I love the custom blue strip around the interior of these rims. Mine will have a red stripe (of course).

Rustin had this custom seat made to inversely match his blue with white striped bike. This seat is white with blue stitching.

The metal bits are custom drilled to give the bike a more industrial flavor.

We wandered the beaches in West Seattle, on one of our typically grey days, and laughed and chatted as we worked. I am so lucky to have been able to photograph this amazing couple twice.

From Alexjohn on Twitter

Today in Seattle a bunch of Occupy protestors began a peaceful protest, which then immediately got hijacked by black bloc protests full of people who called themselves “anarchists” and smashed up downtown. Thank god Phoenix Jones was on the scene to peper spray people…

Wearing their comfy Nikes, the black bloc anarchists smashed up Niketown and spray painted anti corporate slogans on the exterior. The few blocks surrounding the area were really trashed, and they also spray painted “Proteltariatism” on the outside of Barney’s New York. Idiots.

King 5 news reports is thusly (click here to read the article):

May Day demonstrators who marched through Seattle turned violent Tuesday, as several black-clad protesters used sticks to smash downtown store windows and ran through the streets disrupting traffic.

A group of about 50 people gathered at Seattle Central Community College just before noon. After a brief rally, the group headed into the college, marching down the halls and encouraging students to join them. The intent was to march to Seattle’s downtown West Lake Park to join with other groups on May Day. The first of May is a traditional day for laborers and social groups to gather to gain support and express their ideals.

The group had initially told Seattle police they would take a direct route to the park. Instead, they took a circuitous route through the streets on Capitol Hill and downtown Seattle, finally arriving at West Lake Park. Once they arrived they joined other groups that had already started an early afternoon rally. At first, it appeared calm, with a few people speaking to the crowd. But it didn’t take long before a group of people decided to go back on the streets.

Leaving the park, the group soon grew from about 50 to a couple of hundred people. While many in the marching crowd were peaceful, simply chanting and carrying signs, it soon became clear that a fringe group was ready to cause problems. 

The group with no apparent leader, was easy to spot. Most were dressed in all black and had bandana’s or scarves covering their faces. As the crowd winded its way through the streets of downtown Seattle with no apparent direction, the group eventually became violent. At the old Federal Courthouse , vandals smashed three plate glass doors on the back of the building. someone also set off a bundle of fireworks or flares shooting flames towards the doors. No one appeared to be injured. 

The group continued down Sixth Ave, plate glass windows at the Nike Town store had been smashed. In front of the store, parked cars were targeted. Windshileds on the car were shattered, tires slashed. As the vandals moved further down the street, Seattle Police arrived in full force. Dozens in full riot gear came up behind the group. 

At least two people were arrested. A 19-year-old was arrested in the 400 block of Pike St. for carrying a fixed-blade knife and a 23-year-old was arrested in the 1300 block of 6th for vandalism.

Bus routes were disrupted and several businesses were sending employees home.

At an afternoon press conference, Mayor Mike McGinn said a group known as the “Black Block” did extensive damage to the Federal Courthouse, then moved on to block traffic.

The group dispersed and ran when police arrived, McGinn said.

“A number of the core group of ‘Black Block’ members returned to Westlake, where we saw some of them live on video changing back into street clothes and blending into the crowd,” said McGinn.

“What we know from WTO, you have a group of peole committied to cause damage, move quickly and disperse rapidly, it’s difficult for the police to act rapidly,” said McGinn. “We have officers in uniform, inthe crowd, trying to ID and intercept.”

I looked down at his hand as he jerked it away, seemingly on fire, and raised an eyebrow. He met my gaze with all the vast confidence of a 14 year old boy, shifting away immediately, and stammered, “I like your shirt. It’s soft.”

For some reason, this simplicity delights me, and assures me all over again, that this is why I could never date women. I love the simplicity of men. (Among numerable other reasons.)

Me, tonight, with iPhone, on Otis.

