Latest Entry into the Visitor Hall Of Fame, Tent Division

I enjoyed a surprise visit from my dear friend Doug Ottke this week and so added another gilded entry into the Schaackmobile Visitor Hall of Fame. This time with a twist-- Doug set up his tent on the "lawn" (a somewhat polluted area filled with broken glass and treacherous weeds-- I am NOT exaggerating when I say treacherous-- the lengths these plants have gone to in order to disperse their progeny is quite painful for largely hairless mammals like ourselves. When you come to visit, high step through the weeds and make your way straight back to the safe confines of the concrete patio...notice the neighbors put in a new privacy fence to boot, how thoughtful of them!) Anyway, Doug was on his way from Tallahassee, FL (where he was visiting another old college compatriot of ours, Franklin, more about him in a future post) to Denver, CO (where he lives, until Sept. 15th, when he heads to Central America). Luckily, the godforesaken nature of Arlington does not impair my ability to enjoy hosting a visitor like Doug because the fun and entertainment is inherent in the conversation. Doug is a fascinating guy-- by training, a geologist, but his philosophy of living has brought him to a variety of jobs and places. These travels include a recent stay with his aunt and uncle in LA where we continued working on Teapot Dome Sabotage, his screenplay depicting the juxtaposition of nature and its destruction, and one man's inability to simply take home a paycheck and look the other way. Hopefully you will see it on the big screen one day, or on at least a medium-sized screen. Any documentarian or movie-making friends out there interested in such a thing? Becca? I can have his people call your people! (In other words, give you each other's email addresses).Doug and I met during my first year of college at Earlham in the late fall of 1992. We became friends by the time he graduated but, hour for hour, we have definitely spent more time together in the mountains and on the streets of strange cities than we ever got to hang out in college. Doug is a renaissance man in a sense-- he is well-read, a good conversationalist, opinionated but not close-minded, interesting and interested-- which is a rare and wonderful combination of traits. He is also a Rush fan, as are many of the most interesting people (ok, men-- I have yet to meet a female Rush fan) I know. Doug actually was the first person to introduce me to Bob Dylan as well, but it was long before I was smart enough to listen. I am sure that is true for many other things he has brought up in conversation over the years, and I am just genuinely grateful to him for sticking with me as a friend while I catch up. Among other stories we got to revisit, we enjoyed retelling the tale of our visit to the Smithsonion in 1999 to see the Ontonagon Boulder-- a massive piece of copper from Michigan that is embroiled in a 3-way custody battle so alledgedly controversial it has to be kept behind the scenes in the Natural History division of the museum. It can only be visited by the geological elite, but Doug knew a guy, and we somehow managed to get backstage (this was my first trip to Washington, DC, it was only about 48 hours, and despite the great number of monuments and museums I have heard that they have there, I spent most of my time in the collections area of the Geology division at the Smithsonian looking a giant, dusty rock). It was a great day though, and a great trip, and it is a telling example of Doug's passionate interest in things derived from this earth and the trouble that they can incite above ground once humans get involved. So glad you came by Ott! Come again when you can!

Happy Ramadan

Note to reader(s):

I use A LOT of capitalization in this post for emphasis.
Please do dwell on the capitalized words and say them loudly in your mind to improve flow, clarify meaning, and emphasize incredulity.

Ramadan started this week and I told my friend and labmate Assie that I would fast with her on the first and last day of the month-long festivus in solidarity and support of her suffering since SHE was fasting all day long every day for a month in solidarity and support of millions of people who suffer worldwide. It seemed like the least I could do, right?

