These ones are for Jon:


Smooth and gnarled masses of ice pile up in the Little Deschutes river on an early morning.


Patterns of ice forming along the Little Deschutes river.

Happy now, Jon?

Tired of that same old gelatenous crap out of the can that has the balls to call itself "Cranberry Sauce"? Really don't want to have to contaminate your turkey again with that horrible sauce Aunt Martha brings every Thanksgiving? Don't despair. Help is on the way.

With just a little elbow grease and an hour of leisurely prep and cook (I'm writing this *while* I'm cooking my sauce), you too can have a cranberry sauce that truly rocks, will burn the socks off Aunt Martha, and make that turkey sandwich palatable even after a solid week of eating bird.

To truly be able to appreciate below recipe however, you need to know a little background on how this delightful creation came to be.

You see - many years ago, I was terribly tired of turkey for Thanksgiving. I wasn't gonna take it anymore. So I decided to cook something a bit more exotic, a bit more challenging: Crispy Cranberry-Walnut Duck. Now - duck is awfully hard to prepare properly. The recipe I had however was from some award-winning California chef. So I figured I can't go wrong. Right? Wrong. The duck turned out horrible. Dry and far from crispy, it was completely inedible (my theory here is that many chefs with restaurants purposely put out tweaked recipes that set the unsuspecting home-cook up for disaster - that way, they prove their superiority and assure themselves a steady flow of curious fools who are dying to know what the recipe was *supposed to* taste like ...).

But I disgress. Anyway - the recipe called for a walnut-leek stuffing for the duck. Only I had somehow misread the recipe (ok - the title implied it, didn't it?) and instead added the walnuts to the cranberry sauce. Henceforth, my very own version of Cranberry-Walnut Sauce was born. If you follow it closely, you too can be popular at Thanksgiving dinners ...

Cranberry-Walnut Sauce

2 cups of FRESH cranberries
3/4 cup of chopped walnuts
3/4 cups of brown sugar
3/4 cups of beef stock/broth ("Pacific" brand works well)
Zest of 1 orange
3/4 water

1. Wash your berries. Pick out any that are soft or mushy. Pick out stems too.
2. Put the berries in a large pot.
3. Add the sugar, water, and orange zest. If you feel like it, and you like the taste of orange, you can squeeze the juice of half an orange in there too.
4. Cook over LOW heat until the berries split open.
5. Add the beef stock, mix well.
6. Cook for a little bit, uncovered, then add the walnuts.
7. Simmer on LOW, uncovered and stirring at times, until the sauce is thickened.
If it's not as thick as you like, take a bean masher and squish the berries to release their starchy insides.
8. Serve warm or cold.

This recipe btw can also be prepared days in advance. I happen to think that gives the ingredients some time to get to know eachother, and eventually even like eachother. And I've never had them *not* like eachother...

The amounts can also be bumped up according to the number of guests. If you're single, with no family and no friends, above recipe will suffice (adding a large shot of whiskey straight-up might help with the no-friends scenario there too). Otherwise, make at least triple the amount. I'm thinking ahead this year (to the turkey sandwich) and I'm making 5 times the amounts listed above.

It will keep in the fridge for at least one week, but you can also freeze it and use it later in the year. Under no circumstances should you give this sauce to your relatives together with the inevitable Thanksgiving doggie bag. You'll want to keep it all to yourself.

Trust me on this one.

A few months back, in a minute of nostalgic weakness, I signed up for a one-year subscription of Wired Magazine. Today, I found the first copy in my mailbox. And nostalgia was exactly what I got. But not in a feel-warm-and-fuzzy-all-over sort of way. Oh, no.

On page 112, a familiar face greeted me. Tim O'Reilly. My employer of 3 1/2 awesome, exciting, and ultimately painful years. Steven Levy wrote the 7-page article. I remember Steve well. After all, I worked in the PR department, and it was my job to woo people like him into writing about O'Reilly. Steve's a nice guy. So this is not his fault. He couldn't have known. But I quote:

"O'Reilly's company was hit hard by the crash [referring to burst of the dot com bubble]. In the late 90's, its expanding publishing schedule required a move from the cramped quarters in the center of Sebastopol to a brand-new complex down the road. .... By the time the new campus opened in 2001, the bubble had popped and book sales tanked. O'Reilly had to fire some 70 people, about a quarter of his staff. .... O'Reilly admits that if he'd gone public, "I could have given them comfortable retirements."

