Happy Bastille Day! (Or, The Saga Continues....)

So where were we? Oh yes, finishing up a refreshing swim in Lake Turkana, and starting to think about how in tarnation (is that a word? I swear it is, but embedded electronic dictionaries seem to disagree) we were going to make it back from Loyangalani to Nairobi (see map). As I mentioned, this is not a far distance—but there are very few roads, and fewer cars that can traverse them. Many people when describing this region of Kenya refer to it as “inaccessible by car” and suggest anyone trying to get there go by plane. Funny enough, we made our way into town and befriended a pilot named Andy at the one operational hotel in the city—the luxurious and almost completely empty Oasis Lodge. It was a travesty really—here we were in the middle of the driest, most barren area I have ever seen, and there was a hotel with literally ONE guest that was built upon two freshwater springs that fed the spectacular tiered swimming pools. Said guest, Andy the Canadian pilot, was very friendly and bought us icy cold cokes in the bar and offered us a trip back to Nairobi via airplane, if we could wait until the following Wednesday when he would be done with his aerial surveys of northern Kenya. We said thanks, but we really needed to get back by Saturday. He wished us the best of luck, but mentioned the last backpackers he had seen that far north waited 3 weeks for a ride back to Nairobi. It was at this point that we realized our situation was actually somewhat dire. Our discussion with the Samburu warrior in South Horr about the possibility of walking back to Nairobi seemed less ridiculous when we were only 150 miles away (still pretty ridiculous—but not to the Samburu), but with over 300 miles separating us and Nairobi, walking was no longer a good option. We decided to go to the post office because the delivery of mail is-- the world over-- one of the few things that guarantees at least sporadic travel to and from remote areas. As if we hadn’t gotten lucky enough with Joe, when we got to the postal drop off area, we were told that, yes, this sedan with the back half sawed off to form a makeshift miniature pick-up truck was the “posta” vehicle, and yes, it was leaving Loyangalani (very soon in fact, we better be ready if we want to go), but, no, it was not going to Nairobi. In fact, it was going north to drop off mail in a town called North Horr, and then on from there. After our experience in the southerly sister city, you can imagine our hesitation. On the other hand, this was quite possibly the only vehicle leaving town (other than Andy’s airplane) for the next 3 weeks. We decided we had to go, so we hurried up and got ready, and waited for about 3 hours until we actually left. “We” included the three of us, and approximately 6 other passengers in the cut-out back of the car, and then three people in the front seat, most notable the driver, christened Dr. Teeth by me because of my intense tooth fetish (his were TERRIBLE— blackish, green stubs—can you imagine me trying to negotiate with this man? if you know me, you can't) and the mechanic, who was obviously indispensable given the terrain, the vehicle, and the load. Unfortunately, Dr. Teeth was a heavy smoker (about 1 cigarette every 20 minutes). Even more unfortunate was the fact that he couldn’t drive and smoke at the same time, so every 20 minutes we had to stop. Imagine it, if you will—we are in a jacked up, postal sedan carrying cargo and at least 12 people, we are traveling NORTH across the desert in hopes of getting to Nairobi (which is south) in the next two days, and we are stopping every 20 minutes so a guy with the worst teeth I have ever known can satiate a nic fit.

The plan was to head north, arc back down to the town of Marsabit and from there head back to Isiolo. We had figured out that we were at T minus 36 hours to make this trip when we arrived in North Horr mid-afternoon, and figuring a mail stop in this town (see picture) couldn't possibly take long, we were still hopeful that this route, however convoluted, would get us to our destination in time. To our dismay, when we pulled up, all the other passengers started collecting their belongings to disembark, … as if we were staying there for the night. Dr. Teeth had decided to stop here and to resume our trip to Marsabit in the morning. We had explained our situation to him, perhaps even exaggerated what we thought the consequences of our tardiness would be (as it turns out, we underestimated those consequences quite significantly), but Dr. Teeth was adamant. I gave up arguing with him about it only after all the passengers had disappeared somehow into thatched huts, my daily gazing-at-Dr. Teeth-allowance had been used up, and he promised that we would get on the road by 9 am the next day. Morgan, Sean, and I found a thatch roof hut of our own that sold delicious food and (again, miraculously) ice cold Coca-Cola, so we sat outside in the beautiful desert night at a table with sand between our toes. North Horr was way better than South Horr and we managed to thoroughly enjoy the happy accident of ending up in this region far beyond the area we had even hoped to be able to see. Kenyans there look more like their Somali neighbors to the north, and we were treated very kindly by everyone we met. That night, we slept in the churchyard (I found this picture of that very church on the web, like all the others I have shamelessly borrowed to illustrate this post—I have gotten too lazy to give photo credit, but they are obviously easy to find if you are interested in knowing who took them by using the same descriptors I use, e.g. "church north horr"). The next morning we were up bright and early waiting by the car. 9:00 came and went. 10:00 came and went. At about 11, Dr. Teeth emerged from wherever he had slept. A few others followed slowly thereafter. I was impatient, even though at this point I should have known it was futile. We all piled in and drove around the town in circles collecting the remaining passengers from wherever they had spent the night and, again, miraculously didn’t leave anyone behind. We had bonded at this point—singing Snoop Doggy Dog and Kenny Rogers songs to pass the time. We left North Horr blazing through the desert, stopping every 20 minutes for a cigarette break, and soaking in the beauty of this far away place-- most of our communication consisting of raising our eyebrows, sign language, and laughter.