I am not sure why exactly... perhaps it was the fact that I had agreed to fast in the first place, but Monday morning I woke up ravenous. I am not a breakfast eater, but my stomach was audibly growling as I laid in bed already trying to remember why I had agreed to do this. Then I went to work. Those of you who know me in a lab setting know that last year I bought a little, miraculous coffee maker (one of the pod-based coffee makers) in an effort to cultivate a caffeine addiction while writing my dissertation. It worked wonders for my productivity-- given that I woke up at home in my bed and the coffee maker was in my lab. After a very short time, my morning routine was shaved down to the 20 minutes it took me to get up, get dressed, scoot to school, and put the pod in the machine. 26 seconds later, I would have a frothy, delicious little cup of joy in my newbie hands. Nowadays I am patently hooked on my 4 ounce miracle each morning and it is the first thing I do to get going when I arrive at school. Monday was no different, although I soon found out that, technically, drinking coffee (or even water!) counts as breaking the fast. "REALLY?" I asked in feigned disbelief. Really, I was told. I was informed of this while chewing gum (which I was doing with unusual gusto because I was SO hungry), which I came to find out is ALSO a fast-breaking activity. Something about the flavor crystals going down your throat in your saliva…. So, it turns out, I am a terrible empathetic faster. Now I have decided that I am going to show my support for Assie by providing a pathetic example of fasting-- trying each day and failing-- in order to make her feel really good about how awesome a faster she is. I don't know why I didn't think of this strategy in the first place.

My previous experience with Ramadan was during time spent on the very Islamic coast of East Africa, where I was working a few years ago in the fall of 2006. One day, I was walking around with my erstwhile boyfriend (and current dear friend) Chris Moore in Stone Town—the main hub of the island of Zanzibar—digesting a delicious dinner from The Gardens (the nightly street food galleria that springs up in the park along the waterfront serving up the most delicious fresh-caught seafood you have ever tasted for a fraction of the price you have ever paid—unless you get snookered that is….) We knew I had the day off the next day and were lala-ing about, pressing our noses in the window of a restaurant dedicated to all things Freddy Mercury (he was born in Zanzibar and is something of a local hero; the restaurant was, of course, closed for Ramadan), and brainstorming about what to do the next day. We passed a storefront that claimed to rent any type of motorized vehicle and Chris suggested we rent scooters since a) I love scooters and b) the island is so small you can see it in its entirety via a two-stroke engine. As per usual in Tanzania, there was a guy who happened to be standing outside the storefront who assured us his friend owned the place, and that someone would be there to meet us at 8 am the next morning and hook us up with some vehicles. As per usual, the next morning there WAS someone there, 2 guys actually, totally unaffiliated with THIS particular scooter rental place, ready to take us on dirtbikes at high speed through the winding, narrow streets of Stone Town to THEIR place, where they also had a few scooters that could be rented out. Let me describe these guys briefly, because we ended up spending quite a bit of time with our lives in their hands. One was very, very tall and one was very, very short and they both had very, very greasy hair and wore a lot of jewelry. When we selected the scooters we wanted, they asked us for our Tanzanian motorcycle driver’s licenses to fill out the paperwork for the rental. For some reason, they were SHOCKED we did not have any, and acted as if the deal was definitely going to fall through. This seemed like kind of a surprise to me because a) I am an indefatigable optimist and b) I am pretty sure EVERYONE who rents a scooter in Zanzibar does not possess a Tanzanian driver’s license with a motorcycle endorsement. I gently suggested that maybe there was a way around this problem, and they agreed that we could go to the Zanzinbari-equivalent of the DMV and GET Tanzanian driver’s licenses. However, this would require a) going to the DMV (which is a time-consuming activity in every country), b) having our US driver’s licenses with us (which we did not have), and therefore c) procuring fake foreign driver’s licenses to use to get only somewhat real Zanzibari licenses, and finally, d) taking a driving test on the scooter. And so we did! Procuring the fake licenses was going to take a little while, so we were led to a courtyard to wait with the short, greasy guy while the tall, greasy guy went searching wherever one searches for these things. The short greasy guy was drinking strong coffee and smoking non-stop. Because I knew even less about Ramadan then than I do now, I asked him, “So, trying to survive the fast, huh?”—assuming, of course, that mainlining coffee and chain-smoking was a survival strategy for hunger.
“WHAT?!?” he exclaimed. “I don’t fast during Ramadan! If you fast, you can’t drink and smoke!!!”
Oh, I see. So it is not the STARVING that bothers you, it is not being able to drink and smoke cigarettes. Got it.
Eventually, the tall greasy guy came back with the licenses which, as I mentioned, need to have motorcycle endorsements (mine did, Chris’ didn’t) in order to take the test and get the permits and, preferably, should bear SOME resemblance to the person intending to get away with using them (I am pretty sure Zanzibaris think all light-skinned people look the same, so this was probably okay. ) Then we each rode with one of the greasy guys on the scooters to a park in the middle of town so we could practice before taking the test. These scooters had gears like motorcycles, Chris wasn’t nearly as experienced a scooter driver as I was, and there is a serious paucity of stoplights and lane dividers on the roads in Zanzibar so it was important just to get used to weaving in and out of chaotic traffic. Ironically, on our WAY back from the park to the DMV, we got stopped by the cops (we were not driving at this point, we were each still clutching uncomfortably tightly to our respective greasy guys). Turns out, THEIR licenses were expired. The cop took them and told them to come back later that night with “tea money” (=a bribe) and they could get them back. So now we are four people, two scooters, and zero licenses. On our way to the Zanzibari DMV.

