Journal

My Love For Joss Whedon Is In Full Bloom

My love for Joss Whedon knows no bounds. I think he is one of our generation's most creative, visionary writers. The fact that Fox cancelled Firefly still chaps my ass and if that finally places me squarely into geek territory for good, so be it.

You can, thus, understand my glee when I discovered today that Whedon is pioneering full scale webcast entertainment with the on-line release of Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog. From the guy who brought you the quintessential deep space western comes the tale of, according to Whedon, "a low-rent super-villain, the hero who keeps beating him up, and the cute girl from the laundromat he’s too shy to talk to." It stars Neil Patrick Harris, Felicia Day, and bethamsel.org's personal superhero, Nathan Fillion. Dr. Horrible will air for free in a three webisode arc beginning on July 15th. I can't wait!

Here's the trailer:

Teaser from Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog on Vimeo.

Sunday With The New York Times

I have been neglectful in the writing/keeping in touch department. Chalk it up to the winter season in Nederland, which more often than not has the effect of a chilly cloister. I read ferociously between bouts of snow removal and knitted my ass off (my apologies to everyone who has received more than one hat this year), continued to work on the set of short stories I started two years ago and have been learning the entire Tom Petty catalog on guitar. I discovered, pretty late in the game, Ray Lamontagne and have devoured Trouble and Till The Sun Turns Black (which pairs beautifully with Joan Armatrading's 1976 self-titled). The winter weeks slowly burned off and in what seems like a sudden turn, long cracks have emerged in the reservoir's thinning surface and pools of open water are creeping along the edges. It ain't spring yet, I'm not that foolish, but I do finally feel like getting out of the house.

But...maybe not quite yet today. Jim kindly volunteered to get the NY Times this morning and I (and my ink black fingers) have been ensconced in bed ever since. Early spring's bright blue world can wait till the afternoon.

Snow Fences

It wouldn’t be winter in Nederland without a snowy onslaught and we’re getting one this afternoon. It’s in the low twenties, but the wind is calm and for that I am exceedingly thankful. We’ve been trying to consider the best place on our property to put a snow fence. If you’ve driven across Wyoming on I-80, you know what I am talking about. Those oddly angled, short lengths of wood rail fences placed parallel to one another, seemingly in the middle of nowhere off the interstate. I am looking at the more utilitarian variety, safety orange plastic. I can’t even believe the two words “snow” and “fence” are actually being used together in my vocabulary, but there you have it. I saw the best homemade bumper sticker on the back of a truck going through the traffic circle the other day. It simply read: Nederland, The Other Windy City. It’s like Ani DiFranco used to say about the gold fish and the little plastic castle. How the hell do we forget, without fail, every single year, what lies ahead of us just when the daylight begins to wax?

After ten days up in the Vail Valley for the holidays, we returned home last Friday afternoon to a driveway that was impassable. Not only had Nederland received about ten inches of snow in our absence, but high winds had shut down Eldora and apparently blown most of the town’s loose powder into our yard. Don’t let the word powder fool you. This was more like a solid cement-scape stubbornly blocking our egress. We parked the car on the road and hiked up to the house to suit up for the task at hand: moving 500 cubic feet of hard packed snow drift. We opened the garage door from the inside and there we discovered a three foot wall of hard pack before us. The snowblower was useless. We attacked it with the steelhead garden shovel knocking snow down into the garage, where we could then pick it up with the actual snow shovel and toss it out of our house. After a path was cleared, we pulled the snowblower out and attempted to plow through the drift. Instead, three pins immediately sheered off the plating, separating the blades from the axle and rendering the machine a beautiful industrial sculpture for our wintery yard. The next two hours consisted of: break up drift, turn over snow, switch shovels, bend, dig, lift, walk to the edge of the driveway, dump, walk back, repeat. Every ten minutes or so, said actions included picking up a frozen, slobber covered tennis ball with an edge of the shovel and hurling it over the side of the driveway for the StellaMonster, who thought the entire experience was designed for her intense pleasure. By six we had the halogen building lights on. By seven, Jim and I stood at the top of the driveway exceedingly pleased with our bad ass, frost tinged selves. By nine the next morning, I could barely get out of bed and the wind was already back at it, depositing snow along the side of the hill abutting the drive way. Needless to say, a snow fence (and massage) is in our immediate future.

