Blog Title: radiopeter

WoW

World of Warcraft. It’s a game I’d been avoiding for quite some time. I knew I’d like it and I knew I’d give myself one hell of a technoerection the first time I logged in. But a couple weeks back I took the plunge and created an account with my friend Gino who was returning to WoW after a time away.

To say that WoW is large would be an understatement. According to Wikipedia, nearly 11.5 million monthly subscribers participate. To participate, you first purchase the base software ($20) and then are charged anywhere from $13 to $15 per month to participate. There are two expansions at $40 each, but I haven’t dug into those yet. No need yet for me to.

The game is an MMORPG, which means massively multiplayer online role-playing game. You create a character on a particular server, and when you’re in the game you interact with both the monsters/enemies/non-player characters as well as other people controlling their characters. There are many different kinds of characters you can create, each having their own racial and class characteristics. You even get to choose a major faction. Will you fight with the Alliance, or will you join the Horde?

I chose a fairly non-standard combination of a Female Orc Rogue. Orc’s are part of the Horde. Her name is Mavrana (c’mon, hadda get some of my name in there) and she lives on the Proudmoore server. While I wouldn’t exactly call her pretty I think she’s fairly intriguing. I should take some pictures of her to share…

So what the heck do you actually do in WoW? Well, one of the goals for me is to explore the world of Azeroth (the fictional world that encompasses WoW). Like most things in life, the more you want to explore, the more experience you’re going to need in order to explore. But fighting with other creatures (mobs) and completing quests from non-player characters, you gain experience. Experience translates into more skills, higher levels, better armor, and so forth. The more you play and succeed, the more you can see and do in the world.

While I knew I was going to see some amazing things, what I didn’t realize was just how blown away I was going to be by the graphics. The amount of intense art direction, graphic and audio design that has gone into this game is truly staggering. The quests are rich with Warcraft lore and traditions, and over time you can almost start to think of the places and races as a kind of reality. Check out some screenshots here.

In fact, it’s all real. There REALLY IS a character named Ogunaro Wolfrunner that sells wolf mounts in a city called Origirmmar. He’s a real computer program, just like the city he lives in, running on a real machine tucked away in a real computer room somewhere. There are all kinds of all computer programs running on servers all over the place. The human players are actively engaging, real-time, with millions of lines of code. It’s a technical symphony that is on the border of incomprehensible. Engage technoerection. Virtual reality at it’s finest. A world, within a world, within a world.

At first I thought it would mostly be me vs. the world of Azeroth. And for quite a while you can play the game that way. But that would get boring after a time I’m sure. What Blizzard, the company responsible for Wow, has tapped into so well is the cooperative experience that a MMORPG can offer. Another dimension of the game unfolds before you as you get to know other playing characters. Somewhere out on the internets, there are thousands (if not more) of those 11.5 million players sitting at their computer too, hanging out on your server, playing the game. Once you learn how to interact with them AND the game, it’s not just you vs. the world. It becomes us vs. the world, which I think is key to the success of the game.

In just the last couple days I had the chance to group with another set of characters and enter my first set of instanced dungeons. There’s a complex technical explanation of what an instance is, but basically think of it like a copy of the dungeon that only me and a few other people get to play. It’s us vs. that dungeon, and it took me right back to the RPG experiences I had as a kid. Except with graphics. And with the computer doing the scoring. And with sounds and sights that were awesome. After entering with strangers, I left with friends. How cool is that?

Spore was a letdown this year. I was overexcited but ultimately underwhelmed. As cool as it was to create, it feels limited. On the other hand, I feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface of WoW, and with the sophisticated social aspect inherent in the game, I’m sure I’ll be playing for a long time to come.

For the Horde!!

come and go with me to that land

Best wishes for you in 2009. This is Pete Seeger, Jean Ritchie, and the incomparable Dr. Bernice Johnson Reagon from Seeger’s show The Rainbow Quest, episode #5.

If everyone had music like this as a regular part of their lives today, I think we’d all get along a little better.

looking back on 2008

In my former position with Windy City, I had the chance to chat with Miss Cleo a few times. Yep, THAT Miss Cleo. My initial thoughts (and possibly yours) about her quickly melted away when we weren’t recording. She really was an amazing woman to chat with. My co-host made the mistake (in my opinion) of asking Cleo what the future would hold for us. Her response? Big, immense, change.

Never truer words were spoken.

Leaving Windy City was one of the best things I did in 2008. I left because I was treated like shit. Despite the balmy conversations you can still hear in my last episodes, things under the surface were not good. I never recorded a goodbye episode because I couldn’t stand the thought of working with them again. Yes, it’s completely personal. If I had to compare the last couple months there against anything else I’ve done, I’d say it was the worst job ever.

After searching, I found some companies who were interested in my work and would allow me to get outside of the horrible second-class box I was in. To date, the negotiations are still continuing. It’s still a major work in progress, and I hope to see movement in 2009 on that front.

2008 was the year I began caving. At Carlsbad in New Mexico earlier this year, and at Mammoth Cave in Kentucky last month. It changed who I am and how I view the world, and I can’t wait to get back down in a cave. I don’t know where I’ll go next, and I’m not sure how I’ll get there. In caving I’ve finally found a sport I really enjoy.

Apparently, at least according to my friend Cheryl, I have a distaste for hanging out on the earth’s crust. While caving happens below, something else happened above.

My first flight was this summer. Not my first flight in a plane, but the first flight where I was the one flying the plane. It was magic, and I’ve had a few more lessons since then, but I’m not steady-state flying just yet. As you can imagine, weather has put a crimp in my aviation style, so I’m all about the books as of late, flying at home in my simulator. But come spring, look up. You might see me.

I left the Handbag Ensemble, after barely a year in the group. I loved every moment of it, but my time is precious and I didn’t want to spend it with them. Working on a show takes a lot of time away from life. For the last two years, my holiday season had been filled with shows. I’m happy to report I’m enjoying the exact opposite this year.

Parties, social engagements, and general rest are the order of these days and I love it. Working on stage (or behind) just doesn’t compare. Part of me wanted to dislike the free time, but I don’t. I’m not one to say never, but I don’t see myself on stage (or behind) again any time soon.

Relationships. Well. I went on so many dates this past year the menz are blurrrrrd in my head. There were good ones and bad ones, happy endings and sad. I’m not sure I learned anything more about my likes and dislikes, but I can clock a player in about 30 seconds. Net-net, there are some more numbers in my phone I can use on a whim. We’ll see what the future holds.

Pride 2008 rocked, plain and simple. 60+ folks, cooking for days and feeding the masses. My mom, my sister and her husband helping to make it all flow smoothly. Historically it was the first time it rained on the gay during pride and I had THE shelter to end all shelters. And there was a drink fountain. Who doesn’t love a drink fountain?

My family lost a Mavrikos, but gained an Eschbach this year. About damn time if you ask me. My sister Elaine was married July 19th to her husband John. Perhaps the fastest wedding ever planned (save for Vegas shotgun weddings), it went off without a hitch and a good time was had by all. Remind me whenever I’m inclined to take the plunge just how much work is involved in planning an event like that. I think I’ll have beer and pizza when I marry a man.

Above all, 2008 is the year that I fully realized I have to evaluate my friendships from time to time, and clean house when necessary.

Once upon a time there was a circle of friends in my life I’d do anything for. We were tight, we grew together, and we did nearly everything socially as one. Many of them showed their true colors this year, aggrandizing each pithy, self-created situation around them into a whirling vortex of drama. For guys who should be old enough to know better, it shocked me to see them act like kids.

When life held it’s magnifying lens over their ways of the world, they couldn’t stand it and decided to lash out at everyone, even me. The gossip, the jealousy, the fifth-grade politics, it all decided the outcome even before the final blows were laid down. It’s mildly amusing to me that they thought when the dust settled I’d be on their side. They aren’t in my life anymore, and boy do I feel taller.

Thanks to all of you who visit radiopeter.com. Although I find writing out into the void of the internets comforting, I appreciate and love when you comment or feedback in any way. And I hope that you too are blogging. If so, let me know where.

point the finger at yourself

That’s what my drama teacher back in (get) high school used to tell us when there was something obviously wrong with a rehearsal. Except it usually didn’t apply to me because I was the techie in charge of lighting. And hey, the lights were on at the right times, in the right places, so my job was done.

However, that anecdote brings me to all these insane people complaining about falling on the ice in Chicago. Let me put on my best crotchety older-man (Dvorak) voice and say “Back in my day there was ice on the ground. Far more than today. And we wore the right boots. And we were fine.” Ok, back to my normal voice.

You won’t fall if you have the right boots on!!

Every day for the last week people have been complaining about the ice on the sidewalks and all over the city. Well, Welcome to Chicago! *muah* I know you just got here, but guess what? It gets cold. Really cold. So cold that the salt stops working on the ice.

Now for some Chicagoan.

So whaddya do about dis ice prollem? Ya go ta da DSWs, or you get dem Totes from da Walgreens or da Jewels, or ya get fancy and hit dat new REIs on Halsteds for some boots. (TRANSLATION: go shopping for those rubber Totes shoe covers, or get boots)

How TF are you idjits even considering walking around town in those bad shoes?

I have seen so many flat-sole shoes that the Chicagoan in me is cringing. No sir, your Kenneth Cole pilgrim-buckled loafers won’t cut it. And hey lady, why are you wearing pumps? Oh my Christ, and you in da heels? Are you bonkers? Whaddya thinkin over dere?