When Bin Laden died I was sitting wrapped in a blanket on the beach at Golden Gardens. I had stopped at D’Ambrosio Gelato in Ballard, with a friend, for Saffron Gelato, and taken my dog out to the dunes to finish my cone and watch the sun set. The sky was that curious bruised purple that the Pacific Northwest sunsets turn right before dark, when the news started percolating through the people surrounding me until it burst out like a siren on a Sunday morning, so out of place as to be surreal.

There was a punk girl who started running up and down the cold, pebbled beach barefoot shouting “Bin Laden is dead!” She must have been barely 16, and probably hardly remembered a world without the Bin Laden Bogeyman. It seemed like just another rumor, as we have heard off and on through the decade since 9-11, and I left soon after the news broke to find independent confirmation.

There it was, scrolling Reuters-like across the bottom of every TV set in the Nation: “Bin Laden dead.”

I cried.

I cried for the last decade of lingering fear. I cried for 9-11. I cried because I was proud of my president and our country and Seal Team 6. And I cried because I was relieved, the way you do when your nation is pulled from the riptide of tenacious anxiety.

Downtown in the morning

Today he brought it by for me to take a few pictures. It’s a badass bike.

I woke up again at 8:30. Mass was over, and the sun was just starting to peak through the marine layer, so instead of finding another mass, I met up with a friend and grabbed a latte on our way to the University of Washington quad, where the cherry trees were blooming.

He’d never seen the trees in bloom, and it had been 3 years for me, since I’d seen them with my parents and Tim, right after my surgery. My memories of hobbling about in a vicodin haze, catheter banging against the inside of my thigh, needed to be supplanted with something a little more clear, and the quad was nearly empty when we arrived.

In an awed hush, we wandered beneath the glorious trees, nearly whispering our conversation, sipping our coffee, and staring up into the pink clouds of blossom. “I’ve heard,” I said. “That if the wind picks up, the blossoms all drop at once, like a snowstorm!”

“Oh!” he breathed. “I don’t want them to lose their flowers yet, but I’d love to see that!”

We followed the paths around the perimeter, stopping now and then to take pictures, until we wound up back where we started, and stopped, blinking at each other as a slight breeze began to pick up. I looked up into the branches, my eyes watering a little from the wind, and raised my hands, palms up, to catch the flurry of petals that began to coat my supplicant hands and lie lightly on my cheeks.

And just like that, accidently, I had it. My very own kind of a reverent Easter Mass.

I’ve been laid off before, but during those cuts it was either departmental or just me, so trying to absorb that the entire facility, a company that started here in the 50s, is going to be gone for good, and that nearly 200 people will simply be out of work, is rather overwhelming. There are those who have been with the company for 25+ years and, one day soon, that will just cease to exist.

We were all told in departmental groups by our director level bosses, and managers from out of town flew in to lend support, which is why my boss was in from Wisconsin this week, as it turns out. He was only told about this Monday, though, so he was only slightly less shell shocked than the rest of us. We hired him, Ric, last August, stole him away from Zappos, who had just offered him his dream job, by presenting him with a solid, experienced, fun, team, a team that will be but a memory after July 1. I almost regret that we took him, as he may have been much better off at Zappos, but the truth is, selfishly, we needed him so desperately, and I would not have lasted another winter here without him. His has been an unexpected diamond, bringing our team more closely together, allowing us to develop individually and as a unit, and creating an environment of laughter and hope in a maze of grey cubicles. If nothing else, I am privileged to have him as a friend in the future.

Writing this now, I am getting really choked up, sad to lose my little work family, worried about leaving Ric without the team he came to be a part of, worried about those who will be thrown into the already clogged stream of the unemployed in the Pacific Northwest. That said, though, I will be fine, provided the startup that offered me a position gets funded and my job there materializes. (Knock on wood.) I am not to say anything, as I signed a non-disclosure agreement, but it’s a group that will have offices near Seattle, in bellevue, and I REALLY want to work there.

Part of me is almost happy that this is happening so that I can get a severance package and, perhaps, poach some great talent from the pool of incredible people I know at my company of 4 1/2 years. Add to that a month off in July, and this summer just keeps getting better! I only wish the month off were August instead, so I could go to Laguna Seca, among other sunshine related things.