The white stuff does afford some beautiful wildlife viewing, however. I watched a plush coyote walking down the center of our road, leaving pettite foot prints in the snow, searching out a sorry housecat or reckless squirrel (as if the Abert’s aren’t having enough trouble fighting off the Eastern Grey Squirrel invasion). It paused at the dead end of our road, did a bit of grooming, and then walked back down the way it had come, again past our house. Stella was beside herself at the front window, desperate to get out and investigate the thing. Her disappointment was palpable.

We had our first public test of the coming 2008 presidential election last week and based on the news coverage the next day, you would have thought Britney Spears had won the Iowa Caucuses...for both parties. Jesus.

Back to google for me. Who knew proper snow fence placement could be so crucial?

A day off with the ALDS

Alex Rodriguez just popped out to the Cleaveland Indian's shortstop to close the top frame of the third inning of the first game of the 2007 American League Division Series. Jenny and I are enjoying our day off at Sue's house in Wisconsin and I am beyond the moon that Sue has graciously turned her tv over to me so that I can watch the playoff game. I never thought the Yankees would get into the post season this year. The way they were playing this summer was demoralizing and disheartening to this life long Yankees fan (I guess I now know how it feels to be a Cubs fan).

Wang just gave up a home run. He looks to be having a terrible time keeping his pitches down.

It has been an odd couple of days due to my new Egg's tires. Tuesday afternoon, in the pouring rain, Jenny and stopped at a Target in Waterloo, IA to purchase a new umbrella before continuing on to Dubuque. As we were leaving the parking lot, we heard a "Kuchunk! Kuchunk! rattlerattlerattle..." I thought something was knocking about in the car till I heard the tell tale scream of a tire. The new Egg is shod with runflats, which, apropos of their name, can run flat. Thankfully. I limped over to the KIA dealership across the street and they filled the tire with air and sent me on to a Toyota dealership down the road. At that point, the clock began to audibly tick, as we were still 90 miles from Dubuque. The Toyota dealership had eight people in line before me and they didn't have my tires in stock, so we refilled the tire and got under way. Every thirty miles we pulled off the highway, refilled the tire, and continued on. For the first time in years, I drove 55 miles an hour and got the best gas mpg I have ever been able to achieve in a minivan. I may be a new convert to slow poking!

The next morning I got up at 6:45 and crawled to the Dubuque Toyota dealership which was, serendipitously, right behind the motel we chose in the dark the night before. They replaced the front tires, replaced the rear brakes and sent me back to the hotel to get a quick cat nap before having to check out and head on to Fort Atkinson. And I would have slept, but the Fred Thompson For President campaign was making a very visible stop at the very Best Western at which we were staying and I could not help myself. I wanted to speak with Fred Thompson.

More on that exercise in political comedic theater tomorrow. All I can say is I am very glad his secret service detail didn't take me out in the hotel hallway! This girl is now going to watch the playoff game.

The End of September

I am sitting at the dining room table at the incredible Patrick Bloom’s house in Iowa City as peepers peep and an indian summer rain falls. It was so hot and humid today on our day off that I could do little more than lie in the back of the egg and be still. Harvest has come and gone in Iowa and the hills have taken on a bedtime patina, brittle, but you wouldn’t be able to place the season based on today’s heat.

I have been silent today in the hope of being able to quash the persistent laryngitis that has been traveling with me like an unwelcome hitcher. Patrick broke out a white board and dry erase marker so that I could communicate and ostensibly converse. It’s hard to keep up when you’re bantering through the written word. What sounds pertinent looses its steam when you’re an entire conversation behind. For a while I busted out the computer and had it speak a sentence at a time, but the only thing that really sounded correct in the simulated female voice (known as Victoria) was, “Do you want to play a game?”

The shows so far have been lovely, especially Hays, Kansas, which turned out to be the most wonderful surprise in the midwest. I can not imagine a better way to begin the first tour I have done in two years than Cafe Semolino, with a full crowd of tremendously enthusiastic people and great dinner to boot. You never know what you’ll find when you get off the interstate.