But you didn't. So you know what, Tim? Fuck you. Fuck you for saying something like that. How insensitive.

By now, dear reader, you may have guessed it. Yepp. *I* was one of those 70 people who got laid off. Am I bitter? Sure. I loved what I was doing, and I was damn good at it. Political maneuvering by my insecure and lazy boss who saw the mass lay-off as a convenient way to get rid of me ultimately sealed my fate - and you, Tim, just stood there and let it happen. As a matter of fact, you couldn't even remember that I got booted. Co-workers later told me that you kept referring people to me (like the guy from IBM with whom you and I were on the brink of sealing a hugely important grassroots PR deal) - but of course, I wasn't there anymore.

I slaved for you, Tim. Long hours, with a crappy salary, no overtime pay and - yes, that's right - no freaking stock options. You know why? Because I believed in what you were trying to do. And becaused I loved the way I could touch people's lives through that.

But it was pure greed that prevented you from going public. You were selfishly pocketing the moolah that was rolling in during the boom, while paying 90% of your employees crap - yes, crap - for wages. The other 10% of course were well rewarded to keep their mouths shut.

And what Steven also omits in the article is that the building of this new campus - this insane, empty monstrosity of a building - drained much of the capital from the company that could have been used to retain jobs. But it sure did feed your ego, now didn't it, Tim?

So you bet I'm bitter. I gave this company my heart and soul, and was ultimately booted with a lousy 2-weeks severance - and only after I signed a legal agreement that said I couldn't work in the same capacity (in PR at a tech book company) for 10 years.

So fuck you, Tim. I hope you choke on one of your home-made cranberry scones.

I know Jon has already linked to this - but damn, it's just too cool to pass up (and I'm archiving this for my very own enjoyment too). *Almost* makes me want to buy a Citroen - oh, no, wait. I forgot. They're French cars... (do they have an "easy-torch" feature, I wonder?)

Speaking of the French - check out this insane Quicktime video of a guy speeding through the heart of Paris (the camera was mounted to the bumper of a Ferrari). Is it just me? Or is the sound of that revved-up engine kinda ... sexy? And the squealing of the tires? Mmmmmmm.....

Having commandeered a car in Paris and almost died several times within a few hours myself (those "round-abouts" at the large plazas are... uhmmm... tricky!), I can appreciate what the driver is trying to do here. The fact that he ignores all the red lights actually isn't that unusual - all Parisians do it. Utter disregard for human life when driving your car? Genetically imprinted in every French. Admittedly, the driver himself here must have lacked a certain gene with the label "self-preservation". Yet I'm kinda grateful for it... he lets us live vicariously through him ...

You can learn a bit about the history of the film, as well as buy the DVD here. Links via JWZ.

The silky tunes of a guitar, playing the "Girl from Ipenema", gently wake me just as the sun rises over the mountains. It's Richard, our neighbor, an elder gentleman from Boston, sitting on his folding chair, picking strings. Other mornings he's just stood there, eyes closed, calm, and seemingly lost in himself, singing to the world and to himself with his pleasant, deep voice. I go over to him and thank him profusely for this nice musical treat. He just nods, smiles, and plays on.

"Good Morning, Gorgeoussss!", trumpets Gryff as I stroll over to his camp in search of a cup of joe. Is there anything nicer than waking up to Jazz and being called "gorgeous" before you're really awake to the world?

This already feels like a really slow day. I have absolutely no desire to mount my bike or pick up the camera today - I'm visually exhausted. My brain feels like it can't possibly handle any more stimulation for a while - or it will have to explode and spill onto the desert floor. How unfortunate that would be... So I decide to just kick it, write in my journal, and hang out in camp for the day. Gryff and Toddler seemingly have the same idea - they retreat to their mosquito tent by the road, and as I slump into my camping chair and write, I can't help but listen to Gryff cheerfully hollering at passerbyers "Gorgeoussss, darling! Gorgeoussss!" or "Oh, yeah! Work it, baby, work it!" - and it makes me laugh. My campmate Sarah sleeps in, Aaron goes off to pursue his own activities.



In between filling the pages, I lay down my pen and watch the endless procession of Black Rock citizens walking, parading, running, biking or driving by (or being driven). I'm in awe.

