though it was 3:00 in the morning.
It was always an adventure. One day we got a call saying two homeless men had fought on the freight train, and one man had been pushed off. The train carried on, and the man almost froze to death. We went looking for him. We found him and fortunately he was alive, but suffered from sever frostbite. We heaved him into the blazer and drove him to the ambulance. I was probably 10 years old.
I think I decided then that I wanted to take care of animals and plants more than people. I decided I would be a marine biologist instead.
Marine biology was my career of choice for nearly 5 years, for whatever reason. All the while I would graft and start plants in the greenhouse, train them and water them. I would plan and start our giant garden with my dad. At some point it clicked that I actually wanted to be a plant scientist, not a marine biologist (we rarely ever even went to the ocean), I wanted to do research in the jungle! And so my science fair project focused on plant biology. I killed half of my primrose population with varying salt concentrations.
The idea of studying plants stuck for many years. That is, until I graduated and tried to get a job. My direction was derailed for a good 6 years while I ski bummed, worked as a housekeeper, traveled the world, worked for a couple non-profits, managed an apartment complex, built sets for theater productions, and decided to go to grad school for landscape architecture. I suppose I was doing all those other little things that had been on my list of things to do when I grow up, then checking them off the list.
With grad school I was looking for a way to study plants and apply my science background to projects that I would get to design and build. Little did I know, I had gone to the opposite extreme: I was delving into the world of art, with a little science mixed in. It was fairly early on in my time in grad school that I realized I would likely be behind a desk all day if I worked in this field. Either that or covered in poison oak from fieldwork.
After two field seasons of studying historic oak savanna, I decided maybe plant science and landscape architecture weren't my careers of choice. But I was too stubborn to quit, and besides, I was having fun being in school. Who cares about the job afterward? I do now. So I'm back to something closer to what I wanted to do when I was in grade school. Only this time, I want to include all the things I've learned: lab and field research techniques, tromping through the woods, working with people and learning new things all the time.
As I work through my days at the coffee shop and REI, I've busied myself with my grown-up dream: plant scientist extraordinaire. I've been doing fieldwork with a master's student. I've been volunteering with REI to eradicate invasive plants. And I've been dreaming about my dream job in a realistic way: there will be parts I won't like. There will be long hot days in the sun and long boring days behind a computer. There may be poison oak, but as long as there are plants and people and challenging work and time outside, I think I'll be happy. And when I find something interesting to do for work, I hope I'll smile and say: "That's what I want to do that when I grow up". And I'll keep my mom's story in the back of my mind and remind myself that I can be anything that I want to be when I grow up.
My mom, a hard working, well respected and well-rounded nurse practitioner, graduated with her master's when my older sister graduated from high school. This isn't to say she wasn't busy before that, but she was busy with other endeavors, trying out anything and everything she thought might be interesting.
For a while she worked in an electronics lab assembling and testing transducers. She later did some fieldwork with the US Forest Service and fought the girdling of old growth timber for lumber harvest. She quit when she realized this effort was futile. Before my sister and I came along she played guitar and sang in a band and rode dirt bikes.
In the small time slots left over, she worked as a volunteer EMT for the local ambulance service, and taught EMT I and II classes. We would sometimes spend late nights at the firehouse (also home of the ambulances) watching my mom demonstrate how to resuscitate someone. "Are you okay are you okay?" she would shout while shaking her patient, Resusci Anne. She was a life-size plastic dummy with blue cotton clothes, a big barrel chest with lungs and a trap door filled with some big batteries. She smelled a lot like my cabbage patch kids. "Call an ambulance!" Then she would check Anne's pulse. "Start CPR!" We would hear as I crawled under the nearest table and curled up for a nap. "One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three, BREATH!" and my mom would pinch Anne's soft nose and blow into her mouth, her plastic chest would double in size.
Then I was asleep. Only to wake when the radio (which lived on my mom's dresser and was never off) crackled and spouted out the description and location of some form of accident. She would fly out of bed, out of the house and tear out of the driveway in no time flat, even though it was 3:00 in the morning.