There is still a lot of uncertainty surrounding the startup, though we will know about funding and whatnot in mid to late May, but I’d be loathe to try to get an interim job, and I was hoping to keep this one until I could fall into the safety net of this new position. However, I will start looking at all of my options, just to keep things open. Ric and Anastasia, the Marketing Director, are both writing me letters of recommendation and are willing to look over my resume, thankfully, so I will take them up on that.

Funny how uncertainty of this sort can be so exhausting. I slept a lot this weekend, snoozing right out on the deck in the sun yesterday, and I’m still really tired. Oddly though, when I returned home Thursday evening, the sign above was sitting in the trash bin, in the marina parking lot. It was sort of a little promise of bluer skies, and I do truly believe that they are out there.

At the Eastside studio last summer.

A few weeks ago Angi, one of the owners of the studio where I dance, posted a Facebook status update that read, “God is good! Life changes happen through dance!’

Why would a pole dancing instructor be posting such a thing?

I dance at a studio here in Seattle called Divine Movement Dance. It’s been almost 2 1/2 years since my first class, which was an intimidating night of being surrounded by beautiful, athletic women who seemed to know exactly why they were there. I, on the other hand, was at a loss in my personal life, miserable in my marriage (soon to end), and in a tentative physical condition as I reached recovery from bladder and kidney surgery. Admittedly, I was a wreck. I had no idea what I needed to begin to sort my head and heart out, disentangle myself from deeply entrenched feelings of hurt, rejection, and resentment, and finish my long recovery physically.

I never suspected that a huge part of that answer would lie in pole dancing.

After my initial 6 week session, I took a couple of months off, taking time to decide if I wanted to continue, and I returned in February of 2010, progessing from an introductory level 101 class to basic spins. I stayed in this basic class for almost 6 months, afraid to move forward as I built strength, balance and flexibility, but also chipping away a little at the emotional hurricane of confusion and pain that I was wrapped in as I became single again. I remember becoming more and more addicted as I mastered little things: how to dip your head or arch your back to lend more control and beauty to a spin, how to clamp the pole with your knees and not your thighs for better grip and less bruising, how to whip your hair to look exotic and not palsied (harder than it sounds, for me). Little triumphs sparkled in every class, tiny things I could hold on to and say “I AM GOOD AT SOMETHING,” and these got me through many desperate days when I felt that I was less than worthless for hurting the man I had loved, who had been my best friend once, and leaving him. There were dark days when the depression and panic I felt were so bad that I had to dance, simply had to, in order to survive, in order to crawl out from under a mountain of despair, and these were days I would take back-to-back classes, dancing for 4 or 6 hours, until I was too exhausted to think. At times, I would begin to sob in the middle of my dance, and just lie on the floor in a puddle of tears. Sometimes one of the girls would scoop me into a motherly-sisterly hug, sometimes I was left to let it out, and sometimes I danced through it, and no one really knew. I was not, am not, the only one who cried/cries in class, and there seemed to be an innate sense of knowing what one needs in response. Divine is a place that sculpts the body and nurtures the soul. I eventually graduated to advanced spins and beginning inversions, but that level of emotional enrichment has not changed, even though I am more heart and head healthy than I was at that time, thank god.

My dance salvation was due to more than just the movement. The women I dance with and the teachers I work with are remarkable, kind, lovely souls. Ranging from adorable 19 year old pixie girls, to soccer moms in their 40s, and back again to dedicated athletes and corporate superstar lawyers, we run the gamut of femininity. There is no typical pole dancer. What we do all have in common, though, is a deep sense of empathy for our fellow dancers, an awe of the art, and a willingness to appreciate and validate the others in our group. These women are, without a doubt, hands down, the most uplifting, supportive (not to sound too much like your favorite bra) group of humans I have ever met in my life. When one of the girls was having a hard time with a personal relationship, we sat on our mats after class and shared our own stories, hugging her and laughing through tears, encouraging her. When another was injured and afraid to get back into physical activity, we surrounded her with hope until she felt brave enough to start again slowly. There is no judgment in the studio, but simply a bright bubble of love and encouragement. My story is only one snapshot into the incredible, sunny belly of this gorgeous beast called dance.