To make a very long story slightly less long, we arrived in Marsabit hopelessly late, eventually caught a lorry to get back to Isiolo, and from there easily got a bus that returned us to Nairobi about 8 hours after our comrades and professors had departed for Maasailand. We showered, detangled, de-sanded, got some rotisserie chicken, and slept like babies, only to wake up the next morning and plan our trip into the remote valleys of southern Kenya where we would hopefully find our group. Two days of travel by bus, car, and foot later, we were indeed reunited with the other students and professors—most (but not all) of them happy to see us alive and eager to hear stories of our adventures in the north. We were punished academically for our decision to go up the east side and consequent tardiness, but rewarded with a beyond-the-thunder-dome adventure that far outshined the formal learning that occurred during that semester abroad. The story continues, in a sense, 10 years later in 2006 when those same leaders interviewed me for a job leading Earlham’s East Africa Semester Abroad program in Tanzania. (Again, miraculously) I got the job.

The 2006 EC Tanzania Program group in front of a giant baobab tree led by none other than the responsible, reliable, non-thrill-seeking yours truly.

There is Nothing Better than Bumping into an Old Friend (or Flashback to 1995)

Apologies to my devoted reader(s?) for my blogging delinquency-- it has been a busy week in Lake Woebegone. Okay, maybe not that busy, but hot enough that I can blame all kinds of inactivity on the weather. Tomorrow's high in Arlington is 100 degrees. I have never spent this much time indoors in my life, ever. It turns out, the environmental conditions here are actually unfit for mammals-- I read it... in a scientific journal. I recently unearthed an old chinese parasol that was under the Christmas tree for me in about 1983 and now actually use it walking to and from work. I might look like an idiot, but at least I can't hear my skin sizzling. See how unfocused I am? It is the heat, I tell you. Here is a long blogpost that I have wanted to share for awhile, but now have a good reason to finally write out.... read it in small chunks. It's too long otherwise (and this is only episode 1), but how often do you flashback to the best trip of your entire life? Not often enough.

My trip back from St. Louis last week was highlighted by the most wonderful coincidence I can think of-- I bumped into my old friend Sean Vicente at the airport. Sean and I went to college together at Earlham and, shortly before graduating in 1996, spent a semester abroad in Kenya. We were two of probably about 16 students on the trip, but we were really two of three because Sean, myself, and a wonderful third, Morgan Taggart, formed perhaps an unlikely but unified trio sometime relatively early on in the semester. Although we all did homestays with different families and had very different interests, when it came time to do something of any sort in a group or team, it was always us three. At one point, we lived together in a tent for a month at Lake Naivasha during a field course in ornithology. For some reason, the triumvirate vowed not to shower for the whole month, and instead decided to bathe daily by rowing a dingy out into the middle of the lake and taking a swim (happily overlooking the dual threat of hippos-- the most dangerous animal in Africa-- and bilharzia-- a treatable but nasty schistosome parasite transmitted by snails). Double-wide optimism is not a recent thing.

Among our many hijinx, there were two independent travel periods during the semester during which time we were required to travel in at least pairs. For our first expedition, we climbed Mt. Kenya. We didn't have a tent, but for some reason I thought we could just buy a giant piece of plastic to camp in. Like a tent-- but with no doors, or poles, or openings, or closings, or floor. It was a giant, bright yellow sheet of plastic that I strung up between two trees with a rope to try and form a teepee-like structure. It sagged a lot in the middle, and so was christened the Big Banana. It was supposed to sleep all 6 of us (the trio was joined by 3 other intrepid souls), but we got so soaked the first night, that the Big Banana was cast aside and from thereon the expedition was somewhat doomed by the cold and wet. Even though we never summited, we did enjoy seeing hyraces and experiencing snow at the equator when we reached high elevation. Between the plants and the rocks, it was beautiful and other worldly up there. I wish I had a picture to share-- Sean, do you have any pictures from that trip to the mountain?