It blows my mind that people are blaming the city, blaming businesses, or blaming anyone. In the words of the immortal Dave Canepa “Point The Finger At Yourself!”

Grace does Christmas

Simply priceless. And I adore her hat.

true blood

My cable television connection hasn’t seen HBO since Big Love left the air. January 18th it returns to the small screen (or the 56″ screen in my living room), but I’m not sure if I want to pay for HBO just to watch it. The internet is a wonderful thing, and I’m certain there will be episodes flying around.

Living without HBO has been fine. But I missed the beginning of a series called True Blood that was getting some pretty high praise in certain circles. My friend Troy recommended it for me, along with a couple other internet bloggers I regularly read. So I set my sights on finding the episodes. Thankfully I was able to get a hold of all twelve and watch them from start to finish.

If you know Six Feet Under or American Beauty, you know Alan Ball, writer of both. The magic in his writing is the believable reality of his characters against the surreality of their settings. Six Feet Under was entertaining because I enjoyed the characters AND wanted to see what was going to happen next in their world. It’s a kind of approachable television that looks familiar until it blindsides you with something completely unexpected. The opening death sequences of Six Feet Under are a perfect example.

True Blood is set in the regular everyday world. Except vampires, now able to survive on a synthetic form of blood, are coming out into society and mixing with the living. I know what you are thinking. Vampires? Vampires are real? Someone is making another show about Vampires? I won’t mention that horrible, craptastic, turd-laden show that rhymed with Fluffy The Tramp Fire Player because that pile of skin boil exudate deserves to be forgotten. Permanently.

Yes, the True Blood world includes vampires, locally in Bon Temps, Louisiana and around the world. Portrayed in some classical ways as highly sexual creatures, malicious in groups, and lonely in their own ways. At some points, the main plotline that flows through the first twelve episodes mirrors the classic “beauty and the beast” story. What differs in this universe of the undead is some unique twists on vampire creation, the magic that they posses, and the powerful narcotic that is vampire blood.

Charlaine Harris, author of the Sookie Stackhouse (Southern Vampire) Series books, originally created the world we’re seeing in the series. Ball has adapted it to bring True Blood to life. I haven’t yet read the books (they are next in line after I finish my tour of some books of my childhood) but I’m looking forward to digging more into her world in print. On the screen, it’s mesmerizing.

The usual vampire issues are dealt with in inventive ways. Questions of sunlight, silver, crosses, and garlic are brought up as we (the audience) watch the vampires come into contact with the living and engage in daily life. The fly-on-the-wall view of this seemingly normal world on the surface was what kept me watching.

Ball’s writing (and hopefully Harris’) truly shines as his vampires, the current scourge of the nation, deal publicly with issues akin to racism, homophobia, segregation, and that old standby, miscegenation. Mock CNN pro- and anti-vampire talking heads dot the episodes. You can almost feel the subtle movements for and against them as the characters develop and unfold. In case you didn’t know, Ball is out and proud of being gay. Maybe it’s just me, but I felt the strong ties between the gay community and the vampires. I liked that.

The character work is awesome in the series. Anna Paquin, the young quiet storm who won an Oscar at age 11, now age 26, plays Sookie Stackhouse completely. Sookie is blessed (or cursed) with the ability to read the minds of people around her, and the acting required to pull off the visual and aural riffs on her ability is so on point, you completely believe it, and even look forward to how she peeks into other folks minds.

Bill Compton, the vampire we get to know best, played by English actor Stephen Moyer (whom I recognized from a Cadfael episode) plays his part of a Civil-War era southern genteel-turned-vampire with a cool hand. He’s lovable, handsome, smart as a whip, a perfect gentleman, and has the most engaging blue eyes of anyone in the series. I fell for his character when we first meet him and during one of the more romantic scenes, I was so caught up in watching him I almost burned dinner.

The other two notables in my book are Sookie’s brother Jason and her best friend Tara. Jason, a troubled but smoking-hot young man who enjoys the pleasures of the female flesh quite a bit, provides perhaps the most skin of the show. But flesh-fest aside, actor Ryan Kwanten has taken what could have been a joke of a character and given him so many levels of depth, it’s nearly impossible to dislike him, even as he learns to hate vampires. I thought, in a strange parallel, how much his character path reminded me of Wicked and the “origins of evil” theme.

Tara, played by Rutina Wesley, daughter of an alcoholic mother (a brilliant Adina Porter), battles nearly everything that comes near her. Angry black woman is where she starts, but after the first twelve episodes, she’s looking in more mirrors than ever before. It’s tough act to play, and at first she seemed to be very one note. But slowly the layers emerge and she comes into her own in the series.

I could keep writing about True Blood for another few pages. But if I did that I’d start to letting spoilers slip out left and right. Thus far I don’t think I’ve written anything that will spoil the series, but I do hope you dig around and watch the series because, as much success as Six Feet Under Had, True Blood has that same potential. I hope season two is just as engaging.

recharging with risotto

Winter is here. It’s actually been here for a while, I just haven’t really written about it. It’s that time where you need an extra few minutes on either side of whatever you want to do that involves leaving the house. The boots, the gloves, the scarf, the hat, the extra layers, all orchestrated to keep you warm.

A simple trip to the store turns into a mild adventure. Your morning commute is different. And even the floors in general change, with paths of brown streaked trails from each and every door fading into footprints at the Walgreens, the Jewels, and even at the CVSs. Yes, they’re all plural. This is Chicago after all.

Boots by the doors, not on the floors. That’s a common mantra. So are suggestions of “lake-effect snow” which are puzzling to most neophyte Chicago dwellers. I can’t count how many times it’ll be a blizzard by my house (near Lake Michigan) with no trace of snow at my folks place, just barely ten miles northwest of me.

Winter is the Chicago season most folks love to hate, and hate to love. I, however, revel in it. The city takes on a different face when it’s covered in a layer of white. People also seem, somehow, more empathic toward each other. And their morning cup of caffeine is that much more welcome, simply because it’s something warm to hold in your hands.

I spent this past long weekend (I had Friday off) hibernating. I had a slight cold which thankfully didn’t bloom into anything insane. I don’t actually think I left my apartment from Thursday afternoon until Sunday brunch, with Omar and his friend Greg.

Most of the time I was on the couch, under a blanket, with one or both kitties watching movies or the Food Network. And of course, when I wasn’t in the living room, I was in the kitchen cooking. I baked some yeast rolls, I made a cheddar souffle for fun, and I finally cracked open the box of arborio rice that had been laughing at me for weeks.

I’d meant to make butternut squash risotto a few weeks ago, but never got around to it. While scavenging in the ‘fridge, I noticed a gigantic bag of carrots that were begging to be eaten. My brain clicked. Wouldn’t carrots make a divine risotto as well? Their cooked sweetness against the creamy, salty, onion-y rice. Maybe some sage and nutmeg to play sweet and savory against each other?

Sure enough, it worked like a charm. Diced and sauteed the carrots with brown sugar, butter, and olive oil until glazed and tasty. Mashed half, and reserved the rest. Onto the risotto, made with chicken stock flavored with lots of sage and extra onions in the risotto pan. Halfway through, tossed the mashed carrots in (which turned everything a beautiful orange), added in some nutmeg and more sage, and finished with some butter and a touch of heavy cream along with the final carrot pieces.

Thick, rich, chunky, carrot and sage-y goodness. Perfect winter dish for a great weekend at home. You might be asking, where’s the pancetta or bacon? The only problem now is that I want to make it again and again. I still have a butternut squash staring at me every time I walk past it. Perhaps I need to attack it soon…

three blogs I like

Let’s face it. The internets is clogged with blogs about this, that, and even one about a mildly insane Aqueerian named Peter Mavrik right here in Chicago. But still, a lot of us find corners here and there on the internet that we enjoy and regularly visit.

On one end of my blog spectrum are interesting people who either make me laugh, are engaging writers, or are the kind of people I’d become friends with if we hung out. Most of the blogs I follow are not written by people I know IRL, so it’s sort of a communal friendship from a distance. And it works fine.

On the other end of the spectrum are the blogs that I CRAVE more posts from. Finding a new post on these blogs usually trumps anything else I’m doing at the moment, which has included everything from heading to the bathroom (in which case I was reading, sitting down, with my iPhone) to nearly forgetting to take something out of the oven. I normally take potty time and baking very seriously. I’m only sharing those two examples to explain the gravitas that certain blogs carry in my world.

In The Kitchen and on the Road with Dorie

Dorie Greenspan, creator of my favorite cookies, is the baking goddess I want to be when I grow up. Her segments on NPR are inviting and warm, her cookbooks are accessible, and her recipes taste complex and simple all at once. She lives part time in France, but I’d classify her baking style and cookbooks as very American.

Her blog is a melange of recipes, gorgeous photography (food and otherwise), and a collection of stories about living a life where food, cooking, and eating are the best things in the world. She is a writer who talks to you, not at you. Enjoying her cooking segments on NPR has taught me what her voice sounds like, and I can imagine her reading each blog post to me with little squeals of vocal delight as she finds a new kind of cookie, a new source for cheese, or even as she describes a fantastic meal. For the bakers in your world, I suggest you point them at her blog and buy them one of her cookbooks as a gift.