The attitude of these women is this: You did that spin wrong? Ok, let see. If you turn your foot out, grip here instead, you’ll have it just right…See!? I knew you could do it! YOU ARE A ROCKSTAR! Never mind that it was the simplest inversion ever. You are where you are in your journey, and that is awesome.

Sure, Riain is a vertical goddess and Paula is the queen of floorwork, but our group will find something to admire endlessly about the way you dance, and then help you to improve without ever detracting from what you’ve already got going on.

Perhaps this doesn’t sound like a world changing group of women, but in an increasingly competitive, vindictive culture, where women are judged and hated by jealous women, and our own gender has become our biggest detractor, Divine is an oasis of love. Some of my best friends are those I met while dancing, and some of my most eye-opening epiphanies have come from conversations with them.

We all quickly began to comment on Angi’s status. “What happened?!” “Do tell!” “I want to know!” It came out that one of our younger members, a girl who had come to the studio to learn to be a better stripper, had decided to leave the profession, and to follow her dreams instead. She said that she had realized at Divine that she was more than just a pretty girl, and that she really could do whatever she wanted, and that is was there that she had found god. Most of you know that I don’t subscribe to religion, but I do believe that your beliefs are to be supported, provided that they aren’t hurting you or anyone else, and I am so happy for her. I don’t think it’s every day that pole dancing can talk a girl into leaving the profession, but at our studio it changes your body image, your self esteem, and your love and respect of all women. After all, with a group of friends like this, who could possibly think women are not just the most amazing people on earth?

Smoke from Gabriel Bienczycki on Vimeo.

These are 2 of my instuctors at Divine, where we celebrate that unique combo of sass, fun, playful, sexy, vulnerable, emotional,and that dirtiest of all dirty words: feminine. Jamie Davenport and Susan Bienczycka, you inspire me, not just in dance or athleticism, but to be a better friend and a more complete woman. Thank you for this.

Never say this on or by the 3rd date (or, sometimes, ever, or, other times, before you are engaged):

1) I told my mother about you.

2) My son wants to meet you.

3) Have you ever been pregnant? Good, so mine would be the first.

4) When is your August vacation? We should plan something.

5) Anything involving the word “forever.”

6) 31 is too old to forge a meaningful connection, so you should pick a useful person now.

7) I love you (this is particularly offensive as a text message. No, it’s not funny, and I have a great sense of humor.)

8 ) We should play video games together.

9) I’d like to keep you.

10) Have you ever made a sex tape? Would you like to?

My list could go on and on… people are simply horrifying sometimes!

However, I don’t want you to think it’s been all ludicrous and disgusting, because I have met some intriguing, wonderful men. (Those stories just aren’t as funny.)

And because every post is better with a picture, this is Ava, my motorcycle mechanic’s dog.

It’s not just that I know him and therefore, amongst my pals, he is the best. I met him as a bartender, and then we became friends. Calling him the best in this town is going some, as there are many great bartenders here who make inventive, delicious, amazing cocktails. Still, I have no compunction about saying it loud and proud: Shattuck is the best.

Earlier today, he sent me a note on Facebook asking me to come down to see him tonight at work. He tends a few nights a week at this incredible Brazilian owned bar called Paratii, and Monday nights they have world music bands, with no cover charge, so I often end up there. Tonight he made me a gin based drink with celery bitters which was utterly perfect, as always, and made the toes of my soul warm with sparks of happiness. Shattuck, and the few golden people who are like him, make Seattle HOME in a very real, deep way, for me

It was in this giddy state that I began to chat with my bar-neighbor, a fascinating older musician named Roy. We started talking about music and people and west coast people versus east coast, when all of a sudden he stopped and said in a reverent tone, “Lady, you have some panoramic eyes.”

It was one of the best compliments I’ve ever received.

By Ron Rice

This is from the shoot I modeled for last Saturday, in the snow and rain. I will post more soon, but this one in particular made me feel like maybe Roy was right, whatever that means.