The second travel opportunity came late in the semester, right before our last homestay with the Maasai. Sean, Morgan, and I decided we wanted to explore the northern part of Kenya-- a vast, largely unpopulated, desert region that was not really on the itinerary of our study abroad program. The guide book said there were decent roads going north all the way up to Lake Turkana if you approached on the west side of the lake. The eastern side was more difficult to traverse, but more scenic. We, of course, decided to go east. There were no intrepid souls interested in joining us after the Big Banana debacle, so we prepared the necessary items and set out on our own from Nairobi. Between the three of us we had a guidebook, the clothes on our back, 1 sleeping bag, about $10 in cash, a walkman, some snuff, and some chewing tobacco that appeared to be about 30% cow dung. We caught a bus in Nairobi that went all the way to the end of the paved road towards the northeast-- the bustling town of Isiolo. We were feeling great-- it was a beautiful sunny day and we easily hitched a ride further north to get to Maralal, where we were able to spend the night at a checkpoint along the road. Before leaving Maralal, we stopped at their version of the "Hard Rock Cafe" (the entrepreneurship in this part of the world is truly amazing), a shack restaurant almost certainly referring to rocks in the geological sense, not the musical sense, given the terrain. We got another ride easily, and this time the friendly fellow hitchhikers in our vehicle included Samburu warriors, business folks, and people visiting their families in remote villages. It was fascinating landscape-- almost lunar. So engrossing that, while I was peering out over the cab of the lorry at the setting sun and rising moon, I failed to notice a low-hanging yellow-barked acacia tree branch covered in 2 in. long spines. Gazing at the moon never hurt so bad. I caught sight of it just as it caught hold of my eye, ear and cheek, and as I turned away the spines sliced across my face. They weren't deep, but the head is highly vascularized, so it bled a fair amount, running down my shirt and soaking the bags of grain I had been standing on in order to have such a great view in the first place. Sean kept saying "It's bad! It's bad", but I thought he was saying "It's rad! It's rad!" It sealed up quickly, although many months later a boyfriend would pull away after gently nuzzling my ear to inform me he had come across what appeared to be a splinter, finally extruding itself from the long since healed slash.

Original caption for this 1954 photograph of a Samburu:
Although this lad wears braids, cosmetics, and a serene expression, he's really a fierce warrior and can hurl a spear 100 yards with deadly accuracy.

Late that night, when we arrived in the town of South Horr, we didn't worry too much about being led down a sand path in the complete darkness to a private compound (that is the word often used to refer to the collection of small buildings that make up a home in the villages in this part of the world) in order to find a place to bed down for the night. We had chatted at length with folks in the car and, as they all disappeared into the darkness, we were just grateful one of our new friends was willing to help us find a place to lay our heads down. The next morning when we woke up, we were subjected to the near-asphyxiating hospitality of our now-visible hosts. The patriarch of the family knew very little english-- only swear words, in fact. He took me on a walk towards what turned out to be some sort of matrimonial hut and tried to make his hopes evident via a hilarious, nonsensical stream of naughty words that probably weren't all that far off from what he was actually proposing. I squirmed out of the situation, and we left the compound and headed for the center of town confident that, with the trip going so well this far, we would be on our way north towards Lake Turkana in no time. The center of town in South Horr was two rows of largely empty buildings, about 6 on each side of the road. We plopped down in the middle to wait for the first car heading in our direction.

The Village of South Horr

Twenty-four hours later, when no car had passed, we lowered our requirements. We were waiting for a car to pass-- either direction would be fine. Another 24 hours later-- hungry, thirsty, and somewhat worried about the possibility of getting back to Nairobi in time to rejoin the group at all, we struck gold. I had read in the guidebook that a guy named Joe ran a tour company that took people up to Lake Turkana via the eastern side once per week from Nairobi. That blessed day of the week (Thursday, I believe) had finally arrived and I was ready for it. My face was healed up ok, but I was still covered dry blood. When the truck came rambling down the road, I ran up to the driver's side and yelled "Joe!" (it is a great thing to have a guidebook that gives proprietor's full names-- it has come in handy more than once for me) and acted like we knew each other from the past. He figured out pretty quickly that we did not, so I switched to plan B. I told him I had been beaten by a man in the town, which was, of course, a lie-- but I was covered in dry blood and that guy did swear a lot in the marriage hut. It was close enough to true, and the tourists in the vehicle-- one of those massive, posh safari trucks with the huge amphibious wheels-- took pity on us and assured Joe they wouldn't mind at all if he gave some grubby college kids a lift for free. And so he did! All the way to Lake Turkana-- our destination which just a few hours earlier seemed unreachable. When we arrived, we were fed meatloaf and cold Budweiser, which I swear never tasted so good before or since. We thanked our saviors, and walked from their camp to the lake. Somehow, in that 1/2 mile, a gaggle of children emerged from the parched earth-- I have no idea where they came from. The city of Loyangalani (a small collection of whitewashed buildings and a post office) was a ways off, and there were very few huts near this lakeshore formed of cracked, dry mud. But by the time we got to the water, there were about 25 kids with us, all of whose eyes practically came out of their head when we proceeded to strip down and jump in the lake. They looked at each other and at us silently with equal parts disbelief and curiosity. You could almost hear them say-- "These white people must be nuts" right before they, too, stripped down and jumped in. I forgot to mention, Lake Turkana is one of the chain of lakes that dot the famous Rift Valley and is the largest freshwater desert lake in the world. It is also home to the Nile crocodile, known to reach lengths of up 19ft and up to 2200 pounds. People in Kenya don't typically go swimming in Lake Turkana because they see it more as the crocodile's domain. But we figured-- it's hot, we came a long way, we have gotten accustomed to bathing exclusively in lakes anyway, and now we've got 25 kids in here with us so our chances of getting eaten by a crocodile just went way down!The Jade Sea (Lake Turkana)