Evil Mad Scientist Laboratories

I was obsessed with taking things apart as a kid. My dad would take me to the second hand shops and we’d buy cheap things to disassemble together so I’d get to learn what the insides looked like. My goal was always to try and piece them back together. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. But the gadgeteer bug never left me.

Evil Mad Scientist Laboratories provides how-to’s, link dumps, and a whole heck of a lot of information about tinkering, hacking mechanical bits and pieces, and pretty much playing with grown up toys. Their edible googly eyes set me into fits of laughter. I have yet to figure out where I’ll use them, but it’s wacky things like that, sort of left-field, that EMSL is known and loved for.

Paleo-Future

What did you think life was going to be like in the year 2000? I was convinced we were going to be a lot closer to The Jetsons than we actually are (gee, thanks Hannah-Barbera!) Of course, I wasn’t born until the late 70’s, but I did stumble across a few 1950’s style magazines in my youth at various garage sales and whatnot. The advertisements about what life would be like in the future were magical and at times, eerily prescient.

Paleo-Future “A Look Into The Future That Never Was” examines what some folks thought life would become. Retro ads tickle me, and the artwork and art direction in some cases is magnificent. I’ve only recently started reading, and plan to spend a couple evenings digging all the way back to the beginning of the blog. Check out this Fred McNabb drawing in a post about the house of the future, done in 1956. The art sort of reminds me of Shag aka. Josh Agle, an artist I’ve always loved.

Little Britain USA

Thanks to the internets I’ve been able to watch a couple shows I’d otherwise miss. Namely, HBO’s Little Britain USA.

Little Britain USA came at the recommendation of my friend Madge over Ethiopian food one night. I’d been a big fan of the original series that ran on the various BBC television channels in the U.K. David Williams and Matt Lucas are comic geniuses and anyone who tries to tell you different should be shot. With a Nerf gun. Or at the very least, vomited on by Maggie Blackamoor.

The original series obviously pokes fun at the natives of their land. The stereotypes are all there and their over-the-top pastiche kept me giggling along the way. I’ve worked with folks from the U.K. for many years now, and lots of the jokes were so raw and unbelievable, I couldn’t help but laugh. Daffyd Thomas (the only gay in the village!), Lou and Andy (some of my favorite skits), and Harvey Pincher, the 30 year old breast-feeding mommas boy, are a the top of my list, the latter being my favorite. I don’t know what it is, but when Williams (as Harvey) whispers to his aging mother “Bitty” I lose it every time. The horror and humor of it all is remarkable.

However, I didn’t think the comic duo could get any better. Madge recommended the USA version, and I set my sights on getting a hold of the six episodes produced for HBO. Soon enough, I was loading my Apple TV with them. My sides are still hurting from laughing so hard.

Little Britain USA melds some of the characters from the original series with “American” stereotypes. And it works better than I could have imagined. Watching Lucas and Williams play both Americans and Brits was full the most hilarious kind of jokes, extra filthy because they were on HBO.

In one of the skits, Marjorie Dawes, the lead of a weight-loss support group called Fat Fighters, brings in Rosie O’Donnell as a special guest. As Madge promised, it was some of the best comedy television I’ve ever seen. The jokes at Ro’s expense were outrageously funny. I’m certain my neighbors thought I was murdering someone because I was screaming so loud.

The remaining five episodes are just as side splitting. You don’t really need to know the original series to appreciate the humor, but it’s worth seeing as much Little Britain as possible. At least it was for me. The only problem will be waiting for more episodes…

turkey day, in photos

These pictures kinda say it all.

things to be thankful for

Is a things-I’m-thankful-for Thanksgiving post cliché? Perhaps. But when is it ever bad to take stock of your life? Here are some of the things I’m thankful for in no particular order.

1) My job. Seriously. I know so many people who loathe what they do. Yet people look at me like I’m insane when I say “I love my job”. Why, I ask you, is it bad to enjoy what you do for a living? I love what I do and my job lets me live a comfortable life.

2) My family. Who would any of us be without family? And I don’t just mean biological family. Most people also have a chosen family. Those are the people that are sometimes closer than your siblings, usually more informed than your parents, and generally tell you the hard, fast truth about what they see. I’m thankful to have the best of both worlds around me.

3) My cats. They wake up next to me every day and hardly mind morning breath. When I’m on the couch, they’re there. At my desk, while soaking in the tub, and even while pooping, Meo and Oberon are my constant companions. I love them so much it hurts. They cheer me up when I’m down, they constantly make me smile, and whenever I feel a bit useless (it happens to us all) I know they need me to take care of them. An armful of warm, purring, hairless kitties is the closest thing to bliss I know.

4) Good food, and the ability to cook. I’m no Iron Chef, and I don’t even think I could survive very long on Top Chef. But I’m an active home cook, and the kitchen is the room I’m happiest in. Shopping for food is the best kind of shopping in the world, and my cupboards are full of oddities from all continents. Which leads me to my fifth and final thing I’m thankful for…

5) Chicago. I’m an extreme oddity among friends. I was born and raised here, and I may be one of just three or four natives that live life east of Western Avenue. In the words of Sammy Sosa “Chicago has been berry berry good to me.” Great food, great diversity, great shopping, great music, and world-class art. We have it all. Sure, we don’t have mountains, but we have a lake. No, there’s no sand dunes, but a couple hours in a plane in any direction will get you to nearly every kind of climate in the world. And this time of year, walking up Michigan Avenue with a heavy coat, a scarf, gloves, and a hat, I’m reminded just how thankful I am to call this place home. Plus, in six months, I’ll be wearing a tank and shorts, and biking by the lake. I repeat, we have it all.

returning underground, part two

Despite the immense Saturday night dinner we had at Rosie’s BBQ All-you-can-eat buffet (used to be called Hickory Villa, be sure to visit, it’s near the Super 8 in Cave City) after Grand Avenue, when we returned to the Super 8, I had trouble sleeping. I was just on the edge of diving back down into the earth for the Wild Cave tour, barely twelve hours away. I checked and re-checked my gear, praying my tour group would be on the thinner side and in good health. I was scared and excited, unable to stop replaying my Carlsbad adventures in my head. Would it be the same? Would I make it through? Could I push beyond my limits yet again? What, if anything, will we find down there…

My alarm rang at 7am and I snapped awake. Gino was still slumbering by the time I’d changed, washed up, and readied myself for the tour. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a ticket to Wild Cave, but he was planning to head there early with me to try and get on the waiting list. Well, there was no such luck and he didn’t get to join me. Instead, with three rangers, Kevin, Janet, and Joel (the guide from our Grand Avenue Tour), and 13 other guests, we headed behind the visitors center to talk helmets, lights, safety, and just how dangerous a cave can be.

I’m going to pause my story here and lecture a bit. Stick with me. It’s worth it.

All of us get into regular routines. We go to work/school, we socialize with our friends, we do the kinds of things in our city/town/area that we enjoy. Finding a place where you are content in life, physically and emotionally, is pretty much at the top of our agendas. The trouble is that routine life rarely teaches you much about yourself. Sure, you can meet the occasional new person, or encounter a book, or read a magazine, or view a television program that expands your mind. But I believe you need to get out of your usual physical location to learn more about yourself. Routines are routines because you don’t have to think much about them.

It takes courage to break out of routines. New things scare a lot of people. New people, new places, new social customs, and new foods are all at once intimidating and frightening. But what lives beyond intimidation? Knowledge. What’s on the other side of fear? Same thing, knowledge.

How can you ever enrich your routines unless you learn more?

Ahh, but Peter, you’re asking, why on earth do I want to enrich my life? Why learn more? Why try different things? Why change? In short, to be gently metaphoric, because the still pool stagnates quickly.

Remember the still, stagnant pool as I continue my cave story.

Caving isn’t something most people can just outright do. Body size and shape matter. Your general fitness level matters. But neither of these things compare to the immense mental strength it takes to squeeze yourself from one dark chamber, through a dark tunnel a bit smaller than a 19″ monitor (that’s a hole about 15″x11″), into another dark chamber. Our first major test in the cave, the squeeze that would weed out the men and women from the boys and girls, was called Bare Hole. Getting through goes something like this.

There is the hole. No, not that giant gaping thing in the wall. That dark oval down there at ground level. The one that’s eating your headlight. Nope, you can’t see the other side from here. It’s not a direct shot. Just get down, and get in there.

You have to tilt your head and body to the side as you enter. Reach one of your arms in front of you, and keep the other pressed firmly into your side. Just as your shoulders begin to pass through the beginning, relax, exhale, and slither a few inches in. Your head and shoulders are now completely in the hole. Slither some more and work your body further through. Now you’re in up to your knees. Your hands are useless, and you are relying on your toes and a kind of sidewinder motion to push you through.

Stop, take a shallow breath, and exhale.

You push your body further through the tunnel. It’s getting smaller and you can only breathe in short gasps. Keep them slow, in and out. Slowly draw in the air, slowly push it out. Slither forward some more. Thank God you have boots with great traction. The wall is inches in front of your face, so close you can’t even see your headlight because it’s blocked. You can feel the cool stone stealing the heat from your skin. Now you are completely surrounded by rock, wedged into a tube barely the size of a human. Slither forward even more. You stretched your ankles right? They are the only thing that you can move.