Speaking of which, Jenny and I drove north out of Hays on 183 123 miles to connect with I-80 in Nebraska. It was two lane road the entire way, on which we passed Charlais and Angus cattle ranches, windmills, and independent gas stations with no signage. We passed through tiny towns (one of which prominently featured a “Chubby Pickle” sandwich shop) proud and even smaller towns with a tenuous economic grip. It was a side of Kansas I had never before seen and one I can’t wait to see again.

xo
Beth

Thanksgiving 2006

Thanksgiving has come and gone once again. This, as many of you know, is my favorite holiday of the year (despite its highly hyped and PR manufactured back story). Having flown the proverbial coop at an early age, thanksgiving is utterly devoid of family connotation or familial holiday obligation. It has always been a grand day with great friends to eat like we’re bovine blessed and to open the house to anyone and everyone for unusual combinations of people (1994 was a standout year with roommates’ parents and lovers, neighbors, exes, the postal delivery woman, my oldest high school friends, crushes, new acquaintances and total strangers, beat poets and culture skeptics, meat eaters and vegans, all packed into brick laid 603 Dewey Ave).

This year I started cooking on Wednesday after Jim and I returned from a last chance morning trip down to Boulder to collect, among other things, a deep fry turkey pot (this would be our second year deep frying the bird), a food mill, Smack My Ass and Call Me Sally hot sauce, terribly out of season corn on the cob (I can’t even imagine from where those puppies were trucked in), chestnuts, a couple extra wine glasses, an industrial grade turkey injector, and-the main event-a fresh twenty pound Colorado tom turkey (the Wild Oats meat minder slid the beast over the counter to Jim, who caught the slippery bastard just as it was about to take its leave across the floor-he can handle just about anything difficult to wrangle with astounding dexterity and grace). By three the kitchen was wrecked and the next night’s dinner was progressing in pans of caramelized onion and sherried mushrooms, simmering cranberries and hot cream. White bread slices were laid out to dry on every available surface of the room and Stella was having a heart attack trying to convince me that it was perfectly acceptable to give her the tom’s innards (speaking of which, have you ever looked inside the carcass of a large bird?!? It’s like something out of Alien). Eventually we broke out the six inch long stainless steel perforated hypodermic needle to inject the turkey with a mixture of softened butter, maple syrup, garlic and hot sauce. It looked like an instrument of grievous torture, but it was effective and in the end there was nearly a pound of butter in that bird (recently Boulder was named the number one healthiest city in America. Needless to say, I live in Nederland and our town didn’t even rank).

Thursday morning broke with a clear eastern sky and stark autumn sunshine. As the inevitable clouds gathered over the Indian Peaks, I baked corn pudding and Hillary’s grandmother’s stuffing and caught up on the phone with far off friends. My mother left a message stating that she was going to the all you can eat chinese buffet at two and didn’t expect to be home before eight, if I wanted to call her back (my mother approaches “All You Can Eat” with an Olympic seriousness and paces herself accordingly) (one day I’ll write about my mother’s mode of cooking which more often than not simultaneously included ketchup, miso, white Zinfandel, cornstarch, and bean soup mix). At two, Jim slowly lowered the turkey in the hot oil and we began the 50 minute sizzle and pop count down (last year we had six inches of solid ice on the driveway where we did the turkey and hot oil melted deep down into the permafrost. For weeks afterwards we found daily signs and footprints of critters who had come during the night to lick and chip away at the turkey oil flavored ice). Have you ever read instructions on how to deep fry a turkey? They all begin with the following warning: “This could burn your house down and cause severe bodily damage, including burning you beyond recognition. The turkey cook MUST be sober.” I kid you not.

The afternoon/evening was a beautiful mix of people including my in-laws and old friends (Jen recounted her five minute Indonesian scuba certification class-given completely in Bahasa-and being dragged by the foot down to the sea floor by the guide who mistook her total terror for unyielding buoyancy). By midnight I had no voice left and the cold I had been hopefully ignoring took over for good. I took leave for bed with the house a beautiful mess. It was another fantastic thanksgiving. I hope you and your loved ones had a wonderful day!

Way To Obfuscate The Issue!