Needless to say, after our triumphant swim we had to get back to the fairly serious business of figuring out how we were going to get back to Nairobi by Saturday given that it has taken us nearly 5 days to travel 380 miles despite constant effort. As I mentioned, we were supposed to reunite with the rest of the group to head to Maasailand, the second most remote region of the country, for the last portion of the program. Did we make it in time? More to come....

Swahili Gal Pals

First of all, Lake Weekend 2009 has come and gone and I am spent. I won't write too much about it since I gave such a lengthy anticipatory pre-amble last month, but I will post a picture soon that encapsulates the physics-defying capacity of the inner tube, the invention of tube jousting, and a rare moment where it appears as if GP has better balance than I do. It was, as predicted, a fantastic trip that somehow serves as a microcosm for an entire classic american summer vacation, efficiently squished into one weekend. This year saw the introduction of new toys (the disk), tricks (the flying V), and activities (the first inaugural tube-a-ment). Of course, old traditions also endured (Darron burgers, Lake CD exchanging, and mobile handstands). As always, it was bliss.

Speaking of bliss, when I was in Bloomington I had a weekly appointment with my Swahili gal pals, Joanna and Lauren, to try and cling to our language skills between visits to the motherland (East Africa). It was wonderful-- not only do I adore Joanna and Lauren, but our weekly rendez-vous became a much-needed therapeutic confessional for the three of us. Because we were all in different worlds work-wise, most of the characters in our true stories were anonymous. This, in addition to speaking in a language no one nearby could understand, was very liberating conversationally. During the 6 years I was in Indiana, it provided a welcome break during stressful periods (exams, dissertation writing, etc.) to know there was one hour a week during which we could step outside of our rush-rush, brou ha-ha lives to talk and reflect and to tell each other our deepest darkest secrets, at least those for which we had the vocabulary. When we didn't know the word, we could always use a whistling sound and eyebrow gestures to convey our meaning. Lauren worked in Tanzania for years before doing her PhD at IU, which compared the effectiveness of different forest management strategies in that region. She recently started a post-doc in Ann Arbor (send details Lauren-- I want to post a picture or link here!) and I won't be surprised at all if she ends up playing a key role in conserving what is left of the forest (and therefore water supply) in that part of the world. Joanna is an artist and jewelry maker (check out her unique paper jewelry and love of words at her blog site), in addition to being one of the best cooks I know and a collector of mints (actually, she is really good at everything she tries-- here is a picture of a creation in her garden using a cool quote from E.E. Cummings). She recently seeded my own mint plantation on the patio by sending along three varieties (yes, there are varieties of mint with very different flavors)-- berries and cream, orange, and black peppermint. They are trying to thrive despite the inferno they now live in (summer in Texas)-- perhaps there will be mojitos to help me do the same in a few short weeks. (click to enlarge)

Miscellania

Quick post from the road.... The conference last week in Iowa was great, and it turns out Iowa City is shockingly nice (no pun intended, really). It is green, and the campus is pretty hilly and kind of stately. I was pleasantly surprised-- if you are thinking about becoming a Hawkeye, go for it. A life-size cardboard cut-out of Charles Darwin figured prominently into many of the photos taken at the meeting, including this one of my former lab, with whom I was so happy to catch up after 6 months away from Bloomington. Can you believe it? 6 months! That's a lot of time in blog years (that isn't a pun either; I'm not sure if it could really be mistaken for one).Left to right: (back) Melania, Mike, Chuck D., Wenli, Ignasi, Abe, (front) Francesco

After the meeting, I drove GP's car (Bessy) to Batavia, IL (thanks GP!) and hung out with my best friend from high school, Tricia, and her daughter, Dorothy. Dorothy is a walker (for pictures of her doing that and all sorts of things, you can read her blog). If she wants something slightly out of reach, say 4 inches away, she will get up, walk there, plop down, and grab the desired item. It is hilarious. A girl after my own heart. She has know idea what kind of trekking her aunt Sarah has in store for her.... you're all smiles now but we are gonna hoof it one day! Thanks to you both for such a fun visit, hope to see you both in the schaackmobile hall of fame one day! It is perfect for babies because it is so tiny.