Suddenly, your head pops out into a chamber so big you can’t see into the blackness at the either end. Two rangers are there, their lights shining on the ground in front of the hole that is slowly giving birth to you. They are coaching you on how well you are doing and what to do next. You desperately want to take a deep breath and fill your lungs, but the oppressively cold rock surrounding you is keeping the size of your chest clamped to it’s minimum. You wiggle your feet some more, exhale completely, and pitch your hips so they can glide through the hole.

Finally, your extended arm creeps forward and you find a hold. You pull yourself a bit, but that’s not going to work until your shoulders are clear of the hole. Wiggle, slither, exhale. You inch forward. Your second shoulder and are are finally free. Your other hand finds hold. You breathe all the way out, and slide forward. You’re free. You’re out of the squeeze. But you’re not done.

There is someone behind you and it’s your job to take care of them. To coach them. To offer them a hand, NOT to pull them, but to become an extra hold if they need it. Are they pushing a pack in front of them? Grab it and get it out of their way. How are they doing? Talk to them. You should know their name. You should always know the names of the people in front and behind you. Always. Help guide them. You’ve just been through the same pinch, what worked for you. Offer advice. When they are free, take a seat. Thirteen more people have to get through.

Everyone on my tour got through. And that was how the Wild Cave tour began, a far cry from any sort of still pool.

Kevin would be our lead on the Wild Cave tour. Janet followed behind him, and third in line, for almost all six hours, was either myself or a guy named Tony I’d met along the way. Seventeen souls heading off the path into the depths of Mammoth. Where would we go? Kevin’s choice, based on how we were performing. What would we see? Some of the most magical places and things Mother Earth has ever created.

You remember how one of your teachers described some sort of geologic process that took “thousands of years” to create? Well, unless you get down into a cave, I don’t think you can ever fully appreciate statements like that. We experienced parts of Mammoth that contained gaping chasms, huge domed ceilings, and layer upon layer of winding passageways obviously cut from the rock by running water. Crawling around inside those passages you can feel time both stand still and rush by as your eyes dance over layer upon layer of rock walls.

I couldn’t tell you what route we took because I’m not skilled enough to remember six hours worth of new cave experience. My body had only ever done most of the things we did twice before, and even then it was a completely different cave, so the climbing, descending, spidering (walking sideways on hands and feet), crawls, holds, and techniques were slightly different but just as difficult

It’s obvious off-trail in Mammoth how huge the system is. From crawling through passages that were barely wide enough for us (see above), to casual walks in gigantic canyons, the diversity of intensely distinct passages signaled this was, indeed, a special place. As I mentioned earlier, there aren’t many of the oh-that-is-a-cave decorations, but the omnipresent gypsum seeping out from the limestone fashions itself into some pretty spectacular features. Glittering ceilings, sparkling crevices, and at times, walls coated in shimmering gypsum flowers reminded me that for every long stalactite that wasn’t in Mammoth, there were a hundred glistening formations of infinitely more beauty.

It’s the subtle way Mammoth shows her beautiful side that’s most impressive.

At every stretch of the tour Kevin would first explain what we were about to see or do in detail. He’d talk about the history of the places we were and who was here first. He’d point out notable signatures on the walls, and give us some insight into the people who led the tours over time. We saw lots of dates from the late 1800’s and early 1900’s, which kept blowing my mind. Here I was in modern boots, with modern clothing, gloves, helmets and lighting. How did someone in the late 1800’s trek to where we were. Amazing.

As the tour progressed, Janet and I began to chat more. Would you believe she is about to celebrate her seventy-third birthday? She is a PhD, a concert pianist who tours around the world, and she’s had the chance to give a concert in the cave back in October. If only I knew, I’d have attended.

But seventy-three? Certainly no stagnant pool there. She is whip smart, limber, and has a sense of humor so hysterical, I nearly hurt myself while laughing and not paying attention to the path we were on. Mother Mammoth has a way of reminding you who is in charge around every corner.

Janet has worked at the cave for many years and is both an excellent caver and a knowledgeable historian. I asked her what it was like for her the first time she visited Mammoth, somewhere around age 50. She paused for just a moment, slightly tilted her head to the side, then looked me right in the eyes and said “All I could think about was how soon I could get back down into the cave.” I know exactly how she feels.

I can’t say there was any part of the cave that was more spectacular than another, but at some point along our tour, after Kevin explained the sections that we were going to head through in detail, he invited me to lead the tour.

Uh. ‘Scuse me? I was going to lead sixteen other people into the darkness?

It wasn’t as frightening as it sounds, but the biggest rush for the lead is looking forward into the nothingness and deciding where to go. We were on very well traveled paths, so by studying the ground I could see which fork in the road was more traveled. But for a good half-hour, I was the person pacing the group, deciding which path to take, and looking forward into the inky darkness. I am eternally grateful to Kevin for offering me that opportunity, and I honestly cannot wait to get back to Mammoth to take the tour again.

Why take the tour a second time? Well, for one, it’s never the same. Different rangers lead the tour to different places. With over 360 miles of cave, you could visit the cave a hundred times and not see it all. In fact, there is a guest who has logged over a hundred trips in Mammoth and still hasn’t seen it all. Janet told me about him and suggested that for anyone who can physically (and mentally) do it, Wild Cave is one of the better repeat-trips the National Park Service offers because it always changes.

As we made our way through tunnels, canyons, and incredible domed rooms, we occasionally passed pools of water here and there. Some were crystal clear and moving, while others were still with glass-like surfaces. From time to time we had to straddle water-filled passages by walking on natural footholds on either side of the water. The golden rule for water in Mammoth is that you should avoid stepping in running water. That water is headed elsewhere and has a job to do, so don’t contaminate it. Still water just sits there, stagnating.

The metaphor in that struck me as magically profound, going against a lot of what I believed up until that point. I’d always thought a still pool, glass-like and calm, should never be disturbed. You wouldn’t want to wreck the pristine nature of it. But it isn’t true. It’s just sitting there, festering. The running water, the water on it’s way to do something, is most precious.

Right there, down deep in the earth, dusty, muddy, sweaty, and bordering on exhaustion, I had yet another mind shattering moment of clarity.

From now on, I will do my best to be like that running water. It had the power to build Mammoth cave. It has been traveling for years. It picked up things and moved them from one place to another. It cut through solid rock. It left indelible impressions.

It made a difference.

I was sad to leave Mammoth, just as I was sad to leave Carlsbad. Not because I was returning to my routines, but because I know, somewhere down deep in the earth, there’s more I can learn about myself. I’ve tried my best to describe how deeply those places have left their mark on me, but words only scratch the surface (pun completely intended).

returning underground, part one

I did it again, and all I can think about is my next descent.

Friday morning my friend Gino and I headed south to Kentucky to visit Mammoth Cave. I’d been planning another cave trip after my visit to Carlsbad earlier this year. Mammoth Cave is just a scant 360ish miles away from Chicago, so a driving trip is perfect.

Again, life changed after being down in the earth.

We arrived and decided to camp. It wasn’t the greatest of ideas because eventually the heavens opened up. After much fussing with a tarp and the rain fly, we were finally safe and dry in our tent and slept. Saturday morning after a hearty breakfast in Cave City (one of the nearest towns) we headed to Mammoth for the first of two tours.

The Grand Avenue tour is a 4.5 hour walking tour in the cave that takes you on a journey of over four miles. It’s serious business for the average person, requiring extensive walking up and down steep inclines in addition to the miles of travel. You aren’t allowed to bring food into the cave, but at the Snowball Room there is a brief lunch stop ($7.50) where we enjoyed a boxed lunch complete with soup, sandwich, fruit, chips, soda, and a cookie.

Mammoth Cave is an entirely different beast than Carlsbad. The gigantic chambers are mind-blowing, and the 367 miles of explored cave make it the largest in the world. The air temperature, always in the mid-50 degrees F, felt much drier than Carlsbad. Much of what the Grand Avenue tour navigates through is cave that isn’t alive. There aren’t many of the fantastic stalactites and stalagmites that you find elsewhere. But what it lacks in ornamentation, it makes up for in sheer unbelievable volume.

Our guide Joel was great. He explained what we were seeing from a geographic standpoint at every turn. Managing a group of 75 people isn’t easy, but he did it with confidence and finesse. There was another ranger, Darlene, who brought up the rear of the tour, but she mostly kept quiet during the trip and needed to duck away from time to time to check various things in the cave.

The real history at Mammoth, explained Joel, was the fact that much of it was explored by black slaves. They were among the first modern humans to visit and explore many sections of the caves. Learning some parts from the white guides, Stephen Bishop, a notable slave, was responsible for pushing beyond most physical limits and exploring sections of the cave no one had ever seen before. He became one of the most successful guides in the cave.

Think about that for a moment. A man who was once sold and traded as goods became the de-facto expert in the caves. The white tourists had to listen to him and do everything he commanded on his tours. They also had to depend on him for their lives. The immensity of that role-reversal boggles my mind. But he did it, and he pushed beyond the limits to find new and unique places in the cave.

Grand Avenue was an amazing tour. If you are in good walking shape, I highly recommend it because it will help clue you in to just how immense Mammoth Cave is. But it was only my warm-up exercise for the Wild Cave tour I had scheduled for the next day. I knew, after walking on many paved paths and after listening to stories about people pushing themselves to find new parts of the cave, that if this four mile stretch was so carefully constructed for tourists, there had to be much more behind the scenes. And indeed there was. But those stories are best saved for another post.