To even attempt to describe the costumes and outfits here at Burning Man would be an exercise in futility. They are as individual as all of Black Rock City's nearly 40,000 citizens. There are no definable styles, fabrics, colors, or patterns. Nothing is judged, nothing is frowned upon. Everything goes.



Only one unspoken rule seems to apply - the more outrageous, the better. Anything that blinks, flashes, spins, twirls, or pulsates - preferably in a dizzying array of colors - is considered good. Anything metal or metal-colored is good. In general, the less thread your body bears, the better. And not just because of the heat. Fishnet everything, preferably from head to toe, combined with little else, is always an agreeable choice. Ditto with sheer stuff. And of course fancy underwear (I don't think I've ever seen so many thongs in my life before...). Painted body parts (as decoration or to replace the inconvenience of clothing) are always a crowd-pleaser too. The "birthday suit" however is a definite favorite for many Burners - it combines the convieniences of having a costume ready at the drop of a hat (or less, actually), and never having to worry about clothes-induced heat stroke ...



When Aaron returns to camp in the afternoon and attempts to check the time with the key in the van, we discover that the key (the one and only!) has vanished. As he was the last one to have used it, the burden of finding it quickly falls onto his shoulders - and so does the wrath of Sarah who is responsible for the rented van. I find it odd that we're having a serious issue with the key twice in two days - but it feels like this time, the playa gods are ready to teach a tough and loveless lesson. This time, I sense, the playa won't provide. We spent a good hour turning the van inside out and upside down - no key. As night falls, searching becomes impossible, and we decide to post-pone until the next morning.



The air at camp is thick - and not just because of the ever-present dust - so I resolve to seize the rest of the day and head out to the playa to explore the night. My destination is the Temple - the spiritual center of Black Rock City. Every Burning Man has one. But while every Temple is different in architecture (this year's is red and resembles a Chinese shrine), they all have one thing in common: they are a momument to loved ones lost.

Far away from the hustle of the city and the rest of the desert art, the Temple is a place of calm and quiet, dimly lit, surrounded only by hushed voices, if that. Although scarcely finished, the citizens of Black Rock have already made the Temple their own. I take my time in reading the words, poems, letters, and notes people have written on the wooden beams and columns of the vast structure. Most of them speak of love and loss, of pain and sadness, longing and grief. Some have dedications to dead pets; one is even framed by a dog collar hung on a beam. At times, photographs are pinned next to the written words. A couple of messages tell the stories of people trying to come to terms with their own sickness or addiction. They are all true, and raw, and deeply heartfelt.



I remember my own loved ones that have passed on - my dad, my cat Charly, a friend I'd lost to cancer - and I'm suddenly struck by the profound sadness the Temple radiates. I notice how the people around me mostly just sit or stand in one place, still, alone in their thoughts, solemn. A few are crying, others are engaged in silent hugs with their friends or lovers. I had no idea that amidst all that frenetic energy, that joy and happiness, the goodwill and love that is Burning Man, I would find a place of such deep pain and sorrow.

Overwhelmed by melancholy and grief, I walk away and into the blank night. The music, lights and noises fade away, and I'm enveloped by a vast, soothing darkness. There is only the warm wind around me and the black sky above me, ablaze with stars that shimmer like a million lazy diamonds. I'm alone out here - and yet I've never felt closer and more connected to the Universe and its creatures.



So maybe this is what Burning Man is truly all about - to give us a chance to glimpse, if only for an ever-so-brief moment like this one, that there is something out there that is truly bigger than us. To tear open our minds and make us realize that we are all connected - through time and space; through the past, present, and the future. And not just to the rest of humanity, but to the Earth, the elements, the Universe, every living thing on this planet. And ultimately to have us return from the desert, back to our normal lives, carrying the sense with us that we are not alone - that compassion, truth and love can and should be part of our daily existence.



I hope this sense never leaves me. And if it does - there's always next year, and another Burning Man ...

Day 5

[After my last attempt at writing this installment in the Burning Man Blog evaporized into thin air - courtesy of Blogger's screwed-up code, thankyouverymuch - and since it is currently looking like the freaking artic outside my window, I decided to take another stab at it. You, dear reader, might want to briefly return to Part 1 of Day 3 to brush up on the happenings ...]



