A line 10,000 strong
As a fan of popular culture and politics, I find political rallies intriguing. They’re another instance of storytelling, albeit with an interest of some measurable outcome, the citizen’s vote. Living in DC for more than a decade I learned to eschew most political gatherings—I could have been at an event 24/7 if I’d wanted such a thing—save for the occasional march for a cause, or a major event like an inauguration. But the closest I ever got to the Capitol was to have my engagement photo session on its grounds, and to take a tour with my soon-to-be inlaws who came to town for the wedding. We sat in the public gallery for the House, which was empty at the time, and had to imagine the posturing, bickering, and dealmaking that went on at the bottom of the chamber. Read More…
We drove down into Walla Walla on Monday morning, Susanne napping in the passenger seat and me maneuvering through the Snoqualmie Pass in the Cascades. I set my barometer for driving endurance in college, where my parents’ house and the university were roughly four and a half hours apart. The corners of Washington State are about the same distance, so it doesn’t feel like too bad a stretch to get from point A to point B. Anything shorter than this is a breeze, anything longer and I start to feel like looking at asphalt is itself an exhausting prospect. 
Susanne and I ventured a few blocks from our apartment last night to take part in a cooking class on Indian cuisine with 
My latest post is up at Bitch Magazine,
In the early aughts I had occasion to explore the offices of the National Transportation Safety Board in Washington, DC. By law, these folks must investigate every plane accident that happens in the country, even the very minor ones. It’s up to their discretion if they examine a railroad incident, car accident, metro train derailing, and so on, but of course they have all of the equipment they need to deconstruct the physical remnants of these human tragedies if they opt to take on a case. It comes down to the seriousness of the event and the staff resources at that moment. 
In Walla Walla, people have a habit of parking opposite to traffic when they leave their cars curbside. In Walla Walla, a resident fond of chainsaw sculpture has set something like 20-odd statues around his Alder Street lawn. In Walla Walla, people construct chicken coops in their back yards, or leave crumbing old cars on the street while they take years to get around to restoring them, and nobody bats an eye. One of the effects, perhaps, of living in the land of the libertarian is a stubborn inattentiveness to city code. So when the owner of the Inland Octopus, an old-fashioned toy store, moved a few blocks west on Main Street and commissioned a mural be painted on his store front, I would hazard a guess that he never thought anyone would come after him over anything as esoteric as ordinances. 
Susanne and I had ourselves a blast at the Mobile Chowdown V last Friday, in the parking lot of Qwest Field. Romantic setting, I know, but we were there to explore the engine-inclusive side of cuisine, not make out in public. We lucked out and found a parking spot 1.5 blocks away, albeit only after accidentally making our way to the garage for the last home game of the Mariners. Fifteen dollars for parking is $15 less we’d have had for all of the fare at the event! 
Trans/plant/portation 