The full photo set from the trip is posted on my SmugMug site.

the future in the past

In 1990, on my 13th birthday, I remember finally becoming a teenager. It was halfway through my 8th grade year. Science was my favorite subject. Mrs. Wegloski, my teacher, had the best classroom in the building, complete with a magical room filled with test tubes, alcohol burners, chemicals, and other odds and ends. Laboratory equipment fascinated me. I was fairly certain my life’s work would involve wearing a lab coat. I’d wear a tie every day and don a lab coat on at work.

Later that year I started high school, and I shined in Biology class. My teacher, Mrs. Bryce, constantly signed me out of study hall to help her in the Bio lab. At one point during the year, we DNA fingerprinted ourselves using electrophoresis equipment from UIC. I was in heaven, spending a few hours each week wearing my lab coat, tinkering around in the lab.

The next year I realized, or maybe a better term would be acknowledged, that I was gay. It wasn’t an easy decision to finalize in my mind, but I did it, and 1992 will forever be burned in my mind as the year I started to come out. It was also the year I gave up the dream of wearing a white lab coat.

Strange? Well, in all honesty, I didn’t think gay men could be scientists. I’d never seen a gay scientist, I’d never heard of a gay scientist, and I’d certainly never met one. The only gay men I’d met at that point were bartenders, waiters, actors, hairdressers, costumers, makeup artists, drag queens, and dancers. Honestly, I’m not sure why I convinced myself it wasn’t possible, but I gave it up.

In 1994 I made the mistake of starting college. The course work was seriously beneath me, as my high school prepared us incredibly well. Somehow I conjured up the image of myself as a pharmacist (there it was, the white lab coat) and tried very hard to pretend it was something I wanted to do with my life. I even worked in a pharmacy for a spell as a pharm tech and wore my lab coat with pride. It was fun, but I soon realized I didn’t want to work in that field my whole life. I wanted a life that was, well, gayer. But having never met any gay pharmacists, I didn’t really know how that would work.

I say “made the mistake of starting college” because I should have taken time off before college and just worked. I think all kids fresh out of high school should experience some life BEFORE they get snared into student loans, adult-like life, college parties, non-mandatory attendance classes, and another five to twelve years of school.

Instead I tried to make it all work. I tried to live a ‘gayer’ life, be a good student, work, and live at home. I tried very hard to find myself somewhere in-between all that, and it wasn’t working. When a very good paying job landed on my doorstep with Walgreen’s corporate, I ditched school and snatched up the job.

I’ve said it before, but I don’t regret leaving college. If I have any regrets, it was starting college right after high school. Maybe my life would be different if I’d taken time off before going to school. I don’t think I’d have ended up wearing that white lab coat after all, but who knows. Heck, today I could buy a closet full of white lab coats. I just don’t want to anymore.

When I dropped out of college to go work with Walgreen’s I knew computers were my future. Oddly enough, at the time I didn’t know any gay men who worked with computers for a living. I knew plenty who used them (I was into online dating back in ‘96, but left that scene in ‘99). I just hadn’t met anyone who made a living working with them.

How interesting. I didn’t think I could be a gay scientist because I’d never met one, but I knew for certain I could be a gay IT guy, sight unseen. Why the difference? Things that make ya go hmm…

This morning while putting on my jeans, an old tee, and a comfortable sweater, I was suddenly shocked at how different my life is from that 13 year old’s vision. I wasn’t putting on a shirt and tie and slipping on a white lab coat when I arrived at work.

In case you were wondering, the reason I bring all this up is because last night I had a dream about my future. It was patchy and didn’t make sense, so I won’t go into detail, but it made me think about what my life might look like 20 years from now. As a million scenarios were flipping through my mind this morning, I’d just pulled on my sweater, poked my head out of the top, and looked in the mirror.

If the 13 year old me didn’t even come close to predicting what I saw in the mirror this morning, how is the 31 year old me supposed to have any clue what the 50 year old me will be like?

The answer is simple and it hit me like a ton of bricks.

I can’t predict the future. But I can become whatever I want over the course of the next 20 years. So the task at hand isn’t imagining what I’ll become. It’s deciding what to become.

This will take some thought.

a video from my flying blog

Wanted to cross post this because, well, I don’t do many videos. If you want to check out more of my flying stuff, check out Flying In Chicago.

ding da bell, listen with tissue

For as long as I’ve been podcasting, I’ve know about John Ong. He’s a great podcaster, full of laughter, sincerity, and the kind of guy who you’d want to get to know in person if you had the chance. He has appeared on my show before, and has always been supportive of other queer podcasters in the community.

John has a new show with a friend called Ding da Bell and it’s simply hilarious. The delicious duo of “Ding” (John) and “Da Bell” (Maiko) spend 20 minutes or so chatting about crazy topics. They pepper their dialogue with lots of laughter and good fun. The reason the show is called “Ding da Bell” is because whenever either of them get off topic, they ring a bell to get things back on track. It sounds a bit dry, but it isn’t. And if you don’t know John, he has a really infectious laugh. Combine that with his sharp-witted co-hostess and you have a comedy team that seems to be a perfect match for podcasting.

The show is so incredibly funny that I can’t listen without tissue. Let me explain…

In Episode #6 Exotic Food, at about 7 minutes into the program, they began discussing eating sushi at a Korean owned Japanese restaurant. Da Bell, who is Japanese, shared that she was a quarter Korean and very proud of it. Ding asked her “Are you Kim Jong Il’s cousin?” Without pause Da Bell shot back “My Grandmother looks like Kim Jong Il”. Cue John’s hilarious laughter.

I was actually riding the #8 Halsted bus to work in the morning while listening to that particular show. The moment I heard Da Bell compare her grandmother to Kim Jong Il I began laughing out loud (too loud actually) on the bus. Not to sound racist, but I actually do know a few elderly Japanese women who look surprising like KJI. I guess that’s why I found it so funny, but I soon realized that everyone on the bus had turned to look at me. I swear the driver even stopped the bus to make sure I wasn’t a crazy person.

Picture it; I was sitting all by myself on the bus and laughing so hard I was crying. And then it got worse. Da Bell apologized to her grandmother for the comparison and I started laughing so much that my nose started running.

But I had no tissue!

There I was, laughing, crying, and snotting, while everyone was looking at me. When I finally quieted down, a kind lady offered me some tissue to wipe my nose and dry my eyes.

Moral of the story: Go listen to Ding da Bell right now! Just don’t listen without any tissue!

And to that kind lady on the bus, if by chance you are reading this, thank you for the tissue!

Danish dough whisk

In case you didn’t know, I’m a baker. My soups are OK. My pan fried dishes a little better. Frying and stewing are easy to me. But baking is, I think, where I really shine. It’s also the hardest activity in the kitchen. Being a stickler for details, I love it.

The last two years in the apartment I’m in now have offered me a large kitchen with a ton of shelf space and a new oven. It’s been a dream and I’ve churned out lots of new foods I’d never cooked before. Thanks in part to my CSA this year, I’ve really expanded the kinds of vegetables to cook.

Dorie Greenspan, the ultimate foodie/baker, published “Baking: From My Home To Yours” a while back and it has pushed my baking to a new level. I’ve tried many of her recipes, learned a lot, and enjoyed the results immensely. Her World Peace Cookies are perhaps the greatest cookie in the world. A bit finicky with the chilling and slicing and mashing back together of the dough, but it’s worth it. They are to die for.

The key to baking isn’t just following recipes exactly. True, you should follow them exactly the first time through, but your oven, your ingredients, and your technique aren’t necessarily the same as the author of the recipe. You will, over time, get a feel for what your kitchen can do.

Branching out from the basics and manipulating the ingredients to change texture and flavor is what I love most about baking. In my experience, texture comes from flour, sugar, fats, and temperature changes. Flavor comes from the types of flour, sugar, fats, and any extras like chocolate chips, nuts, citrus zests, etc., that you choose. It’s a balancing act that many recipes try to achieve through exact measurements and technique.

One of the more difficult techniques is mixing shaggy dough. Think pancake batter, or a quick bread batter, say banana bread. The instructions usually say something like “mix just until combined, leaving a few streaks of flour”. The reason is, if you over mix the flour, you could start to develop gluten, resulting in tough breads, heavy cookies, or pancakes that don’t rise to their fullest.

For years I’ve been using both sides of a wooden spoon. I start with the bowl of the spoon, as normal, then I use the backside to swirl in the last bits. It takes forever, but it works. I don’t own a stand mixer, so lots of work is manual in my kitchen.

Recently I found Breadtopia online. Somehow I stumbled across the site and their Danish Dough Whisk. It seemed a little too good to be true, but hey, it was one more smallish kitchen gizmo, and I think it cost me $12 with shipping.

Oh. My. God.

Mixing quick bread dough, pancakes, and basically anything else that requires flour has gone from a 5 minute chore to 30 seconds work. As I’m writing this, I have a loaf of blueberry-orange bread and a pan of chocolate chip pecan cookie bars cooling. Both recipes require some finesse when you marry the liquid ingredients to the flour/salt/leavener. You don’t want to make bread dough, but you still want everything mixed thoroughly. The dough whisk does it f l a w l e s s l y. I wish I would have purchased one years ago.

