Thursday, July 28, 2005
In your face nature
It was a welcome to nature moment. One minute the road was ahead of me the next just antlers and a furry face staring at me from the hood of my car.
After reporting from a large wild fire just a couple miles from downtown Boise all day, Joeja and I drove out after work to see the fire at night. We were driving down Warm Springs road in a transitional zone with some housing and a lot of open grassland, a young buck walked in front of my car and then stopped. I tried to stop, too, but was too late and hit it going about 20 mph. I've heard horror stories about how much damage a deer can do to a car so I was waiting for a huge impact but Bambi just sort of slid onto my hood, went up and over the side of my car and landed on his hooves before gingerly walking off.
Somehow, my car was fine. The only sign of the impact was that one of my headlights was slightly pushed in and there were hoof marks through the dirt on my hood. It was actually my second violent encounter with an ungulate as I had pounded a Moosehead earlier that day.
After reporting from a large wild fire just a couple miles from downtown Boise all day, Joeja and I drove out after work to see the fire at night. We were driving down Warm Springs road in a transitional zone with some housing and a lot of open grassland, a young buck walked in front of my car and then stopped. I tried to stop, too, but was too late and hit it going about 20 mph. I've heard horror stories about how much damage a deer can do to a car so I was waiting for a huge impact but Bambi just sort of slid onto my hood, went up and over the side of my car and landed on his hooves before gingerly walking off.
Somehow, my car was fine. The only sign of the impact was that one of my headlights was slightly pushed in and there were hoof marks through the dirt on my hood. It was actually my second violent encounter with an ungulate as I had pounded a Moosehead earlier that day.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
The Druz, the Druz, the Druz is on fire
Well, not really, but the hills were on fire Tuesday and I couldn't have been more stoked. I'm very excited about covering wildfires this summer and Tuesday kind of kicked off the season in the Boise area with a 225 acre fire just outside of town.
No homes were burned, no one was hurt, just good clean fun sweating my balls off in 100 degree heat while wearing synthetic fire-retardent (read: stifling) clothing and standing next a wall of flames. It sounds awful but it was a blast. The prospect of covering these fires keeps me sane after moving from a town with a murder a week to one that had NO murders last year.
Joeja and I are on the fire team together so we both got to go out to this one and it just whet our apetite for the likely forest fires to come (a grass fire is like the undercard to the title fight of a big forest fire in the mountains).
Check out Joeja's sight for more insight (ha!) and unflattering pictures of both of us.
No homes were burned, no one was hurt, just good clean fun sweating my balls off in 100 degree heat while wearing synthetic fire-retardent (read: stifling) clothing and standing next a wall of flames. It sounds awful but it was a blast. The prospect of covering these fires keeps me sane after moving from a town with a murder a week to one that had NO murders last year.
Joeja and I are on the fire team together so we both got to go out to this one and it just whet our apetite for the likely forest fires to come (a grass fire is like the undercard to the title fight of a big forest fire in the mountains).
Check out Joeja's sight for more insight (ha!) and unflattering pictures of both of us.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
The great Boise lemon massacre
Methodically she crushed the lemons with her fork until a pool had formed in what was meant to be her appetizer plate as our waiter (I imagine) looked on confused and a little bit frightened. Then she picked up the plate and poured the lemon juice in the water that had a few too many cubes to meet her standard of "not too much ice."
This is my mother. I just said goodbye to her tonight after she came to Boise for a three-day visit and, while it was very nice to see her, it was more than a little stressful.
Anyone who has met my mom knows her charming, confounding stream-of-consciousness weirdness. She makes puzzling statements with no explanation and she will be goddamned if she doesn't get her lemon wedges just right. And with this last quirk she actually has a point (sort of). She always asks for lemon wedges with her ice water and almost always gets lemon slices instead. It's hard to squeeze thinly sliced bits of lemon as opposed to quarters but, while most people would either deal with the small inconvenience of getting lemon on their fingers or just throw the slice in their water, my mom either badgers the waiter or engages in the above-mentioned ritual.
Between my mom mutilating citrus and expounding on why cell phones and the internet are ruining our lives, it was an exhausting three days. It was also, however, a reminder of how my mom's quirks and curiosity also endears her to total strangers almost immediately.
Tonight was mom's last night in Boise and I had to work until 10 p.m. So I swung by her hotel after work and we went in search of a beverage and a snack. We struck out at the first couple places and went to check out a place to which I had never been. Just as we were about to scrap that plan I hear, "Liz! Liz!" At first I thought, "No, that can't be directed at my mom, she's never been to Boise before." But, sure enough, Mohammed, the stylishly dressed Indian man to whom the voice belonged, was up out of his chair and insisting on buying mom a drink.