So I'm blissfully dozing at the Astral Hairwash, trying hard not to totally fall asleep on my wonderful shampoo volunteer. I decide to make conversation, and as it turns out, she was instrumental in the genesis of this establishment. "In 1997, when I first came to BMan, I got really annoyed that I didn't have enough water and too shallow of an evaporation pond to wash my hair properly," she explains. "So when I returned the next year, I started the hairwash. It's been a huge success ever since. Usually, there's a line down the block, waiting for service." How big of a success can really only be measured by looking at just how big and intricate of an operation this really is.

Talking to Bobalicious (only his playa-name, obviously), co-proprietor of the wet enterprise, reveals the specifics. While the Hairwash may have started out small with 2 volunteers, 2 chairs and a simple tent, it has grown to 18 volunteers and a fully streamlined undertaking over the past 8 years.

The water supply for washing all that hair, for example, is a marvel of enviromental guerilla engineering. Since there is of course no water available in the arid desert, and Burning Man (the organization) doesn't provide anything beyond Porta-Potties, ice and coffee, every drop of liquid has to be hauled into camp (and disposed of without ever touching the delicate playa). This is accomplished with a large U-Haul trailer, packed to the roof with white 50-gallon plastic drums. Two of those drums then sit on a couple of roughly 8-foot-tall wooden towers, from which lines of plastic tubing run down to the tent - fed by a little something called "gravity". Water-saving sprayers on hoses are used to preserve as much liquid as possible while still providing for a refreshing shampoo. The grey water is then caught in a bucket, and lead off via a network of more plastic tubing to the two large, black-plastic-sheated evaporation ponds, where the sun takes care of the rest. A solar pump keeps the elevated plastic drums supplied with water from other drums.

"We evaporate roughly 1300 gallons of water during the 5 days of operation," Bobalicious volunteers. "We also use only bio-degradable shampoo - it took quite a bit of research and experimentation until we found the right one, but we've eventually settled on Herbal Essences. It smells good, and is totally environmentally friendly." Which is important, if you consider shampoo consumption ranges between 2 and 3 gallons for those few days ...

So, re-invigorated by water, bio-degradable shampoo and Burner-chat, I head back to camp to grab my camera and strike out to seize the evening light. Every day, more art pops up on the playa. Contrary to assumptions made by the "Real-Worlders", the art that is created at Burning Man isn't something that is all ready and served up as soon as the population gets there (despite being heavily subsidized by the Black Rock Arts Foundation). Au contraire. It's a work in progress - constantly getting created, built or fiddled with by its creator(s), sometimes even left unfinished, but always endless in variety. It's a visual feast, unrivaled by museums across the world (and by gawd, I have been to a good lot of them).





As night falls, I'm drawn to a couple of newly erected installations - that breathe FIRE! One of them is a triangle, formed by an artful metal-pipe fence that spews fire. Those who dare jump through the fence, are rewarded with a truly unique place to dance in ...



And then there is the Phoenix. Huge, shiny metal spikes jut out of the desert floor, like the broken wings of a giant bird. Its chest is a wooden pyre. Its eyes, beak, and wings come alive with fire whenever a participant pushes the switch-button that controls the propane supply. For this is an entirely inter-active piece of art - one, where you are invited to make the beast come alive with the roar and intense heat of fire at your whim...



I drift on to Center Camp, where I see an old guy, wearing an oversized button on his coat that says "I fucked Larry". For a second I wonder who "Larry" is - then I get it, and I laugh out loud...



A large crowd has gathered at the newly erected "Thunderdome" - a geodesic metal-pipe structure right out of the movie "Mad Max". Upon closer inspection, that's actually exactly what it is supposed to be: an emulation of the movie's climatic fight scene, complete with a Master of Ceremonies, a punk motley crue of helpers, two bungie-propelled fight harnesses, and the thunderous soundtrack of hardcore metal music. Tons of spectators have climbed the dome, and are watching the action from above. I work my way to the front of the cage just as two fierce-looking and half-naked fighters are getting strapped into their harnesses. The audience is going beserk - everybody is yelling and screaming, shaking their fists or chanting a contestants name. As the fighters bash eachother with large rubber bats, the crowd kicks it up a notch until the match explodes into a deafening crescendo. (want a taste? check out this, albeit a bit dark, video ...)



This is Burning Man at its rawest, wildest, its most primal. Just as the playa challenges us to rediscover our most basic human instincts (food, shelter, procreation); frees us from our inhibitions, fears, and societal bonds to be and create as we wish; so it also spurs us to explore and experience life on the edge - and even rekindle the neglected appetite for a kind of live-or-die rawness that we in our cushioned and pampered existences have completely forgotten about ...