It’s going to be Christmas soon. I highly recommend picking up a few of them for the bakers in your life. They will adore you for it, and it’ll only set you back a few bucks.

a mammoth cricket adventure

Next weekend I’m planning to head down to Mammoth Cave in Kentucky. I’ve actually been there before, but this trip will be a little more like my New Mexico trip.

Mammoth Cave also offers a Wild Cave tour, but this one is a 6+ hour jaunt into the bowels of the earth. Needless to say I’m excited. I have my gear laying out on my dining room table, and every time I pass it I get that giddy feeling in my stomach.

So far I’ll be traveling with my friend Gino, but a few more folks may join. It’s still up in the air what the final count will be, but it doesn’t matter. I’m going caving again. Down into the earth, where I have to rely on my fellow cavers to make it back out.

I’ve heard Mammoth is considerably wetter than Carlsbad. Seems pretty logical given that Carlsbad is located in the desert of New Mexico, and Mammoth in the Kentucky forest at the food of the Appalachians. The only thing I worry about is the snow. That part of Kentucky shouldn’t see too much snow, but you never really know the weather until a few days beforehand. Forecasts are favorable, but I’ll remember an important cave rule. If there are two equivalent paths, take the higher one. Water flows downward…

I have two memories of my previous visit to Mammoth. I don’t think I walked down it, but I remember seeing a gigantic staircase descending from the light. A big switch-back affair that looked starkly out of place in the cave. Somehow I think there was a large shallow pool of water near the stairs because I remember smelling heavy, humid air.

The other memory is fragmented but far more vivid. One of the tours we took seemed to involve a short walk in the uncomfortably hot and humid forest (it was summer) to a door built into the side of a hill. I remember the door opening and the cool cave air rushing out at us, maybe even causing a bit of fog. As we all hustled to get inside the cool cave, lots of people began to yelp. Not scream, not holler, but yelp.

When I arrived at the door, a quick peek inside revealed the walls were moving. A thick blanket of cave crickets draped the walls of the entrance, antennae waving silently. Everywhere there was light, you could see cave crickets. Not on the ground, but on every other square inch of the walls and handrails. And let me say here, cave crickets are not the tiny critters you find in pet shops to feed to your favorite reptile. They are long-legged off-whitish things with giant whip antennae twice the size of their bodies. One isn’t frightening. Several thousand en masse are, especially as you pass by and they all whip their antennae at you, trying to figure out what you taste like. Care to see a picture? Visit this page. Here’s another. Now picture thousands of them. And you have to walk through an archway covered in them.

It was then that I realized that if the insect kingdom ever decided to rise up against humanity, they would win without much of a battle. If the walls of that entrance were covered in people, or cats, or elephants, few would cringe. But coat the walls in carpet of undulating crickets and nearly every person on this planet would think twice before crossing through.

Thankfully after about 25 feet into the cave, the flash mob of rhaphidophoridae dissipated and we were left alone. With no fatalities on either side of the equation, the tour proceeded on. I can’t remember what we saw, but walking through the cricket gauntlet certainly left an indelible mark on my brain.

Undoubtedly there will be new sights, smells, and sounds to be had on this next trip into the earth. Secretly, I hope that we’ll encounter more crickets like that. I wonder if I’ll still feel the same.

Obama & the holograms

Last night Senator Obama became President-Elect Obama. I could feel the collective sigh of relief in Chicago when CNN announced their history-making projection last night. The people chose a good man. Now let’s hope he can do good work.

But that wasn’t the only history-making projection last night. Wolf Blitzer, Jessica Yellin, and the entire CNN team ushered in a television first that I guarantee will revolutionize the way we watch television. They ‘beamed’ Yellin into the CNN studios in New York, live, in 3D, from Chicago, dubbing her visage a hologram.

N.B. EDIT: It isn’t a real hologram, but CNN called it a hologram. It’s actually an awesome composite that allows for camera tracking around the virtual image. Blitzer and Cooper couldn’t actually see the other person in the studio. They relied on their in-studio monitors to see the composite.

Will.i.am appeared later. And at several moments, holographic House and Senate projections loomed over a table in real time. My jaw dropped MANY times over the course of the broadcast. Bravo CNN.

TV will never be the same. Mark my words.

EDIT: Adding the Will.i.am video

877,000 already

Illinois is reporting that 877,000 already voted. I did it on the 24th, but I know quite a few people who still haven’t voted. I can’t say I know anyone who is on the fence, but I am seeing reports of undecided folks around the internet.

What is most interesting to me will be how many people come out to vote tomorrow on Election Day. I hope there is a large number of people in the polling places, not because I know who I want to win, but because I want to see people exercising their rights. Voting is something we all need to do because we can. There are still places in this world where the right to vote is nonexistent.

In Illinois, if you haven’t voted yet, be sure to check out VoteForJudges.org for some excellent recommendations on which judges to vote for. I’m concerned with local judges almost more than the Presidential election. The reasons why are clearly spelled out on the VoteForJudges.org website.

the smell of fall

There’s a pot of applesauce bubbling on my stove right now. The heady aroma of simmering apples and cinnamon is driving me up the wall, but it’ll be another 20 or 30 minutes before it’s ready.

It smells like fall. And like home.

Apples and cinnamon are definitely THE fall smell in my mind. When I was younger, we’d visit an apple orchard called Bell’s in Lake Zurich to pick-our-own. I remember the dusty smell of the leaves on the cool air that blew between the even rows of trees. Deep inside the orchard there was a fermented tang in the air, the scent of fallen apples on the ground. And occasionally, even thought I wasn’t supposed to, I indulged in a crispy apple, right from the tree, cold and sweet.

The main building of the orchard had a store full of every apple product imaginable. The best parts were the fresh sugared donuts, pressed cider, and bottled honey produced on the farm. I think I tried chewing honeycomb for the first time at Bell’s. I can still picture the sunlight shining through the jars of honey, spilling golden light all over the old wood floor.

The cider pressing machine was my favorite piece of machinery ever. Well, it wasn’t really the press that was the impressive part, it was the gizmo they used to wash the apples that fascinated me. Loaded in one end, they travelled around on a conveyor to get washed by water jets and eventually made it into the press. It wasn’t working every time we were there, but the few times I did see it in action, I was mesmerized. I wished I had that conveyor at home, so I could ride it and get washed, like the apples, instead of taking a bath.

Somehow we transported bushels of apples, gallons of cider, and dozens of donuts back home and stored them safely away in our basement ‘fridge. Mom would, at some later point, pull out her largest stock pot and we’d peel and chop the apples for what seemed like hours. Into the pot they went, and then the cooking began. Secretly, it was never the applesauce I wanted. I just liked the perfumed air in the house.

One of the first things I did when I moved out on my own was to cook applesauce. It wasn’t even fall, but I needed to fill my new place with that scent to make it home. I made way too much and didn’t eat most of it. My roommate at the time thought I was crazy, but for a couple days that comforting smell lingered in the air.

A number of years ago I read that Bell’s orchard closed and was converted into townhouses. I remember crying because I’d wanted my kids to experience that place. Obviously I don’t have children yet, but just the thought that I couldn’t pick apples, chew honeycomb, and watch the conveyor belt with them made me sad.

mah foot telz me fings

Often I’ll see one of my cats doing this move. I walk into the room, they’re licking their bits and pieces (yeah, I’m jealous) and they look at me in that funny-yet-evil way while clutching their foot.

Eebil kitteh yowgah ah finks…

the chill and the diagonal scarf

This morning it was cold enough to debut a scarf that I finished knitting a few months ago. It’s made of variegated wool that travels through red-black-green-black-grey-black. The variegation is a long travel so it’s perfect for a pattern like Karen Baumer’s Multidirectional Diagonal Scarf.

The pattern is easier than it seems. You basically are always using the knit stitch (no purling!!) to short-row on the bias, stitching back and forth to build the triangles that make up the scarf. At each end of a row, you either increase (knit into the front and back of one stitch) or SSK (slip-slip-knit) the old triangle to the new one. Once you make it through the first section, you’ll automatically know what you have to do just by reading the stitches on your needles. There is an alternate ending at the bottom of the pattern that I recommend. The finished end looks more balanced that way.

I’ve actually just finished another scarf in this pattern with several scraps of yarn in many colors, one for each triangle, and I’ll post pics when I have them. But for now, scarf weather is here, and I’m happy.

the best political commentary to date

David Sedaris recently wrote a piece in The New Yorker called “Undecided”. As usual, it’s brilliant, and my favorite passage, laced with his signature brevity and depth, is below.

While commenting on the talking heads in television that claim to be unable to decide which candidate they like, Sedaris muses:

….I think of being on an airplane. The flight attendant comes down the aisle with her food cart and, eventually, parks it beside my seat. “Can I interest you in the chicken?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass in it?”

To be undecided in this election is to pause for a moment and then ask how the chicken is cooked.

I mean, really, what’s to be confused about?

Exactly.

I did. did you?

free Dr. Pepper November 23rd

http://www.chinesedemocracywhen.blogspot.com/

Dr. Pepper said they’d give a free Dr. Pepper to everyone in the U.S. when Guns n’ Roses finally releases their 17-years-in-the-making-album Chinese Democracy arrives. I’ll remind you on Nov 23. Just giving you a head’s up now.

some new headers, some old headers

Today someone asked me if I had a post that showed all the randomly chosen headers here on radiopeter, and I didn’t! So, here are the four new ones featuring photos by Olivia Leigh of my sisters wedding. The rest are after the jump.