Earlier that day mom had wandered into a rug store and struck up a conversation with the man, who owns the store. She stayed for an hour and half talking to the man who turned out to be an Indian South African muslim with a Brazilian mom and an expired passport who had spent time in jail for anti-Apartheid activism. In one visit to his rug store my mom had clearly made an impression (it didn't hurt that she bought two rugs but I think the man was being genuine).
We spent an hour and half having drinks and shooting the shit with this guy and his fiancee. The whole time my mom was making bizarre comments that embarrassed me but clearly were hits with everyone else, even if sometimes they had no idea what she was talking about.
My mom is not only willing but excited to talk to everyone she meets and trade life stories and people love her for it and forgive (much more than me, I'm sad to say) her out there, sometimes innapropriate, comments. As a human being and a journalist I have a lot to learn from mom, even if I'm not ready to scrap my cell phone and internet connection or make lemonade with a fork.
Addendum: I realize that was a little schlocky. Tune in next week for a very special Blossom.
This is my mother. I just said goodbye to her tonight after she came to Boise for a three-day visit and, while it was very nice to see her, it was more than a little stressful.
Anyone who has met my mom knows her charming, confounding stream-of-consciousness weirdness. She makes puzzling statements with no explanation and she will be goddamned if she doesn't get her lemon wedges just right. And with this last quirk she actually has a point (sort of). She always asks for lemon wedges with her ice water and almost always gets lemon slices instead. It's hard to squeeze thinly sliced bits of lemon as opposed to quarters but, while most people would either deal with the small inconvenience of getting lemon on their fingers or just throw the slice in their water, my mom either badgers the waiter or engages in the above-mentioned ritual.
Between my mom mutilating citrus and expounding on why cell phones and the internet are ruining our lives, it was an exhausting three days. It was also, however, a reminder of how my mom's quirks and curiosity also endears her to total strangers almost immediately.
Tonight was mom's last night in Boise and I had to work until 10 p.m. So I swung by her hotel after work and we went in search of a beverage and a snack. We struck out at the first couple places and went to check out a place to which I had never been. Just as we were about to scrap that plan I hear, "Liz! Liz!" At first I thought, "No, that can't be directed at my mom, she's never been to Boise before." But, sure enough, Mohammed, the stylishly dressed Indian man to whom the voice belonged, was up out of his chair and insisting on buying mom a drink.
Earlier that day mom had wandered into a rug store and struck up a conversation with the man, who owns the store. She stayed for an hour and half talking to the man who turned out to be an Indian South African muslim with a Brazilian mom and an expired passport who had spent time in jail for anti-Apartheid activism. In one visit to his rug store my mom had clearly made an impression (it didn't hurt that she bought two rugs but I think the man was being genuine).
We spent an hour and half having drinks and shooting the shit with this guy and his fiancee. The whole time my mom was making bizarre comments that embarrassed me but clearly were hits with everyone else, even if sometimes they had no idea what she was talking about.
My mom is not only willing but excited to talk to everyone she meets and trade life stories and people love her for it and forgive (much more than me, I'm sad to say) her out there, sometimes innapropriate, comments. As a human being and a journalist I have a lot to learn from mom, even if I'm not ready to scrap my cell phone and internet connection or make lemonade with a fork.
Addendum: I realize that was a little schlocky. Tune in next week for a very special Blossom.
Monday, July 18, 2005
One glass?
I have few complaints about downtown Boise - there are plenty of weekend options, some live music and decent restaurants. In some ways, however, the scene is a little too hip and some of the bars my friends frequent have started to annoy me.
The Cactus Bar, though, has been calling to me. It's dark, smoky, a little seedy - a good place to pick up a divorcee. A couple nights ago I finally convinced Joe and Hilary to go and if the Guns 'N Roses on the speakers and white trash decor weren't enough to prove this bar's worth, the question the bartender asked me, with all seriousness, after I ordered a pitcher clinched it:
"So, just one glass?"
The Cactus Bar, though, has been calling to me. It's dark, smoky, a little seedy - a good place to pick up a divorcee. A couple nights ago I finally convinced Joe and Hilary to go and if the Guns 'N Roses on the speakers and white trash decor weren't enough to prove this bar's worth, the question the bartender asked me, with all seriousness, after I ordered a pitcher clinched it:
"So, just one glass?"
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Sunshine and kittens
Building on Joeja's post about having to take the grind 'em out assignments with the exciting ones I had two consecutive days recently where I literally covered sunshine and kittens (to be exact with the order it was kittens and sunshine).
Anyway, someone dropped off a recliner at a thrift store and when the chair started purring the store employees realized there was a stow-away kitten inside. It was unhurt but untagged and the family was long gone so it fell on me to write a heart-wrenching abandoned kitty story (someone eventually stepped forward to adopt it so stop your goddamn sniffling).