Last but not least, I arrived in Chicago on Monday to visit my aunt and uncle (who own an antique business called Miscellania, hence the name of this post) and cousin, and spend a few days with my dear friend Britt. The first night we arrived, we introduced Britt into the bosom of our family by ignoring her jet-lag and playing a game of Scrabble. The first night visit "playing of the scrabble" is a tradition in our family that goes back many, many years, and it has now become an indispensable way for us to catch up, tease, maybe learn a little something, and, of course, compete. This game was no different-- my cousin Brian and I joined forces early on against my Aunt Linda who was clearly trying to take an early lead with an unplace-able 7-letter word. Throughout the game, we were neck and neck, but solidly beating her, until she pounced from the depths of mid-100 point purgatory and ended the game with a scrabble-- catching us with our pants down (a full rack of high point tiles). She celebrated her victory with an impressive attempt at the cabbage patch, shown below-- all in all, a masterful win from the woman who taught us all how to play the game, and so many other things. More on the chicagoland portion of the trip soon....

Confusing Work with Play in the Midwest

Although I wasn't born in the midwest, it is my home. I am heading there next week to attend a conference (in Iowa City, IA), see friends and family (in Chicago, IL), and check in on things back at my house and old lab (in Bloomington, IN). The conference should be interesting-- this is the third consecutive year I have attended this particular meeting (of the Society for the Study of Molecular Biology and Evolution) and I hope I don't come down with a case of society fatigue (a little discussed but common condition where, after you attend a particular society's annual meeting a few times, all the talks start sounding the same even though the first year or two they all seemed really fascinating). Over time, I have definitely developed a preference for smaller, more focused meetings, but it seems like a good idea to stay in the general evolutionary biology loop by attending a bigger conference once a year. The Society for the Study of Evolution is the other option, but it is more like going to a really fun yearly college reunion than going to a scientific conference, so probably not the best way for me to keep on top of recent work. More diligent folks are able to somehow attend talks and learn something at that meeting, but last year, when I went commando (no registration) and only attended 4 talks, I realized it was probably time to give up the charade. It is, of course, unavoidable-- many of my closest colleagues are my closest friends (e.g. Britt and Idelle with whom I waded through graduate school at IU and with whom I will get to visit in Chicago after the meeting next week). In the same vein , there is little distinction between vacation and field work, or entertaining an invited speaker and a typical Friday night out on the town. I only hope my inability to distinguish between work and play is a sign of how enjoyable my work is, not a warning that my fun has gotten really mundane....

Sampling damselflies and cheating death with Idelle on top of Haleakala in Hawaii (above)-- the last of the 50 states for me to visit-- and working on a paper with Britt at Lake Monroe (really, we were; below).

Schaackmobile Visitor Hall of Famers

This past weekend the Schaackmobile (also now referred to as the Schaack Shack, care of Christian Cox, I believe) Visitor Hall of Fame had two new inductees (you only have to visit once to get in, so plan a trip!) Enduring a few nights in the trailer might be easy to justify if I lived in some amazing city, on the coast, etc. But I don't. And the double whammy of asking friends to a) come to Arlington despite its, shall we say, limited cultural offerings, and b) sleep in the trailer while they are here, means I simply must erect a virtual hall of fame for those dedicated and intrepid enough to make the trek down. So here it is, built out of the stone and mortar of my mind (and a little blogpost featurette). That said-- I had an awesome time hosting GP and Darron down here and, as frequently happens when friends come visit you, I got to see and do things in my new hometown that I might not have ever done without the motivation of showing them around. On top of all that, everyone fit in the trailer, no problem!Some caveats you should know about before planning your vacation: 1) temperature control in the schaackmobile is tricky and it is stinkin' hot in Texas, 2) there is definitely no place to store luggage of any kind in the trailer so pack lightly, and 3) although clearly possible, we didn't actually have to sleep 3 in the trailer this time, as Clement generously lent his bedroom to the cause. But it is possible! Two in there was downright roomy. GP remarked how much smaller the trailer was than he had remembered, while Darron was pleasantly surprised to see it had grown since his first glimpse. We, of course, relied heavily on the freedom (of movement) provided by patio life and cooked, ate, and drank exclusively outside (primarily beer and large hunks of red meat). We did, however, have morning hang outs and recording sessions in the trailer (also now referred to as Studio S, care of Darron Luesse). More impressive than overcoming the challenges presented by hosting tall men in a tiny trailer, we managed to have a great time in the greater Arlington metropolitan area! We pounded the unforgiving pavement of Dallas, wowed by glamour built on the spoils of oil exploitation and entrepreneurship. We strolled through the cobblestone streets of Ft. Worth in what was once the largest livestock market in the world and currently serves as cowboy capital of the United States. We fell in love with Brent Best, the lead singer of Slobberbone and The Drams, in Denton. We saw minor leaguers strive to fulfill likely unfulfillable dreams in Grand Prairie. And we had lunch in Waco. Somehow, despite all this, there are still plenty of stones left unturned that will likely go unexplored until my next guests arrive. Until then, you know me, it will just be work, work, work, ...so come soon!