It was always an adventure. One day we got a call saying two homeless men had fought on the freight train, and one man had been pushed off. The train carried on, and the man almost froze to death. We went looking for him. We found him and fortunately he was alive, but suffered from sever frostbite. We heaved him into the blazer and drove him to the ambulance. I was probably 10 years old.
I think I decided then that I wanted to take care of animals and plants more than people. I decided I would be a marine biologist instead.
Marine biology was my career of choice for nearly 5 years, for whatever reason. All the while I would graft and start plants in the greenhouse, train them and water them. I would plan and start our giant garden with my dad. At some point it clicked that I actually wanted to be a plant scientist, not a marine biologist (we rarely ever even went to the ocean), I wanted to do research in the jungle! And so my science fair project focused on plant biology. I killed half of my primrose population with varying salt concentrations.
The idea of studying plants stuck for many years. That is, until I graduated and tried to get a job. My direction was derailed for a good 6 years while I ski bummed, worked as a housekeeper, traveled the world, worked for a couple non-profits, managed an apartment complex, built sets for theater productions, and decided to go to grad school for landscape architecture. I suppose I was doing all those other little things that had been on my list of things to do when I grow up, then checking them off the list.
With grad school I was looking for a way to study plants and apply my science background to projects that I would get to design and build. Little did I know, I had gone to the opposite extreme: I was delving into the world of art, with a little science mixed in. It was fairly early on in my time in grad school that I realized I would likely be behind a desk all day if I worked in this field. Either that or covered in poison oak from fieldwork.
After two field seasons of studying historic oak savanna, I decided maybe plant science and landscape architecture weren't my careers of choice. But I was too stubborn to quit, and besides, I was having fun being in school. Who cares about the job afterward? I do now. So I'm back to something closer to what I wanted to do when I was in grade school. Only this time, I want to include all the things I've learned: lab and field research techniques, tromping through the woods, working with people and learning new things all the time.
As I work through my days at the coffee shop and REI, I've busied myself with my grown-up dream: plant scientist extraordinaire. I've been doing fieldwork with a master's student. I've been volunteering with REI to eradicate invasive plants. And I've been dreaming about my dream job in a realistic way: there will be parts I won't like. There will be long hot days in the sun and long boring days behind a computer. There may be poison oak, but as long as there are plants and people and challenging work and time outside, I think I'll be happy. And when I find something interesting to do for work, I hope I'll smile and say: "That's what I want to do that when I grow up". And I'll keep my mom's story in the back of my mind and remind myself that I can be anything that I want to be when I grow up.
Living the Dream
Sorry I’m late, but I was busy living It. The dream that is, you know which one I mean, the American Dream. Kenny lectures on it and it’s always fascinated me and now it is. Single family home, attached two car garage with more than two cars, blah blah blah.
While tilling my new garden plot, I realized that I’m living my own childhood dream, I’m doing what I grew up watching my Mom do – sans livestock and children. But now that these typical gender roles (that I grew up watching) have surprisingly settled into my daily life, I want them to blur back to just being. Or do I?
This was my childhood dream and then I realized how big the world is and that its opportunities are endless and that my potential is limited only by me (and the economy).
Here’s a little bitty epiphany….it’s not what you do but how and with whom you do it. That is to say, I could be a fantastic landscape architect and make a good living creating spaces for really wealthy people whose goal is to put their wealth on display. OR, I could start a non-profit landscape architecture firm that is dedicated to enriching the lives of people who really need it and will enjoy it. I bet that I’ll like working with those who are drawn to the second option much more than the corporate idiots of the first.
And so, while I’m here livin’ It, I’ll allow myself to dream of a fine and satisfying career and then I’ll commit to making it happen – hopefully before I go crazy.
Anybody want to start a non-profit?
22 April 2009
Things I Wanted To Be When I Grew Up, and When And Why I Decided Not To Be Them
1. President. (first grade) Gave this up by middle school, because I was never very popular, which seemed critical for winning votes. In retrospect, it was a good decision. I’m terrible at raising money and I wouldn’t like the scrutiny.