We get there, wait the requisite amount of time (this is a prescribed amount, in accordance with a secret universal proclamation followed by DMV paper pushers worldwide), take the driving test, lie to the officials about our fake IDs, insist that the motorcycle endorsement is embedded in the numeric codes somewhere on the back, and leave with one license to ill in hand (mine, Chris was out of luck). The tall greasy guy assured us this was no problem and that, for a small price, he could just forge a license. The price was so small, in fact, I had to wonder why we didn't just go this route in the first place! After a few more stops and some waiting in lobbies of various buildings, we head BACK to the house with the courtyard deep in the back alleys of Stone Town to get our scooters and get going. It is now about noon. After four hours of mishaps, mayhem, waiting, lying, fake IDs, getting hassled by cops, driving lessons, holding on for dear life, careening through narrow alleys all over town, discussing the cons of Ramadan, and convincing everyone involved that this was, in fact, a good idea despite the apparent obstacles and illegalities—the tall greasy guy handed us some really dorky looking helmets and the keys to the scooters. At last! As we turned on the ignition and started to roll them backwards to head out onto the street, he yelled in kind of a panic—“WAIT! Wait! Stop!!!”

We turned off the ignition.

“Yeah?” I said, wondering what else there could POSSIBLY be.

He said, “DON'T FORGET!!!! You have to drive on the LEFT here!!”

I nearly died laughing. After 5 trips to East Africa, 3 months in-country on this particular trip, having covered thousands and thousands of miles by car, having DRIVEN numerous times, and (ESPECIALLY) having just spent the last 4 hours trying to rent these scooters, did he REALLY think we had somehow managed to miss the whole driving on the left thing? Needless to say, scooting is a great way to see Zanzibar (and the rest of the world I would propose) and the morning's saga only primed us for the day's adventure.

We hit the road.

Summer Nights (Flashback to 2003 & 2005)