There and Back Again: A Week Long North Texas Musical Mini-Odyssey

You may have noticed that the best part about living in Texas for me so far has been music. Last week, I finally got to see the Old 97s, a Dallas-derived band that was number one on my list of bands-that-I-haven't-seen-that-I-would-like-to-see (now replaced, perhaps, by Ryan Adams, but I need to think about who gets the #1 spot before making any hasty proclamations). The band exudes a good-natured brand of country-flavored rock n' roll that is difficult not to love-- it was an exuberant performance by Rhett Miller and the band complete with lots of sweat, pelvic gyrations a la Elvis Presley, and crowd-wide sing-a-longs. Plus, I got to eat a foot long corndog afterwards, which I always enjoy.

Close on the heels of this delightful concert experience, I took a slight wrong turn and ended up at the double-billing of Ssion and Fischerspooner Friday night in Dallas. Ssion is a dance-y, emo, 80's, Cure-like, multi-media-loving band whose finale song, Street Jizz, was actually catchier than I can probably convince you of in a few short words but, unfortunately, isn't one of the tracks you can stream on myspace. They weren't my cup of tea, but it was definitely entertaining.The headliners were Fischerspooner, a performance art duo out of Chicago, my home town, who played the worst live music I have heard in several moons. For those of you that think I just gush about every band I see, here is the counter-evidence: these guys stunk. But, if you think spacesuits, poorly-synchronized dancing, tutus, and light-fixture-containing hats are a good substitute for musical talent, check them out.Last but not least, I made my first trek up to Denton last night to see my new friend Petra's band Leatherwood. Denton is cool, kind of like a Texas-y version of Bloomington-- very green (actually and metaphorically), tons of musicians, and a welcome breath of fresh air compared to the giant concrete slab that is DFW. They played a too-short set at a bar called Mable Peabody's, that was just long enough to wash the emo off me from Friday night. It was awesome and I can't wait to see them again. Feels good to be back to gushing.... thank you for inviting me up Petra!

Lake Weekend: June 18-21, 2009

Today is already a great day. I received the annual Lake Weekend announcement from my dear friend Darron Luesse (who is coming to Arlington next week, is 6'5", and needs to somehow fit into the trailer [maximum interior height, 5'9", max length not much more than that] during his visit.) It's gonna be a hoot.
What is Lake Weekend you ask? Every year, Darron invites his closest friends from all different parts of his life to his parents' condo on the beautiful shores of the Lake of the Ozarks, a dammed river that runs through an erstwhile mountain range creating what has got to be one of the longest lakes in the world. Typically, we arrive Thursday night (last year I walked in the door, was handed a margarita by Darron's dad [Mr. Luesse], went immediately downstairs to the dock, disrobed, and jumped directly into the water within approximately 6 minutes of arrival). Friday and Saturday are spent being tossed off inflatable tubes at high speed and water-skiing, with intermittent bouts of eating grilled food and drinking Mr. Luesse's margaritas. At night, we listen to Lake CDs. What are Lake CDs, you ask? The best part about Lake Weekend, other than the watersports and camaraderie. Making Lake CDs originated, I believe, in order to maximize democracy and minimize fighting and suckiness when it came time to put music on the stereo during Lake Weekend. But it has become much more than that-- it has become a competitive mixed CD exchange that occupies (depending on the participant) days, if not weeks, and, in my case, months prior to the annual event. It is a chance to share recent gems you've uncovered, disinter old favorites that might have been forgotten, share live versions and rarities, or (also in my case) to continue bludgeoning your friends with your favorite Bob Dylan songs against their will. Everyone leaves the weekend exhausted and tan with an arsenal of new music to meander through for at least 2-3 months after Lake Weekend, at which point it is time to start thinking about making the next year's CD. Unless you're Chris Moore, in which case your 2010 Lake CD is already half-made, and your 2009 CD has been in the can for 6 months. Perhaps the only thing that could eclipse the fun and relaxation of competitive mix-making is competitive water-trick-performing, as illustrated here by the headstand-on-a-moving-innertube-off between Brian Rodenbeck and yours truly. All this competitive recreation has had an awesome result over the years: Darron's friends are all friends with each other (see earlier post on Shane's visit). It is a brilliant approach to vacationing and I can't wait to go-- crank the engine and thaw the margarita mix Mr. Luesse!