My, by Jay Chan

A few weeks back I received an email from a guy named Jay. He’d happened across my model profile and wanted to have me join him, 2 other photographers, 3 other models, and a makeup artist for a “portfolio builder” shoot. This means that no one gets paid, but you all end up with a collection of images that you can use for your portfolio, sort of an all-around trade. The theme was “spring colors,” and he promised bright backgrounds, requesting I provide my own wardrobe of bright colors.

Uh, Houston, we have a problem. I own approximately 20 outfits, including my dresses. Day to day, this is entirely sufficient. But when it comes to shoots, it’s woefully lacking, as evidenced by the fact that I don’t own any spring colors. My wardrobe consists mainly of red and black, with some dark blue and emerald green thrown in for variety. Somehow, I didn’t think that was going to work this time around. My cousin Jeanette saved the day, again, by letting me borrow 5 of her dresses, including this strapless madras number that I fell in love with.

The shoot was last night, so I showed up with my closet under my arms, a few minutes early, and waited for the other girls and makeup artist to show up. They were all AT LEAST 30 minutes late, so it took forever to get started. Once we finally got going, though, the makeup artist was quite good.

Kelly finished my face and stood back. “What do you think?” she asked Jim, the principal photographer. “Hm,” he mused, leaning in close. “How old ARE you?” he demanded of me.

“I’m 31.” I replied stiffly. “It’s clear in my profile.”

“Well, Kelly.” He says. “Use more under eye concealer. Her ‘experience’ is showing.”

Kelly smiled apologetically, while I tried not to let my ears steam, and added more concealer, then shooed me out to shoot with the other 2 photographers. One loved me, and shot me in 4 outfits, high 5-ing me after every change. He was really fun to work with (this pic is from him, Jay Chan, the rockstar). The other seemed to have chosen the dark haired athlete as his muse, which was fine, and gave me a perfunctory once through. After that I moved into the “covergirl” chair with Jim, the principal. He just wanted to do brightly lit face shots, which is great, because I need those. However, I had been working with Jay in the wind machine, and I was a bit disheveled. He shifted his weight to his back leg and looked at me up and down, then made a face.

“Do you even have a brush?” he said.

I sighed, no longer trying to hide my exasperation. “Of course I do. Wait here.” I stalked to my bag and grabbed my brush, gently swiping with it at my hair in the mirror.

I returned and sat on his plexiglass box, obligingly tilting my head this way and that, flapping my hands around my face as he directed, like a retarded seal. Jim pulled back and looked at his LCD, glaring at my image there.

“You really should get a cosmetic bridge, at least for shoots. You’re pretty, but your teeth are not.”

No, I did not hurt him.

Finally, he stopped and said, “I need more expression! Give me pissed ice queen.”

Nailed that in one shot, I assure you.

In all, it was a weird experience. The time I had with Jay was super positive and left me feeling buoyed, beautiful, and powerful. But the end with Jim was baby-food-peas-ick. I guess you can’t win ‘em all, but I have a feeling the images will be almost worth it.

They better be.

“When I am in Paris I usually stay around Montmartre, in the 8th or
18th, so I have limited experience with the 12th. However, I believe
that is the Nation metro stop, which connects to a handful of
different lines, so it’s easy to get everywhere you might want to go.
Your hotel looks amazing.

You are very close to Pere LaChaise Cemetery, which is a MUST SEE, if
you haven’t been. Oscar Wilde, Jim Morrison, Madame Currie, and Proust
are all there. In addition, it’s just beautiful and ancient, what with
all the cool tombs, but grab a map at the gate or you’ll get lost. If
it is windy, they will close the cemetery due to falling branches, so
don’t bother in that case.

Make sure you visit the 12th market, Marché Cours de Vincennes,
between boulevard Picpus and rue Arnold Netter (12th Arr. Nation Metro
stop, Porte de Vincennes. Wednesdays and Saturdays 8am-2:30pm).
The rotisserie place with the potato balls cooking in duck fat is
awesome. Get there early as it’s popular and gets very crowded. It was
March when I was there, windy, and COLD, so dress warmly, bring
gloves, consider a hat. DO NOT touch the cheese vendors’ wares, even
though they are wrapped and cut to size. I got my hand slapped! Let
them pick the pieces up for you.
http://en.wikipedia.or...