Those of you who come here regularly know that, on occasion, I rant and rave on a sore political topic. I know this has the potential to alienate a listener or two (or fifty-seven), but please know this is not my intent. That being said, however, if you have no desire to read the political hooey of a mountain dwelling singer-songwriter, Turn Back! Turn Back NOW! Ok, consider yourself warned because I am fairly pissed this evening.

By now everyone has read that Representative Mark Foley (R-FL) has been, for an indeterminate amount of time, engaging in (at best) sexually inappropriate behavior towards or (at worst) criminal predation of under age Congressional Pages. Humans do loathsome things, thus is it surprising to know that, prior to resigning from Congress on September 29th (leaving a once sure thing GOP seat in congress looking very vulnerable), Foley was the co-chairperson Congressional Missing and Exploited Children's Caucus?

While Dennis (that's "Denny" to his good ol' boy president) Hastert, in a desperate bid to remain Speaker, vehemently denies knowing anything about Foley's extra-curricular activities prior to the recent ABC expose, increasing numbers of congressional personnel are stepping forward to dispute his denials. It is now looking as if the GOP, in an effort to retain majority in the House in the coming election, chose to ignore his behavior and quiet the pervasive discomfort. It would seem that the Republican Party has forgotten that it bills itself as the moral vanguard of America and the protector and arbiter of "tradition family values." Hmmm. I can not figure out whether to call them hypocrites or bald face liars. Since I use the latter with fair regularity, let's go with hypocrites, shall we?

First the GOP tried comparing the ensuing scandal to the Clinton/Lewinsky affair, but that didn't really fly with the public because, well, she was a legal and consenting adult.

Then, Newt Gingrich said the reason GOP leaders didn't deal swiftly with Foley when allegations first surfaced last year was because they didn't want to appear homophobic. I kid you not. The very party whose 202 House members voted for a constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage cares about being branded "homophobic"?!? These people REVEL in their bigoted stance (Rick Santorum, to name just one).

The latest, which I heard on the radio this afternoon while driving up the canyon, was that, well, Foley is GAY and OF COURSE he couldn't keep it in his pants. Paul Weyrich, chairman and CEO of the Free Congress Foundation (an unabashed culturally conservative "think tank" which fights for the Right in the Culture Wars) said today on NPR that Foley coming out explained it all because (and I quote), "Homosexuals are preoccupied with sex." Excuse me?!?

Mark Foley is first and foremost sexual predator who was intoxicated by his wildly inappropriate actions. This is not because he is gay. It is because he is damaged. Pedophelia and homosexuality are NOT THE SAME THING. Karl Rove's attempt to downplay the pedophelia and ram home Foley's recent admission that he is gay is a way to downplay Congress' complicity in his behavior and win points with his conservative base. I am sorry for the soapbox this evening, folks, but I am furious over this last tactic by the Right to bash the crap out of the gay community.

OK, I will stop now before I begin to sound like a ranting crazy person. If you want more info (mixed with a bit of levity) check out Wonkette.

Line Rider

Last Night's show in Laramie was incredible! After not performing in a year, I had absolutely no idea what to expect and for perhaps the first time in my life as a performer, I was nervous to the bone. I could not have asked for a more welcoming crowd, especially the folks who drove up from Boulder. Frigid temperatures, yes, but a warm environment. I loved meeting new listeners including the two juniors in the agriculture department at UW and the very dear couple, one of whom was from Alaska and named for a Pink Floyd song (how cool is that?!?).

The show made me forget about the drunk men in parkas, cowboy boots, and cowboy hats who held my parking space hostage in the lot behind Coal Creek and who felt the need to pound on The Egg as I drove by.

Stella came with us to the show last night and held up very well in her swanky stuffed bed in the back of The Egg (curtesy of her Oma). She's already a seasoned road warrior and I look forward to more trips with the WonderDog.

I could wax fondly on, but my real reason for this post is to spread the word about my new favorite on-line distraction: Line Rider. Jim pointed it out to me this morning and I now admit freely that I have been playing with it all day. I dare you to not become addicted to the little sledding girl avec her flying red scarf. Algorithms dealing with acceleration and angle have never been so much fun. Enjoy!

LINE RIDER!