2. Stewardess. (third grade) Lasted about a year. I loved to fly and to travel. I don’t know why this one went away. I’m sure my parents wouldn’t have encouraged it.
3. Teacher. (always, and still) I have been a teacher, and I’d like to be one again.
4. Orthodontist. (fourth grade) I remember telling people it was what I wanted to be. I think I gave it up when I found out what it actually was. Good choice.
5. Physical Therapist. (seventh grade) This is what our standardized What You Should Be test told me to be. I was never that into it. But I think I’d actually be pretty happy if I had gone with it.
6. Journalist. (high school) Somewhere at the beginning of college, I got it in my head that I wanted to DO things rather than just WRITE about them. This was stupid. I’d love to be a journalist.
7. Herpetologist. (college) Studying herps in the field would have satisfied my sciencey bent. But I decided it would be too isolating, and also that I didn’t have it in me to get a PhD in something so specific.
8. Landscape Architect. (post-college) I picked landscape architecture for my master’s because it seemed like a combination of lots of things I love: science, art, people, cities. It sort of is, but it sort of isn’t.
9. Writer. (on and off since always) The problem is, I never really write anything.
2. Stewardess. (third grade) Lasted about a year. I loved to fly and to travel. I don’t know why this one went away. I’m sure my parents wouldn’t have encouraged it.
3. Teacher. (always, and still) I have been a teacher, and I’d like to be one again.
4. Orthodontist. (fourth grade) I remember telling people it was what I wanted to be. I think I gave it up when I found out what it actually was. Good choice.
5. Physical Therapist. (seventh grade) This is what our standardized What You Should Be test told me to be. I was never that into it. But I think I’d actually be pretty happy if I had gone with it.
6. Journalist. (high school) Somewhere at the beginning of college, I got it in my head that I wanted to DO things rather than just WRITE about them. This was stupid. I’d love to be a journalist.
7. Herpetologist. (college) Studying herps in the field would have satisfied my sciencey bent. But I decided it would be too isolating, and also that I didn’t have it in me to get a PhD in something so specific.
8. Landscape Architect. (post-college) I picked landscape architecture for my master’s because it seemed like a combination of lots of things I love: science, art, people, cities. It sort of is, but it sort of isn’t.
9. Writer. (on and off since always) The problem is, I never really write anything.
10 April 2009
When I grow up
Unaware of the constraints of 'real life' children aim for their goals uninhibited and with confidence. In fact just the other day my 6 year old nephew proudly announced he wanted to be a tractor driver.
At what point do we forget to just aim for what we want? At what point do we begin to think that certain careers are not well respected enough, don't pay enough, or simply too difficult to attain? At what point do we settle for something that pays instead of continuing to strive for what we want?
This next series of blogs is dedicated to the wonder of a child's imagination and the constraints that add up over the years.
post date: 4.22.09
At what point do we forget to just aim for what we want? At what point do we begin to think that certain careers are not well respected enough, don't pay enough, or simply too difficult to attain? At what point do we settle for something that pays instead of continuing to strive for what we want?
This next series of blogs is dedicated to the wonder of a child's imagination and the constraints that add up over the years.
post date: 4.22.09
09 April 2009
Alice down the rabbit hole
I was planning on beginning and finishing this blog with moral tales from Alice in Wonderland: how some can find a moral in every story. But I suppose I found one in a different story.
This morning I woke with little compassion left in my heart. I was tired, and frustrated with work and our new homeless regulars that steal our toilet paper, shower in our restroom and ask for a cup for water only to fill it up with our milk. Normally I'm overflowing with compassion and empathy, and I'll not only tolerate, but also embrace their situation without explanation and allow them to sleep sitting up on our bench in the corner while the rain falls outside, or sip their cup of hot water or free coffee at a table.