It’s a little closer to Bastille, but still in the 12th, I had dinner
and drinks at L’Ebauchior (sp?). It’s kind of a typical Paris bistro,
but with more upscale food. I had scallops, which is what they were
known for, if I recall, and cognac. But then, I had cognac everywhere,
at all times of the day, in Paris. Food in Paris can be VERY
expensive, so a little place like this is a good bet for good food at
a more reasonable price.

If you have time, go to the 10th, to Canal St. Martin. It’s way off
the beaten path, so there are only a few tourists (tourists are a
disease in Paris). It’s lovely and quiet and REALLY Paris there, and
there are a number of brasseries (cafe/bars) along to way to pop into
for a real chocolate chaud (hot, thick, dark, sipping chocolate) and
cognac. I stopped at a boulangerie (bakery) first and got a baguette
and croissants to eat along the way. there are benches by the canal.

One of my favorite, all time, ever, things to do in Paris is to go to
the Eiffel Tower. However, don’t actually go up or hang out by it
(crowded, expensive). Cross the river to the Tracadero, instead. There
is a carousel there, as there are all over Paris, and a crepe stand.
Ride the carousel with your daughter. Just trust me, it must be done.
Afterward, get a gruyere crepe from the stand and walk up the
Tracadero steps to watch the sunset and the lights come up on La Tour.
Every hour for 10 minutes they pulse a little, as they do when they
are first turned on, and it gives the effect of the entire tower
sparkling.

If you go a few hours early, make sure you see Marche Rue Cler, the
oldest continuously existing street market in Paris. You can buy food
ready to eat, there are lots fo cafes, and real markets for fish,
cheese, meat, dairy, veggies, etc. Even if you buy nothing, it’s
lovely. http://www.parismarket...

Dont be afraid of the street stands that sell crepes and sandwiches en
portay (to go). They are regulated by the health department, and are
perfectly safe. In fact, get a bottle of wine and bring it with you to
Sacre Cour. Sit on the steps below the basilica, but above the
funicular, and get a couple of hot meatball paninis to eat. You can
drink your wine in public, right on the steps, but I believe there are
daily hours restrictions on when. I think it’s not allowed between 7pm
and 3am and during mass hours, or something. Make sure you pay the 5
euros to climb to the top of the tallest tower at Sacre Cour. It is,
in my opinion, the second best view in the city (next to Tracadero at
sunset) because you can see the whole city, laid out like a parchment
map, and the Eiffel Tower in it.

Below Sacre Cour there are art markets, at the top of Montmarte, but
if you go down the steps by the funicular, there is another carousel
(the one from Amelie) and some fabric markets, interesting shops, and
an antique perfume bottle shop. This might be a good place to buy your
wife a scarf.

Go to L’Opera Garnier when it first opens in the morning to see if
they have any cheap seats for whatever is playing that day. I saw
Caligula, the ballet, there for 6 euros. This opera house is the one
where Phantom of the Opera is set, and it really does have waterways
beneath it. The ceiling frescos are gorgeous, and the entire building
is palatial and breathtaking.

If you have time, Saint Chapel is a church worth seeing, as it is the
world’s largest installation of 13th century stained glass. You feel
like you’ve been swallowed by a dominantly purple, Catholic, rainbow ~
but in a good way.

If you wander south of Notre Dame to Ille St. Louis, the next island
down, you will come across Berthillion, my favorite ice cream shop on
earth. I had wild strawberry sorbet and rose petal ice cream here, and
it was magical. http://www.berthillon.fr/

Anyway, I could go on like this forever, as Paris really is in my
heart”

I had a great time there, driving all over central-eastern Wisconsin with my boss, visiting and choosing new vendors, and generally pretending I know what the hell I’m doing. (Almost pulled that off, too!)

Monday night I arrived at the hotel pretty late, so I went to my room, drew a deep, extra hot, bath, and ordered room service – a beer and a large salad. This confused the person who took my order. “Would you like a sandwich, too? Or some soup? Can I offer you some dessert?”