Chicago voters, peep your ballot!

If you haven’t already voted and need to do your homework on the judges in the November 4th election (I certainly do) you can preview your ballot on the Chicago Board of Election Commissioners for the City of Chicago website.

Do check our your ballot BEFORE entering the polling place, as the judge retention can be an extremely tricky situation. There are 68 on the sample ballot I have, and I need to do some serious homework between now and November 4th.

Also, http://www.voteforjudges.org/ can help you understand a bit about the judges on the ballot. Most important about this site for me is the review from the Lesbian and Gay Bar Association of Chicago. Their opinions on the judges matter to me.

RP067 Barbara Jordan’s 1976 DNC Keynote

Not sure how many of you have heard Barbara Jordan’s 1976 DNC Keynote. I feel that everyone needs to listen to this speech and reflect. Enjoy.

wai u mad?

This may just be my new favorite LOLcat. Thankfully my cats don’t have a paper fetish, but my sisters felines do…

face of today, down the road

Today marked the final day of my current boss at the bank. In my mind, the words of Blind Melon’s “Change” are ringing truer than ever before.

And as we all play parts of tomorrow,
Some ways will work and other ways we’ll play.
But I know we all can’t stay here forever,
So I want to write my words on the face of today.

I’ve worked in the corporate sector for a long time now. I’m 31 and have almost ten years under my belt at my current company, plus a few more from my time at Walgreens. I’ve had many bosses, and having had the ultimate boss, my self-employed, self-made father, I know a bit about what makes a good manager and what makes a bad one. The good and the bad are easy to spot from a mile away. You just have to know where to look.

Trust me. When you find a good one, you don’t want the relationship to end.

A good boss teaches; I’ve learned. A good boss lets go; I’ve done a ton on my own. A good boss supports, protects, and makes it possible for business to move, never forgetting that there are people behind the motions of the business oceans. I can honestly say I’ve never felt like there was anything I couldn’t get done with him around. No words, thoughts, actions, or subjects were ever taboo.

A far cry from the so called “leaders” of my past at the bank. I could write volumes about the past stooges I worked for, but I won’t. I’m actually happy to have hit the lows with them. At least now I know what I don’t like in a boss.

An amazing parallel is that he has become a good friend. Where I once introduced him as my boss when we were outside of work, now I only introduce him as my friend. It’s a double plus. Over time we’ve learned to weave our social lives into our work lives without batting an eye, something I rarely, if ever, engage in with other people at the bank.

Not only is my great boss moving on, a good friend is moving on too.

So here I am. Writing my words on the face of today because I know we all can’t stay here forever. (damn I like those lyrics) I’m gonna miss him somethin’ turrible.

To close, I’ll drop some words from another song that seems humorously apropos and represents some of the greatest producing Quincy Jones has ever done. Plus, I know he’ll get a kick out of them when he reads this post…

Cause there may be times,
when you think you lost your mind.
And the steps you’re taking,
leave you three, four steps behind.
But the road you’re walking,
might be long sometimes
You just keep on stepping
and you’ll be just fine!

Ease on down,
ease on down the road!
Ease on down,
ease on down the road !
Don’t you carry nothing
that might be a load.
Come on!
Ease on down,
ease on down, down the road!

The Omnivore’s Hundred

By way of Eli Cooks, Very Good Taste thinks the 100 things below should be tried by every omnivore. In bold are the ones I’ve tried.

1. Venison
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos rancheros
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile (Hmm. I’ve had Alligator, does that count?)
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari
12. Pho
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses (*sigh* not yet.)
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper (I was curious. NEVAR AGAIN!)
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna cauda (had to Google it. Sounds divine!)
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi (I prefer Mango)
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar (When you could still smoke at Harry Carry’s)
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail (My Dad’s restaurant had the BEST Oxtails on Tuesday’s)
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects (I ate a chocolate covered ant and a fried grub)
43. Phaal (Googled this too. Where can I get it!)
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more
46. Fugu (No taste. Seriously. Mildly numb lips and citrusy sauce, but no taste)
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone (Crunchier than you’d expect)
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV (Chimay anyone?)
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores
62. Sweetbreads (With eggs. Mmm.)
63. Kaolin (this is the stuff in Kaopectate in the 80’s right?)
64. Currywurst (On my to-do list)
65. Durian (No thanks.)
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette (Chitlins. Say it chit-lynnes)
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost, or brunost (yay brown cheese!)
75. Roadkill (seriously? No thanks)
76. Baijiu (*hic*)
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail (hated it!)
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky (White Lolita is my fave)
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant.
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake (In ‘nugget’ form. Delish)

I’d add a few more.

101. Natto
102. Any fruit right off the tree, no washing
103. Freshly killed ‘n cooked chicken
104. Chicago Style Pizza
105. Tamarindo or Arroz Paletas, from a street cart with bells
106. Kokoretsi
107. Pierogi
108. Ouzo
109. Spanakotiropitakia
110. Octopus, beaten, air dried, then grilled

five years, twenty-seven days

Good times and bum times,
I’ve seen them all and, my dear,
I’m still here.
Plush velvet sometimes,
Sometimes just pretzels and beer,
But I’m here.

For whatever reason, in 2003, this blog was born. My very first entry was posted on September 11th, an eerie day for many folks. I was still a DJ, still friends with people who are now part of my past, and my head was in a completely different place.

Happy Belated Fifth Birthday Radiopeter.com!

The last five years have seen me through many changes in life. I went from my 20’s to my 30’s. I stepped into and out of the queer media. There’s been hook-ups, break-ups, hangovers, parties, deaths, births, weddings, podcasts, videos, and every emotion possible, plus maybe some new ones. Through it all, my blog has been there to record most, if not all, of the details. In so many ways it’s become a trusted friend. But at the end of the day, it’s just a window into who I was, and how I got here.

I’ve been to paradise. And actually, I’ve been to me.

I still advise those close to me not to read my blog. There’s usually no filter when I post. Some people have interpreted what I’ve written to mean I’m dumping them. Others have demanded I delete certain things. One a$$hole went as far as calling a lawyer because of the “slanderous nature” of what I’d written, citing many entries that had absolutely nothing to do with him. The occasional gentleman caller has even read between invisible lines to find things that aren’t there.

Radiopeter.com is like Laura Palmer’s diary, sans violence. If you really want to know, then read it. Otherwise, caveat emptor. I haven’t changed past entries, and I won’t. ’nuff said.

I am blessed and thankful that people drop in and read my selfishly narcissistic little corner of the internets. As much as I write/say/preach everything on here for me, I hope that the occasional reader benefits from the things I’ve recounted. Even if it’s only a giggle now and then.

And in the most Ally McBeal of ways, as I’m apt to do, I’ll leave you with a fantastic Vonda Shephard song (the original Ally McBeal songstress), Searchin’ My Soul, that sums up the last five years here on Radiopeter.com. Here’s hopin’ for another five!

I’ve been down this road walkin’ the line
That’s painted by pride
And I have made mistakes in my life
That I just can’t hide

Oh I believe I am ready for what love has to bring
Got myself together, now I’m ready to sing

I’ve been searchin’ my soul tonight
I know there’s so much more to life
Now I know I can shine a light
To find my way back home

One by one, the chains around me unwind
Every day now I feel that I can leave those years behind

Oh I’ve been thinking of you for a long time
There’s a side of my life where I’ve been blind and so…

I’ve been searchin’ my soul tonight
I know there’s so much more to life
Now I know I can shine a light
Everything gonna be alright

I’ve been searchin’ my soul tonight
Don’t wanna be alone in life
Now I know I can shine a light
To find my way back home

Baby I been holding back now my whole life
I’ve decided to move on now
Gonna leave all my worries behind
Now I know I can shine a light
To find my way back home

Warren Buffett on Charlie Rose

You should watch this if you want to know what is going on.

the weekend in ten things

1. Watched tons of television. I’ve decided Alex Guarnaschelli’s Cooking Loft is just okay. I don’t like her camera interactions (way too cheesy) but I’m going to try her pizza-in-a-cast-iron-skillet recipe this week. I think she should use the subtle humorous mode that we see whenever she judges Iron Chef. It feels like she’s aiming for a Nigella-esque liberal sprinkling of adjectives. I do like the way she talks technique, but I haven’t learned any new ones yet. It’s her recipes I’m after…

I HATE Ted Allen’s Food Detectives. Is he deaf? Why is he shouting at the camera all the time!

2. Got a great haircut, which we are officially dubbing ‘The Aviator’, formerly known as ‘The State Trooper’.

3. Went to a bar called Pony for my friend Teddy’s birthday. I’d never been. It’s an interesting scene. Met a fun group of folks, including…

4. …a fantastic guy who shares the name of a famous Concrete Blonde song. Looking forward to seeing him again. Get this; he went to culinary school for fun. *melt*

5. Did mountains of laundry. Have mountains more to store. Summer to Fall wardrobe conversion has officially begun.

6. Used my mattress warmer for the first time this season. The cats were happy.

7. Played a bit too much Legend of Zelda: A Link To The Past on my Nintendo DS. It’s a GBA classic. I love that the DS plays them.

8. Have been battling with several arachnids the size of nickels that are attempting to play Kingdom of Spiders across my back door. Taking the trash out should not involve a face full of cobwebs and a jittery bug scurrying down my pant leg. Eww.