Fox "News" Interviews Bill Clinton

I have just now read the transcript, posted on thinkprogress.org, of Fox News bobblehead Chris Wallace's interview with former president Bill Clinton. Clinton was invited to the interview to speak about his enormous fund raising efforts to relieve some of the worst suffering on the planet. Instead he was blindsided with questions about his role in not capturing Bin Laden or decapitating Al Qaeda while in office. Not only does Wallace come across ignorant of recent history, but he uses a single book as his departure point rather than his own research. This is journalism? No wonder between 22 and 43 percent of Americans still believe Saddam Hussein was responsible for 9/11 when we have a press corp willing to disseminate inaccurate propaganda at the behest of this administration (ie. Maggie Gallagher and Mike McManus).

My respect for Clinton has multiplied tenfold. His quick wit and articulate responses make me long for the days when we had a president for whom intellect and discourse was a priority.

*Sigh*

The rough, full transcipt can be found HERE

ThinkProgress is doing some fairly comprehensive coverage of Fox News rediculous handling of the Clinton interview. Check them out!

Spring Comes to Nederland

I am sitting in my office, looking out the window at the Indian Peaks, which are beginning to look a bit spotty as the spring run off begins in earnest. With the window open, I can hear Middle Boulder Creek furious in its rush to the dam, its inevitable drop to Boulder. At last, I can see the reservior through the trees before the house. It's a relief to know the water is up, that we have some moisture sitting in town. It was a damn dry spring.

Two weeks ago excavation began on an open lot on the hill above our house in preparation for a new build. The day was uncharacteristically over cast and drizzly, cold and dark, just about the only day of that sort I can remember this spring. There were two large earth movers working in tandom, wrecking the calm in our lodgepole pine enclave. Jim and I were eating lunch in the dining room, ignoring the ocassional shudder, when we noticed movement beyond the glass doors. A very small, young fox kit was tentatively walking across our backyard just beyond the deck, soaked, red and (just like the Indian Peaks) spotty in his molting winter fur. Season dead pine needles stuck to his coat. Stella began a long, low growl, her fur up in agitiated ridges. The fox paused and turned his pointed face towards the glass, curious, his nose twitching, dark eyes unblinking. Jim quieted Stella and there we sat for five minutes, mututally investigating the situation. Fox eventually broke his gaze and wandered up to a rock outcropping on the top of our property, looking back at us every few minutes to acertain that we were not a threat. He stretched his lean body, yawned, and curled up in the rocks to sleep, his ears, sharp to attentive points, still alert atop his head, the only thing we could see above the new spring grass. I couldn't stop watching the pair of vulpes ears taking respite on our land. Eventually something disturbed his peace and he popped out of the rocks, took another long stretch, shook the rain from his bushy body, and trotted up the hill towards the road and the excavation.

We now see Fox every couple of days or so. Our best guess is that his den was disturbed by the earth movers and he has been forced to venture out solo a little earlier than expected. I know better than to put food out for him, but the urge is mighty, especialy when we have the grill going and I can see only his interested nose from the outcropping. Stella remains unmoved and would like Fox to take it on down the road. If anyone is going to get anything off the grill, it is going to be her, damn it.

Crazy

I found the following video through the IDontLikeYouInThatWay blog (posted from YouTube) and I have to say, I can not stop watching/listening to it. Enjoy!

Serenity

You, my fine reader, may not know this, but I admit to you now that I am a bit of a sci-fi fan. I love that humans have the ability to create (from nothing other than our dense imaginations) utterly new complex worlds, complete with creatures, customs, languages, societies, laws and politics. I love the idea of stretching the boundaries of what we currently think of as hard science.

Tonight I watched Serenity, the new film from Joss Whedon (creator/writer Buffy the Vampire Slayer) based on his short lived, FOX show Firefly. Though I was on the road for most of 2002, I had the chance to catch a few episodes and was absolutely hooked on the characters and their richly imagined world. The writing was so very smart and Whedon beautifully captured the complicated tapestry of human nature. Plus, it was at turns both funny and heartbreaking, a combination I find irresistible (I can not fail to mention the fine art with which each episode was scored).