“No, no, thank you.” I said, “Just the salad and beer please.” Befuddled, the woman agreed and hung up. It wouldn’t become clear to me why this seemed odd until a couple of days later, when I realized that my “dinner” was basically an appetizer in the Midwest.

The next night, after my very long day, my colleague, Phil, picked my up to show me the town. While he lives in Seattle, he grew up in Milwaukee, and he knows where the cool kids go. We went to a bar called The Safe House, which requires a password to get in. We didn’t know the password, though, so the doorkeeper made us do a ridiculous hula dance. (Sidebar: it’s stupidly hard to hula in 5 inch heels, just so you know. If ever you are forced to do this, take your shoes off first. You’re welcome.) Once we sat at the bar, we realized that the whole hula debacle was captured on closed circuit camera and broadcast on the tvs inside the bar. Sexy.

We stayed for a drink and some deep fried cheese curds (my thighs expended so rapidly on those that I actually felt them creak, I swear), and then we moved on to an English style pub nearby, where we had dinner and a beer (pot roast and mashed potatoes for me). Phil was still thinking about the mustache disguises they sold back at The Safe House, though, and he got more excited about them, until I promised if he bought them, I would wear them. At work.

We left the English bar and went back to The Safe House (thankfully, no Hula necessary, as the “agent” at the door knew us this time), and Phil nabbed a pack of “Stache of the week” stick-on mustaches. The drunk 20-something guys next to us said “Put one on!” I think they thought Phil would, but I took the package from him, popped open the plastic under Tuesday, and stuck on my fluffy new stache.

With a wink and an air kiss, we left, leaving the stunned drunks in our wake. I wore my Monday one at the office this week, and stuck Tuesday on yesterday again, for good measure. Today I’m at a photo shoot, though, so I may have to save the others for next week.

I love my work team mates.

Her name is Gloria Patyarre, and she is a 50s ish Australian Aborigine woman who broke big on the art scene a few years back. She’s been an artist forever, but her works recently started showing up in major galleries and museums in the US, much to my delight. The Seattle Art Museum (SAM) has one of her works that is very similar to the one below, only horizontal. It’s probably 4 feet tall and 9 feet wide, and it’s the only thing on the end wall in the native/aboriginal gallery.

This painting has become my last stop every single time I visit SAM, which is about 6 times per year, and I stare into it for long minutes before tearing myself away. It looks like bobcat fur or guinea fowl feathers to me, and there is so much movement in the painting that I can nearly see the wind ruffling the paint, rippling through it like a breeze in a field.

Ms. Petyarre calls it leaves, so I guess that is what they are, but I think a great painting is interpretable, different to each beholder (side bar: isn’t beholder a lovely word?). Some day I’m going to get up the nerve to try to talk the curator at SAM into letting me bring my yoga mat in so I can sit in front of “my” painting and lose myself for a very long time.

Click here for a whole bunch more of her mesmerizing work.

Every now and then I come across something that makes me scream inside my head, “YES! You get it!” That’s how I felt when I saw this on Design Crush today.

I am at the airport right now, on my way to Milwaukee for the week for work. Our headquarters is now in Waukesha, just outside of Milwaukee, so I need to interview some potential contractors and get to know my colleagues there, as well as visit the campus. I’m really looking forward to it, though that doesn’t sound all that exciting, as I love to travel almost anywhere, for almost any reason. But really, and this is not a little part, I am ridiculously excited to sleep in a king sized bed and have a bathtub.

I’m a terrible water waster in hotels. I bath twice per day and take loooooong showers. But I figure I more than make up for it with my 5 gallon showers at home and my total of 40 gallons of home use per week (sometimes less). I know this amount because it is the size of my water tank, which I fill up every Saturday morning, with a hose, for my daily use.  While I love my simple existence, and feel good about the low environmental impact my housing situation allows, I tend to be a water splurger on the road.

Another bit that I’m looking forward to is the Harley Museum. It houses the first Harley ever and a collection of interesting vintage bikes, so I’m pretty excited to see those.

Updates soon.