Other than drive-in movie theaters and trips to a local ice cream dairy, there are few things that epitomize a perfect summer evening more than going to a state or county fair. I haven't figured out yet if there is a state fair in Texas, or if it is even possible to go given the oppressive, unrecreational heat, but back in Indiana, August always included a trip up to the fairgrounds in Indianapolis with my dear friend Idelle to see gigantic, prize-winning farm animals and a live performance of A Prairie Home Companion at the Indiana State Fair. The first time we went in 2003, relatively early in our friendship, we had the thrill of meeting Garrison Keillor, the host of the show-- he signed our books, gave us ketchup and rhubarb preserves, and made our month.At that show, we also met Rich Dworsky, Tim Russell, Sue Scott, and Fred Newman (the amazingly talented and funny sound effects specialist on the program), with whom we became fast friends. Since then, we have probably seen A Prairie Home Companion live half a dozen times in various places. Not only have we gotten to shoot the breeze and harmonize with GK immediately after the show, but we have had the pleasure and honor of hanging out, joking around, and swapping stories with Fred, Pat Donahue (guitarist is the Guy's All-Star Shoe Band), and Laura Bucholz (a writer for the show). Can you imagine Idelle, my sister Genevieve, myself, picking up the three of them at their hotel after there show, all squeezing into my little car, and heading to the local brewery to have dinner, and tell stories, and laugh-- literally until we cried? It was one of the most fun evenings I think any of us civilians (me, Gen, and Idelle) ever had, and I would like to think Fred, and Pat, and Laura might have had fun too. I have one picture from that evening, taken by my sister-- though I am missing another one that has her in it.... Gen, Idelle-- do either of you have the one with all of us where I look a little too happy? If so, I will embarass myself and post it too.
Other than live performances of radio shows that I adore, there is nothing I like more about these kinds of fairs than a foot long corn dog and a demolition derby. Cotton candy? No interest. Giant pretzels? Too salty. But a foot long corn dog is the greatest gift America has contributed to my culinary bliss and, for some reason, they seem to be the exclusive domain of state and county festivals. The concept of demolition derby is also uniquely american and surprisingly entertaining, especially given that I don't enjoy car racing (they just turn left the whole time!) One thing that shocked me at my first derby (in 2005) was how young the drivers were-- 10, 12, 14 year old boys are sent into battle by their parents and legal guardians to drive a car as hard as possible into another vehicle. I realize it is just good, clean fun, but I cannot imagine allowing/asking/encouraging/funding such endeavors for a kid if I were their parent. Speaking of parents, congratulations this week to Darron and Sarah, proud mom and dad to Jude "the innocent" Alexander Luesse born around this time last week. More on his future demolition derby career as it unfolds....

5600 miles, 13 days, 9 states, 2 tire changes, 7 managers, 5 labels, a thousand picks and patch cables

After blitzing from Texas to Oregon in less than 2 days, our trip took a more relaxed turn. As I mentioned previously, while Jeff and Jesse attended the conference in Portland, I hung out with my mom and sister in Eugene and Cottage Grove, OR. They were wonderful hosts-- my mom and I explored the Cascade Mountains a bit via car and my sister and her boyfriend, Jeremy, invited me to join their weekly softball game on the banks of the Willamette. There were both funny differences and similarities between their pick-up game of punk softball and the co-rec city leagues I have played in in the past. The differences included the per capita rate of beer drinking and smoking while playing (literally, on the field-- at one point three infielders were playing with a cigarette dangling from their lips and the pitcher had a beer, and beer cozy, on the ground a safe distance from the mound, but not too far away, so he could take a sip between pitches). Another difference was the frequency of tattoos and square footage of bodily tattoo coverage (out of about 35 people total at the field, including players and spectators, I think I was one of two people with no tattoos-- the other being my mom). Lastly, while most of the males played shirtless (not weird), all the females played in skirts (unheard of). The similarities were just as profound. Mainly, I have to say this was the most competitive group of punk softball players you can possibly imagine. There was no kidding around, score keeping was vigilant, the pressure to perform at the plate was high, and the sighs from the sidelines were audible if one of the more inexperienced players stranded runners on base when the score was nearly tied, just as they were in the outfield if someone missed an opportunity for an easy double-play. It was a hoot, and though I had to leave beforehand, the seventh inning stretch involved a quick jaunt down to the river to jump in and cool off before returning to the battlefield.

After a few days with the family, I went north to Dallas, OR (quite different from Dallas, TX) to visit my friends Dan and Ariel. Dan and I met in Florida in 1996-- we both did fieldwork in the Everglades, grew up in Chicago, and liked dinner parties. Somehow, despite the fact that we overlapped in Gainesville for only a few months, we became good friends and I was extremely excited to visit he and his wife at their new place near the foothills of the Coastal Range where they grow vegetables, raise chickens, turkeys, and a duck that thinks it is a turkey. They also keep bees and tend the arboretum on their 14 acres of gorgeous land-- it is amazing and I am thrilled at the prospect of parking the trailer in their ample driveway at some point for a longer visit or, if I manage to get a job in western OR, I may even be able to stomach a commute if this was what I got to call home.