9. Discovered my absolute favorite new Maggie Smith movie. It’s called Keeping Mum and she is so intensely funny I’m certain I annoyed my neighbors with my belly-aching laughter. Picture Kristin Scott Thomas, Rowan Atkinson (Mr. Bean!) and Patrick Swayze in the English countryside. Now add in Maggie Smith as a meddling yet happy housekeeper with a dark streak in her past and present. It’s one of those black comedies that I could watch again and again, and Smith’s performance is outrageously good.

10. Made bread pudding. And I eated it all. I no sharze wif nobody. *burp*

again, Fey NAILS Palin

Tina Fey is my hero.

yep, there is a retrograde on

Last night my phone rang at 3:30am. I was dead asleep. It was my mother. As you can imagine, no good can come from a phone call from your parents at 3:30am.

“Peter, what’s going on,” she questioned.
“Huh? I’m at home, sick as a dog,” I replied.
“The police are here and they want to talk to you.”

I nearly dropped my iPhone. The Police? What the f$%k was going on?

“Do you know a Rachel Budd,” asked the cop.
“Rachel who? No, I don’t know anyone with the last name Budd.”
“Hokay, sorry to have bothered you,” he said.

Bothered me? It’s 3:30am, there are cops in my parents house, they woke me and my parents up, and they want to talk to me. That’s far from bothering me. That turning my freakin’ world upside down. Chaos. Entropy. F–k you for apologizing occifer. F–k you.

Apparently some drunken man got out of a cab in front of my parents house, told the cabbie he’d be right back with the money, and disappeared. How the rest of it went down, I’m not sure. But I suspect the cabbie banged on the door to their house or phoned the cops, who in turn decided to wake and torture my parents. At 3:30am.

I’m sure my mother in her infinite wisdom immediately lept to the conclusion that it was me who was trying to skip out on a cab (genius mom, really smart, thanks for that) and some sort of chaotic disorder ensued. The full details are still beyond me because it’s early Sunday morning and I haven’t talked to my folks again since the middle-of-the-night call.

Yes indeed, Mercury, controller of communication and transportation, is truly in retrograde. The New Moon kicked in at 3:15 this morning, exactly when said incident would have been occurring.

Beeleaf in astrolowgee. I haz it.

fall and the voodoo woman

…I got a rabbit foot in my pocket
A toad frog in my shoe
A crawfish on my shoulder
He lookin’ dead at you
I got dust from a rattlesnake
I got a black spider bone
If that don’t do it baby
You better leave it all alone…

…They call me the voodoo woman
And I know the reason why
Lord if I raise my hands
You know the sky begins to cry…

This past Saturday I grabbed an iGo to head out for my first flying lesson. It was 6am and still fairly dark out. I hit the Power button in the car (it was a Hoda Civic hybrid) and turned the stereo on. Koko Taylor immediately began to wail from the speakers. There was a compilation CD in the player containing her track, Voodoo Woman. It’s a fiery hot Blues jam, as thick as her signature growl. It’s essential Koko: Slim lyrics, a sliding bass line, and full of her deep guttural rumblings on the power notes. It was recorded in 1975, after she signed with Alligator Records, an awesome Chicago Indie Blues label.

Anyway, the cool morning air, the sunrise, and the Blues made it really feel like Fall.

Happy Autumn folks.

making pretty

These are some of my favorite pictures from my sisters wedding, shot by the fabulous Olivia Leigh. I was very fortunate that she trusted me to do her makeup for the wedding.

Before we arrived in the church, I don’t think I’d ever been more nervous about doing makeup. I know I’m good, but for weeks I’d been planning out her face. Weddings are a one-chance kinda deal. You have to get it right or else.

And then I discovered the dressing room was GREEN and lit with only FLUORESCENT lights during the rehearsal. Green walls and fluorescent lighting aren’t the best lights to paint in, but I made it through.

The goal was to take her outside of her normal makeup style, keep it clean and pretty, and create something that would last 10+ hours. We had a long day ahead of us and I didn’t want to have to worry about fussing with her face. All too often I see heavily creased eyes, thickly blushed cheeks, very red lips, and white-white eyelids that make most brides look too painted. Plus, too much paint requires frequent retouching.

The results were beautiful. One of the best jobs I’ve ever done.

eyes

the powder and paint

“make a fish face!”

eyebrows are mandatory

contouring

the finished product

whoops, the girls need some attention

bike ridin’ with Ed & my GPS

This is the ride I took with my friend Ed last night. Want to learn more about how I did this? Check out the post on my flying blog, flying in Chicago

LaBelle made me wet my pants

Sarah Dash, Nona Hendryx, and Patti LaBelle

From time to time a song will strike a chord (pun intended) in my music-geek lower-brain and I obsessively need to hunt down every ounce of information possible about the track. It’s sort of this primal thing in my mind, usually triggered by a chorus of soulful hollerin’ women and lyrics that actually mean something.

Recently that song was Labelle’s cover of Cat Stevens’ Moon Shadow.

See? Hollerin’ women and lyrics that mean something…

I’d purchased a 4-CD compilation called What It Is! Funky Soul And Rare Grooves (1967-1977) and was listening to the entire playlist, casually doing chores around the house given the rainy weekend. Perfect music for the kind of perfectly sated mood the rain tends to evoke. You haven’t scrubbed floors until you’ve scrubbed floors with funky bass lines floating in the air.

I didn’t know the compilation, and I love the era and genre, so I bought it looking for new tunes. The iPod suddenly began to play a track I hadn’t heard. I was on my knees winning the battle against a curious collection of kitchen schmutz under my dishwasher. When the hell I last ate elbow macaroni is beyond me.

Starting with a little piano and a breathy “Yeah…”, a soul shaking crescendo of Gospel harmony began to fill the air. Then the bass and the snappy hi-hats kicked in. The singers weren’t just getting louder, their emphatic shouts of joy were increasing in complexity and range. Someone was hovering dangerously close to a high E. There didn’t seem to be an end in sight. It sounded like I was in church.

On my knees, sponge in hand, with the scent of Ultra Dawn Fresh Escapes Green Apple in the air, I knew instantly that I was going to l o v e this song.

Whatever lofty plans for attacking the undercarriage of the oven I thought I had would soon be dismissed in favor of Googling for music history. What WAS this track? Who WAS that singing? They sounded familiar, but let’s face it, most three-part Gospel harmony sounds similar.

if I ever lose my hands
lose my plough, or lose my land
oh, if I ever lose my hands
oh, if… oh, iiif… Oh If OH IF!
I won’t have to work no more
no more! no No NO MORE!

The first verse sold me even more than the dramatic opening. That’s when I realized that one of the singers was Patti Labelle. I heard the curl of the r’s in her voice. Which meant, much to my excitement, that since this was a ‘67 to ‘77 compilation, I had to be listening to the industry changing, Glam-Rock, Disco-Funk, space-age, outrageously flamboyant girl-group named LaBelle.

I nearly wet myself.

Well actually, I did wet myself. Remember how I said I was cleaning? As I was taking a moment to listen, I’d sat back and rested my hands on my thighs. Unconsciously I began to death-grip the sponge, still in my hands, as my mind raced to place the song and pay attention to the lyrics. My brain was too busy to register that I was also soaking my thigh with crud-under-the-dishwasher sponge-juice.

Thus, LaBelle made me wet my pants.

After donning a fresh pair of shorts, I went into my office and settled down to learn more about the song. I brought up the Cat Stevens’ version on YouTube and nearly vomited. Great lyrics, bad arrangement. Further searches on “Moon Shadow” and LaBelle turned up an incredible site called Wilson & Alroy’s Record Reviews. The tech they bring to music writing is exactly the kind of geeky thing I get excited about. Their page on LaBelle says more than I could bring to this post, so I’ll let them say it.

I don’t necessarily agree with their reviews 100% (maybe 80% so far, which impresses me), but I do like their background notes on producers and temporal music history. For the first time, on their site, I’m reading reviews that are fairly unbiased and have an affinity for talent and creativity, regardless of genre. You’ll see, as you sift through their site, that these guys are dedicated to their non-revenue generating website and the information it presents. They are music lovers, and it shows.

I’ll leave you with another snippet of the beautiful lyrics of Cat Stevens’ Moon Shadow, interpreted best in my opinion by the powerhouse known as LaBelle. And here’s a little tidbit… LaBelle are back in the studio with Lenny Kravitz, Wycleff Jean, and a host of other contemporary musical luminaries. They’re saying an album is due out soon and a tour is in the works. You better believe I’m going to be there.

If I ever (No!) lose my eyes (No!)
If my colors (No!) all run dry (Woah!)
If I ever (No!) lose my eyes
Oh, if… oh, iiif… Oh If OH IF!
I won’t have to cry no more!
No more! no No NO MORE!

Oh, I’m being followed by a moon shadow
Moon shadow, moon shadow
Oh leapin’ and a hoppin’ on a, Moon Shadow!
Oh jumpin’ and a bumpin’ on a, Moon Shadow!
Yeah Skippin’! Skippin’ and a dippin’ on a, Moon Shadow!
Mmm, moon shadow!

twin peaks

Maybe I was longing to see the baby-faced Kyle McLachlan of my high school days. Or maybe I just needed some David Lynch back in my life for a spell. I don’t really know, but last night I started in on the Twin Peaks television seri