I feel we should take responsibility for the harsh situations we have created for others in this world. We should take responsibility for the lack of access to health care and affordable housing. We should support people left in the margins in any way possible. But I draw the line at stealing milk. I asked him to leave and not come back.
This morning I woke with little compassion left in my heart. I was tired, and frustrated with work and our new homeless regulars that steal our toilet paper, shower in our restroom and ask for a cup for water only to fill it up with our milk. Normally I'm overflowing with compassion and empathy, and I'll not only tolerate, but also embrace their situation without explanation and allow them to sleep sitting up on our bench in the corner while the rain falls outside, or sip their cup of hot water or free coffee at a table.
I feel we should take responsibility for the harsh situations we have created for others in this world. We should take responsibility for the lack of access to health care and affordable housing. We should support people left in the margins in any way possible. But I draw the line at stealing milk. I asked him to leave and not come back.
08 April 2009
Hard Lines
Recent overanalyzation of the subject has made me conclude that I draw a hard line.
Right | Wrong
This line has caused so much pain and frustration in my life. It has also provided me with a protective barrier and it has largely made me who I am. Throughout our development, we are provided a set of morals from various sources and then we obey, challenge, forget, and defy them. In the smorgasbord of morals, I scooped up more than I could carry on the tray I was given. Others fill their tray with bits and bites, some live by them and some try to. I seem to be falling into the try category more frequently.
There was probably a time in my life when I thought it wrong to dwell with a partner before papers were signed. I wonder, as I write from my house of sin, how different my life would look if I would have remained entwined in the moral fibers I formed as a young, innocent, and well-meaning girl. If I had remained true to my ethos, I’d be married to the first man I ‘loved’ and while it may have been ok, it wouldn’t have been right.
So I’ll enjoy this moment snuggled up on the 1970’s orange couch that has been past through nearly every member of my guy’s family, each of them insisting that it’s not orange but rather ‘rust’ colored. And I’ll enjoy the interesting way my turquoise pillows tastefully clash with this ‘rust’ color.
I am happy - the happiest ever, and I'll sleep well next to this amazingly warm and loving person knowing that I didn't have all the answers then, I don't now and never will but I will always be ok. This is right, this orange couch and clashing pillows life I'm living.
thirst
I just went to Starbucks for a tall decaf ice mocha, no whip.
I loathe Starbucks. I once sat in an auditorium of riled-up New Yorker lefties at the Church of Stop Shopping and took an oath that I Would Not Patronize Starbucks, and I meant it. And for years, I didn’t set foot in one.
And now I work in an office downtown, and all the coffee shops within five blocks of here are Starbucks, whether they are called that or not. All my coworkers like Starbucks, and bristle at the thought of going elsewhere.
So I find reasons why it’s ok for me to go along. I remind myself that several of my friends have found satisfying employment at various Starbucks stores, and that bonding with my coworkers is important, and that there aren’t any small locally-owned coffee shop alternatives within coffee-break distance of my office. I find reasons to feel better doing something I don’t feel that good about doing.
Sometimes I miss the moral resoluteness of my early twenties, when I thought that Starbucks was Wrong. When I thought that Starbucks and suburbia and organized religion and the Republican Party and gun ownership and eating meat were Wrong, Wrong, Wrong.
These days I have trouble telling when this resoluteness has disappeared because of maturity, and when it has disappeared because of convenience.
I loathe Starbucks. I once sat in an auditorium of riled-up New Yorker lefties at the Church of Stop Shopping and took an oath that I Would Not Patronize Starbucks, and I meant it. And for years, I didn’t set foot in one.
And now I work in an office downtown, and all the coffee shops within five blocks of here are Starbucks, whether they are called that or not. All my coworkers like Starbucks, and bristle at the thought of going elsewhere.
So I find reasons why it’s ok for me to go along. I remind myself that several of my friends have found satisfying employment at various Starbucks stores, and that bonding with my coworkers is important, and that there aren’t any small locally-owned coffee shop alternatives within coffee-break distance of my office. I find reasons to feel better doing something I don’t feel that good about doing.