Part 4

No, I'm not referring to the pig in Stephen King's novel of the same title - but I do feel a bit like the hero/poor bastard in said novel.

Indeed, I'm currently surrounded by snow and held hostage by it. All looked fine yesterday. The raindrops falling from the sky were mostly in favor of remaining in their liquid state - but overnight, Mother Nature decided to change that and dumped roughly 2 or 3 inches of wet snow in my backyard. And she is still at it as I'm typing this.

My car is no use to me either - being that the studded tires are still not mounted yet (Les Schwab was slammed on Saturday, and hubby was too unmotivated to do it himself).

So I'm basically stuck - but here are some things to be grateful for nonetheless:

- I live in a lovely little house with a lovely view on a lovely river. It really does look very nice when it's covered with white.
- I have a wood stove as a backup to my electric heating furnace - and a ton of wood stashed. And I love the roar of a good strong fire, the penetrating heat of it, and that my cats cuddle up near the stove.
- Despite the snow, my satellite internet connection has been on. After I crawled up on the garage roof and brushed the dish off that is anyway.
- Hail the Internet! I can shop for stuff without having to leave my house, and neat little packages are being delivered to me by an exhausted, but usually cheerful UPS/Fedex driver. One such package will contain a weather cover for my satellite dish in the next day or two ...
- I spent 2 hours yesterday cooking a kick-ass enchilada. On good weather weekends, I don't dedicate that much time to preparing one single dish.
- I have a list of stuff to do a mile long - accumulated over the past months, waiting for just such a day as today.
- There is no psycho nurse "re-adjusting" my legs with a sledge hammer.

So, since Accuweather has forecast temperatures in the 40s and 50s this week, I know all that snow will melt again. And I will be free again.

And feeling a whole lot less like a character in a Stephen King novel.

I hardly dare glance out my window.

Tiny (and sometimes not so tiny) white flakes whirl through the air. Round raindrops - in their quest to fall to the Earth's surface - have magically transformed into flat, paperthin, white objects that tend to stick to everything they touch, instead of dissolving into the ground like good little raindrops.

Yes, Winter is upon us. Seems it hasn't been that long since it's last showed its face, and if I recollect correctly, that was actually mid-June (here in La Pine anyway).

Those first days of the cold season are always a bit depressing to me. All's I want to do is make a roaring fire, curl up on the couch with a book, and get swept away into a place far, far away (preferably a galaxy with no snow). Yes, even at 9am.

But the mad carousel of life keeps spinning. So I better get my shawls, gloves, and warm jackets out - and embrace the snowy season. After I finish that book anyway ...

This is what comes to mind when reading The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Or rather the third act in the five-part trilogy of books relating to that subject - "Life, the Universe and Everything" (the answer to which is - of course as we all know - 42). Which is where I am right now in the tome Jon loaned me a while ago.

Part 1 and 2 were reasonably insane - I mean, I was still able to kinda relate to it if I flipped on the Improbability Switch in my brain and waited what would happen. But Part 3 - that's on a whole other level. Granted, I'm only into it for about ... what ... 40 pages now? But still.

I can kinda see Doug sitting there at his typewriter - popping acid like there were M&Ms, and grinning from ear to ear. Of course this exercise also germinated real literary gems like:

"Arthur experienced that dull throbbing sensation just behind the temples that was a hallmark of so many of his conversations with Ford. His brain lurked like a frightened puppy in its kennel."

And -
"The ghostly but violent shapes that could be seen moving the thick pall of smoke seemed to be performing a series of bizarre parodies of batting strokes, the difference being that every ball they struck with their bats exploded wherever it landed. The very first one of these had dispelled Arthur's inital reaction that the whole thing might just be a publicity stunt by Australian margarine manufacturers."

I mean - who can write stuff like that? Sober.

And this is exactly the reason why the movie sucked so bad. There is no way any one director - no matter how brilliant - can translate material like this to the screen without either coming off as completely insane (if he sticks to the script), or as a total jerk (if he doesn't stick to the script).



The only saving grace the movie had was of course Sam Rockwell, who gave a truly spirited performance as the ego-maniac Zaphod. And Alan Rickman was hilarious as Marvin's voice. But that's where the fun stops already. And it's too soon.

So let's all hope there won't be any sequels, shall we?