The next day it was, shockingly enough in July, hot. The difference was it was really the first time this summer we had consecutive days above 90 so it was a late start to our hot, dry summer season. So Joeja and I were sent out to various wholesome family cooling off spots (water playground and sno-cone shack, though I would have liked to check out some happy hours) to talk to people about the weather.
As Calvin's dad would say, it builds character.
Anyway, someone dropped off a recliner at a thrift store and when the chair started purring the store employees realized there was a stow-away kitten inside. It was unhurt but untagged and the family was long gone so it fell on me to write a heart-wrenching abandoned kitty story (someone eventually stepped forward to adopt it so stop your goddamn sniffling).
The next day it was, shockingly enough in July, hot. The difference was it was really the first time this summer we had consecutive days above 90 so it was a late start to our hot, dry summer season. So Joeja and I were sent out to various wholesome family cooling off spots (water playground and sno-cone shack, though I would have liked to check out some happy hours) to talk to people about the weather.
As Calvin's dad would say, it builds character.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Fortunately, no indoor pyrotechnics at this show
I've been accused of many things but being narrow minded...OK, I've probably been accused of that too, but I disproved that a couple days ago by tagging along with a co-worker to an '80s butt-metal show.
Some background: the late, great Dokken was (apparently) a pretty big deal in the '80s, filling up medium-sized arenas and opening for Bon Jovi at bigger venues. There were, no doubt, plenty of big-haired, biker-slut groupies before the bottom fell out of butt-metal and heavy bands with actual musical ability (see Soundgarden) emerged.
Fast-forward to a couple days ago and my friend tells me very excitedly, "Hey did you see that George Lynch is playing downtown tonight?" to which I responded, "Uh..."
"The guitarist from Dokken," he said.
"Oh, right," I said, only a little closer to knowing what he was talking about.
While Dokken was named for moody frontman Don Dokken, the driving force and talent behind the band was allegedly Lynch (I'm trusting my friend, who is an unabashed fan of such bands and has a truly impressive knowledge of a dark period in music history).
So, I agreed to go with him. What the fuck? I figured the people watching alone would be worth it. I met him at the bar, which was filled with the aforementioned groupies (plus 15 years and 30 pounds, but still dressed the same) and dudes who were clearly reluctant when their girlfriends demanded they cut their mullets.
And boy were they into it. There was one guy in the front who was making the devil sign with his fingers and pumping his first THE ENTIRE FUCKING TWO HOUR SHOW. That's the kind of dude who killed the great Dimebag Darrell. As for Lynch, he had traded in his leather for a wife-beater, mesh hat and cigarette, though his new frontman apparently didn't get the memo 15 years ago about big hair.
And you know what? Embarrassed as I am to admit it, I enjoyed the show. Most of the songs were little more than an excuse for a George Lynch guitar solo but the guy shreds and was clearly still stoked to play, even if he had to trade in arena glory for a half-full bar in Boise.
Not that I'm going to be blasting Dokken or Great White out of my car any time soon, but I do highly recommend hopping on the Monsters of Rock revival while it lasts.
Some background: the late, great Dokken was (apparently) a pretty big deal in the '80s, filling up medium-sized arenas and opening for Bon Jovi at bigger venues. There were, no doubt, plenty of big-haired, biker-slut groupies before the bottom fell out of butt-metal and heavy bands with actual musical ability (see Soundgarden) emerged.
Fast-forward to a couple days ago and my friend tells me very excitedly, "Hey did you see that George Lynch is playing downtown tonight?" to which I responded, "Uh..."
"The guitarist from Dokken," he said.
"Oh, right," I said, only a little closer to knowing what he was talking about.
While Dokken was named for moody frontman Don Dokken, the driving force and talent behind the band was allegedly Lynch (I'm trusting my friend, who is an unabashed fan of such bands and has a truly impressive knowledge of a dark period in music history).
So, I agreed to go with him. What the fuck? I figured the people watching alone would be worth it. I met him at the bar, which was filled with the aforementioned groupies (plus 15 years and 30 pounds, but still dressed the same) and dudes who were clearly reluctant when their girlfriends demanded they cut their mullets.
And boy were they into it. There was one guy in the front who was making the devil sign with his fingers and pumping his first THE ENTIRE FUCKING TWO HOUR SHOW. That's the kind of dude who killed the great Dimebag Darrell. As for Lynch, he had traded in his leather for a wife-beater, mesh hat and cigarette, though his new frontman apparently didn't get the memo 15 years ago about big hair.
And you know what? Embarrassed as I am to admit it, I enjoyed the show. Most of the songs were little more than an excuse for a George Lynch guitar solo but the guy shreds and was clearly still stoked to play, even if he had to trade in arena glory for a half-full bar in Boise.
Not that I'm going to be blasting Dokken or Great White out of my car any time soon, but I do highly recommend hopping on the Monsters of Rock revival while it lasts.