Sometimes I miss the moral resoluteness of my early twenties, when I thought that Starbucks was Wrong. When I thought that Starbucks and suburbia and organized religion and the Republican Party and gun ownership and eating meat were Wrong, Wrong, Wrong.
These days I have trouble telling when this resoluteness has disappeared because of maturity, and when it has disappeared because of convenience.
31 March 2009
Topic Two
___________________
topic | moral lines
word limit | none
post date | 4.8.9
___________________
topic | moral lines
word limit | none
post date | 4.8.9
___________________
19 March 2009
Maybe He Was Tired
In the beginning, God created many things including man…in two varieties. However alike they may be, their very beginning marks their inherent differences to their end. It’s the space in-between that matters here. Somewhere in our crazy make-up, many choose to spend this time with the other variety. Sometimes this union means unimaginable joy and sometimes it brings great frustration or even pain and then I ask myself with all due respect, ‘why on earth, literally, would God create two of the same creature that are so incredibly different and flawed and ask them to live and procreate happily ever-after?’
18 March 2009
Full of New
When not leaving anything out is your mantra, beginnings are plenty and welcome, Though sometimes they are more obvious in retrospect. The edge is everywhere: foothill, stream bank, and coastline. In time beginnings are infinite: birth, morning, a new leaf. They are the excitement and anticipation of being at the threshold in time and space of a new adventure, a new day and a new experience. It is scary, not knowing where you're headed. This not knowing is exactly what keeps life interesting. If we all knew the ending, would we be so eager to jump in?
17 March 2009
start
January is named for Janus, Greek god of doorways, god of beginnings and endings. In China you’re not supposed to stand in doorways. Before and after are both ok but one doesn't linger in the through. This suits my mom, who always wants what’s next already. Can you get a PhD she asked me, the day I got accepted to a master’s program. But doorways let you know you’re not where you were. Doorways are safe in earthquakes. Doorways are a good place to keep a bell, or a prayer. I like to lean and be still in between.
10 March 2009
get this party strated
OK. Given our current geographies, coming to format consensus might just be a pain in the ass. So how about we pass around curatorship? I'll go first, then hand it along.
This week: 100 words exactly on the topic of Beginnings. Due Wednesday March 18.
You should both be able to post here, not just comment. Let me know if that works. Everyone want to pick their own font? I'm Courier.
This week: 100 words exactly on the topic of Beginnings. Due Wednesday March 18.
You should both be able to post here, not just comment. Let me know if that works. Everyone want to pick their own font? I'm Courier.
03 March 2009
Dear PD and Iowa,
Once we all lived in Eugene. We hung out in the booths at Max’s, and linedanced at Rockin’ Rodeo, and ate ice cream even though it made Iowa sick, and occasionally wore evening gowns in the middle of the day.
We talked about a lot of things. We had those engrossing long girl-talks like some northwest smalltown version of Sex in the City, with a lot more fleece in our wardrobes and a lot more landscape architecture theory in our discourse. Towards the end we drove around Portland and imagined the awesome house we could buy, and how we would put a porch on the roof of the garage. Except then you both ruined the plan by falling in love with boys in different states, not that I’m bitter. But now I miss you.
And so, since we are now in perpetual catch-up, and since we are now all trying to write more, and since we are now all in our own ways trying to figure out what comes next, I thought maybe we could do a little project. You know, like the time we entered the intersection design competition. Except this time we would actually do something.
So my proposal is this blog. I scooped it up two and a half years ago (see post below) and stashed it away. And I like it for us, right now, because it is called pangram, which is a sentence with all the letters in it. And not leaving anything out seems to be a theme in all of our lives.
We could do it lots of ways. We could take turns proposing topics, or setting rules. We could respond to each other or not. My initial thoughts are that we would each post about once a week, and that it would be our personal takes on things but not journal-like, and that it would be public.
If we were all still in Eugene we could get in Iowa’s car right now and drive to the coast to talk about it while singing Michael Jackson. But this is the best I can think of, geography being what it is. What do you think?
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