Network executives at FOX proved themselves, for the umpteenth time, to be without an ounce of imagination or patience when they cancelled the show without ever giving it the time to develop a proper audience (too bad there is no such thing as independent tv, ala the singer-songwriter realm). Much as when My-So Called-Life was unceremoniously dumped ten years ago, I felt a loss at never knowing what would become of these people Joss Whedon cooked up in his mind.

I just found out about the film a few days ago (I get the feeling the film has little in the way of an advertising budget) and had been tapping my feet in anticipation of today.

I loved the movie, folks. LOVED IT. I feel as if it is my job to spread the word about this self described space-western-adventure-comedy-drama. It proves that a good movie has more to do with characters, story, and heart than a 200 million dollar budget. I wish we would get more of these to choose from. I laughed. I cried. It was better than Cats. And, hell, don't you love a great space chase?!?

Stella, The Wonderdog

We have a new addition to our household here in Nederland. Last week, Jim and I brought home a ten week old yellow lab puppy who we have named Stella (the joy of which is opening the back door and yelling, a la Brando, "STELLA!"). She is a beautiful little creature, expressive and joyful, a digestive machine, devouring everything we put before her soft black nose (as well as that which she roots out on her own, most notably my running shoe laces). I am thinking we should have named her Hoover, for the impressive manner in which she sucks every last crumb off the carpet. Every afternoon we walk down to the reservoir (which takes a good deal of cajoling and a pound of puppy treats) and with each return visit, she grows more bold at the water's edge. It's a wonder to watch her learn something new every single day (yesterday she learned how to walk down stairs; today she learned that the neighbor's old chocolate lab doesn't care much for excitable puppies). Now if she would only sleep in her crate past 5am, all would be right in our little world.

Happy Thanksgiving!

It is Saturday morning after Thanksgiving and Jim and I are sitting around the house in our pajamas, drinking tea and relaxing in recovery from a week of food and revelry. Thanksgiving is by far my favorite holiday, oddly in remove from its rumored history (it is just like us to celebrate what could be construed as the ONLY positive interaction between the colonists and the native people). In my opinon, this is the big happy winter holiday. It has always been a day reserved for friends and food and giddy laughter while making an utter horror show in the kitchen. This past year I have been slowly making the transition from 20 year vegetarian to hearty meat eater (thanks, in part, to katryna, who introduced me most deliciously to chicken) and to celebrate this new culinary adventure, I cooked my first turkey (gobble, gobble). Putting my hand up into the turkey carcass was a new one for me, but if it died for my gustatory pleasure, damn it, I was going to familiarize myself with its innards. Turkey, I discovered, is not a instant gratification item. Cooking a turkey is the perfect excercise in patience...day long patience (a meat thermometer ensured that I would not pull it out of the oven prematurely, as I was quite inclined). Edie, the wondercat, prowled the kitchen, pacing in frantic anticipation before the oven for five hours, all the while believing he had hit the poultry jackpot (I admit to giving him a bowl full of dark meat for his vigilance). Below you'll see the results.

Thanksgiving is also the perfect excuse to make corn pudding, which, itself, is just an excuse to serve desert on your dinner plate (truly a sugar delivery system). For your sweet pleasure:

- At least two cups uncooked corn kernels cut off the cob
- 1 Tbs flour
- 1/2 cup sugar
- 1 tsp salt
- 1 egg
- 1 cup whole milk
- butter

Pre-heat oven to 350. Mix together the dry ingredients with the corn kernels. Flatten this mixture into the bottom of a small casserole dish. In a small bowl, beat together the milk and the egg and pour over the corn/four mixture. Do NOT mix. Dot the top with pats of butter. Place in the oven and bake for about an hour or until an pick comes out clean.

I hope this finds you and your loved ones very, very well in this holiday season.

xo
Beth

Congratulations to YOU, the Red Sox fan!

The end of the World Series, for me, has always been the true end of summer. No more sandals or sundresses. No more late evening light. It is a hard transition to make, but this year is a bittersweet one. I have to give a warmhearted congratulation to the Boston Red Sox and all of you who have been long suffering fans. As many of you know, I am a dyed in the wool Yankee fan (I know, I know, but they aren’t REALLY the evil empire), but I have to hand it to the 2004 team from Beantown. They displayed a scrappiness and a camaraderie that was a blast to watch. See you next year!