Picking Jeff and Jesse up in Portland after the meeting gave me a chance to stop by Becca Pearcy's studio-- Queen Bee Creations-- and do a little shopping. If you are in need of a vessel of some kind to carry things, you need to check out her website or go to her shop in the city. I was recently bequeathed two bags from my dear friend April (made many years ago, yet still in perfect condition) and picked up a wallet while at the hive. We headed back down to Eugene to have dinner and hang out for a bit at my sister's before starting the long trek back east to Tremonton, Utah to visit with Jesse's mom, Deb, and Vince on the ranch where he trains cutting horses (and rocks out).

From there, we drove south passed the Great Salt Lake to Jesse's best friend's place from where we headed back west across the state almost to the Nevada border to climb Ibapah Peak (12,087 ft) in the Deep Creek Mountains. This area is spectacular-- rising out of the salt flats like a phoenix, this mountain range harbors lush, forested canyons full of springs and dramatic granite rock formations. I always have avoided hiking in the desert because I was under the mistaken impression that there wasn't much water there-- not so in the Deep Creek mountains. We hiked up through the canyon, through aspen and pine, came out on to a gorgeous green meadow, went up the saddle onto the ridge, got above tree line and clamored our way up the rocks to the summit (picture forthcoming). Having ascended a vertical mile, the view from the top extended far into the neighboring states including several other mountain ranges that pepper this otherwise flat and arid swathe of the US. The trail appeared to be virtually unused by would-be hikers, and is all the more enjoyable because it is so remote (although, interestingly, not far from the original Pony Express route.) I had enjoyed lots of hiking in some of the more accessible ranges in Utah about 10 years ago and it was awesome to be back in such a spectacular part of the country.

After our climb (during which we crossed paths with a gorgeous and rarely seen [but not rare] snake, Diadophus punctatus, shown here), we headed up into the hills to the east to visit Jesse's grandparents in Midway near Mt. Timpanogos. They live in a log cabin and treated us to breakfast outside overlooking the Wasatch Range and then to an informative/hilarious lecture on DVD about dinosaurs given by their grandson at age 10. Those of you who know Jesse may not be surprised to hear that he hasn't changed much since 1985-- his rabid interest in biology, and sharing it with others, is a deeply embedded feature of his personality that easily explains the path he has taken since then. We laughed hard, but were not-so-secretly very impressed with his excellent expository skills, even at a tender age.

From there, we cut through the Valley of Fire (right) and headed down to Sin City to show Jeff the strip and the spectacle that is Las Vegas, NV. I hadn't been there since coming out to the Grand Canyon on a roadtrip in 1987 and was astounded by how much the city has grown in the last 20 years. Casinos that were relatively large when I was there last are comically dwarfed by more recent additions like the Bellagio. We soaked it all in, Jeff won 7 cents on the slots, and we piled back in the car to head to Laughlin, AZ for the night to see Jesse's dad, Steve, and his wife, Sue. We spent the day riding around Lake Mohave on a wave runner and talking shop with a bunch of vacationers who were shockingly interested in biology and DNA. In the afternoon, we crashed a party and that night enjoyed a night gratis at the casino hotel on the Nevada side of the Colorado River. The ubiquity of gambling in Nevada is pretty strange-- you can gamble at gas stations, you can gamble at McDonald's-- people there seem numb to it because it is so everywhere, but to out-of-towners like us it is striking. We managed to leave the state with our shirts on the next morning to make the long drive home. Luckily, my dear old friend Gillichi happened to call that morning and we stopped and had lunch with him in Flagstaff, AZ on the wing. At about 4 in the morning, we succumbed to our nagging consciences and pulled over to check out why the car was shaking so much and discovered a pre-blow-out rear tire with a herniated air bolus the size of a loaf of french bread. Jesse and Jeff changed the tire, we got back on the road, and arrived in Arlington at about 8 am Monday morning-- in time for work, but temporarily waylaid by exhaustion. I can't say it is the first time I have gone on vacation and returned home completely rejuvenated mentally and completely exhausted physically-- hopefully not the last either....