A Mother's Day Post

Born in the 1940's to a working class family in Chicago, raised on the north side in the gilded perfection of the 50's, only to break free from those superficial trappings in the 60's to marry and start a family while on the lam in Canada in the 70's, returning to the post-war opulence of the 80's to start her own business, falling into a murky haze in the 90's, emerging triumphant in the mid-2000's, and continuing her creative ascent on the Cottage Grove folk art scene and political stage for many years to come, it is my pleasure to introduce to you, my mom,
Penny Schaack.

Self-Portrait

(obviously by Penny Schaack)

Happy Mother's Day Mom! At last, your own post! To the one or two people (other than my mom) that might read this blog, you may already know her and many of her best attributes. She is intuitive, creative, generous, warm, open-minded, supportive, quirky, passionate, dedicated, thoughtful, and always has time for someone who needs it-- young or old, daughter or stranger, do-gooder or deviant. She is a good friend, artist, role-model, adoptive grand-mother, actual mother, influence, sounding board, and enthusiast for things she loves or knows that I love. There have been few plateaus in her life-- but despite many ups and downs, over the last five years she has enjoyed a wonderful renaissance that I have been both proud and relieved to witness.
This comeback, and her incredible, indefatigable zest, were epitomized last year right around this time when I was walking with her to work on her first day back on the job after suffering severe injuries in a car wreck. It had taken us well over an hour to walk two and a half blocks from her house to the community center where she works. This was in part because she had a cast on her arm, was just starting to walk again (with assistance), and we were lugging an oxygen tank, but it was also because almost everyone we passed on the street stopped to hug her and welcome her home from the hospital. Shopkeepers came out of their shops. Joggers stopped their running. Old ladies who knew her, hippies who just saw her kindred, tie-dyed spirit-- all of them stopped us to hug her and welcome her back to the heart of Cottage Grove.
And when we were almost there, waiting at the corner to cross the street, she turned to me and said completely seriously, "You know Sar, I think I'm gonna be the mayor of this town one day." I tried not to laugh, but failed, and looked at her with a canula in her nose, walker in hand, and said something like, "Really, mom? You think you're gonna be the mayor of Cottage Grove?" with my familiar, but loving, smart-assy skepticism. "Well, it is certainly a possibility!" she insisted, "you know, it's mostly a ceremonial position anyway-- ribbon cuttings, and dedications, that sort of thing...." If coming back from within an inch of your life to aspirations of holding the highest political office in an exceedingly small town does not represent an extraordinarily buoyant spirit, I don't know what does.
Thank you Mom.
I'm glad you're here, and you're you, and that I am your daughter.
Thinking of you (and the Gen) at 18000 ft in Chile.

Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit

It's been another one of those weeks in Lake Woebegone.... when I am just not sure what to blog about because so many little interesting things have caught my eye. Whether or not they might be interesting to anyone else is an open question, but there always seems like a plethora of things I want to share....
Among other things, this week was peppered with visits to Dallas to see live music. I got to go see two bands I have blogged about previously, the Heartless Bastards and Jude the Innocent. Saturday night I went back again, despite torrentially bad weather, and saw Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit. Jason (we're on a first name basis, as you'll see) used to be one of the three guitarists in the guitar-trio-driven band The Drive-By Truckers which I saw in Bloomington for the first time sometime in 2005. The Truckers are great and part of what distinguishes them among many other bands steeped in the heavy southern rock tradition from which they so proudly hail is that, even though Patterson Hood technically serves as their frontman, all three guitarists were songwriters and sang lead on their own compositions. It makes their albums and shows diverse and interesting because each of them (P. Hood, J. Isbell, and Mike Cooley) have a signature style that is distinctive. Back in the day, Jason Isbell was my favorite of the three incarnations of the DBTs and now that he has formed his own band, I was very eager to check it out. Not eager enough to fork over the money for a ticket of course, but a friend of a friend won some on the interweb and through some minor miracle I ended up outside the Granada Theater in Dallas, TX on Saturday night in the rain eating a slice of pizza waiting for some soon-to-be friends who I did not know to arrive and get me into the show for free. A fairly typical evening in and of itself up to that point, if you know me well. While I was waiting for my connection to get into the show, Jason Isbell walked up. I transferred the incredibly greasy pizza slice I was devouring from my right to my left hand and reached out to shake his hand, which he politely accepted, despite its sheen. We started chatting, and I was so starstruck and overwhelmed that a) I didn't take a picture with him for the blog and b) I didn't notice that Petra, John, and Paul had arrived and were now sitting to my left. (Petra is also a musician and plays regularly in two bands, only one of which I have heard so far, but which I can't wait to see live; if you want to check out their beautiful sound, they're called Leatherwood).
At some point, I came to and tried to introduced everyone.
I said: "Guys, this is Jason. Jason, this is...."
(Paul interjected): "Paul"
(John interjected): "John"
I said: "... and Petra" (in a vain attempt to make this situation make a little more sense given it appears these people are my friends yet I don't know two of their three names).
We continued to talk and hang out a bit which was a hoot for superfans like ourselves, and then went inside for the show which wildly exceeded my expectations, which were not low. The weather had been so bad in Dallas on Saturday that the Cowboys' practice facility caved in critically injuring staff. As you can imagine, the folks that came out to see Jason Isbell on a night like this were die-hard fans. Instead of mailing it in because the crowd was sparse, Jason and the band seemed to completely absorb the high level of intensity (per fan) in the room. They played passionately and playfully and into the night with a rousing encore that rewarded the fans above and beyond the already very energetic set. It was awesome. Among the highlights were his throwbacks to the DBT days (Outfit, Goddamn Lonely Love, and Decoration Day), a cover of Psycho Killer (sung by Browan Lollar, originally by the Talking Heads), and several of his delicate-but-rocking ballads off the albums he has put out since setting out on his own (Dress Blues, Chicago Promenade, Hurricanes and Hand Grenades). There were probably well over 100 people there, but since it is a pretty big place, the whole show felt very intimate and as it unfolded, I started to feel like he was playing almost directly to me. My new sister-in-musical-love Petra pointed out later that, after hitting the Jack Daniels bottle several times, he was, in fact, playing directly to me, ... a lot of the time, ... eyes in missile lock, ... as if he wanted to somehow overlook the greasy handshake and serenade me in a room full of superfans.
So, maybe not such a typical evening?

Obsession, Love, Risk, Bob Dylan

I am listening to the new Bob Dylan album which was released yesterday right now and couldn't wait until after I finished listening to blog about how much I enjoy being obsessed with Bob Dylan. The very word obsession implies some type of insatiability-- by I find it very satisfying. The album is bluesy... in the third song he sings about hell being his wife's hometown, which I like. My friends John Paul and April gave me the gift of Bob Dylan on Nov. 11, 2002. I had been officemates with them for years previously, completely mystified by their plane trips (yes, plane trips!) to go see Bob Dylan concerts (and only to go see Bob Dylan concerts). They talked about the dark nights and the light nights. John Paul was clearly involved in some pretty mafia live show trading. All of this finally piqued my interest enough that I decided I had to go see a concert, if only to watch them watch Bob Dylan. Prior to knowing (and loving) John and April, the extent of my Bob Dylan experience had been singing Blowin' in the Wind in french class in high school (not very satisfying). So... shortly after I got to Bloomington, we got tickets, someone burned me the aptly named Essential Bob Dylan, I got in the car, and drove to Pittsburgh to see what all the fuss was about. Seeing Bob Dylan live that night changed my life. I don't know quite how to explain it. He actually sang Blowin' in the Wind-- in a completely different, almost choral, ultra-harmonic arrangement with the band singing along. He played Shelter from the Storm. He played, and I listened, and I watched John Paul and April, and he played, and I could tell I was succumbing to the vulnerability of being in love with something very completely, which was a very foreign feeling for me. It was liberating to like something so much, with no hesitation. Granted, there is little risk in falling in love with Bob Dylan's music-- but still, I had never been a fan of anything before. After the show, a generous soul/complete unknown said to me, "Tonight was a very special night" and bought me a t-shirt because I think he could tell how starstruck I was. I might be the only person in the world who views becoming a Bob Dylan fan as an entree into the world of risk-taking, but the waltzy version of I See A Change Comin' On that he is singing to me right now reminds me that it is true.
I love him....Thank you JP and April, I love you....Safe travels and welcome home to Zora!

Addendum: For a hilarious review of the new disc and the continual link between Bob Dylan album release dates and apocalyptic events, click here.

The Little 500

Probably the most unique thing about Bloomington, IN, my old home town, is that it is also home to the greatest competitive collegiate cycling event in the whole world-- the Little 500. Like the Indy 500, the L5 is a race that involves several hours of turning left as fast as you can. In this case, it is on a bike, on a gravel track, with a bunch of maniacs trying to do exactly the same thing at the same time in the same place. It is extremely exciting, and pretty dangerous, and this past weekend my friend GP coached his team, the ChiO's (pronounced ky-O's) in the women's race and then participated as an expert commentator for the men's race on Saturday. Here he is, sporting pink hair according to his annual tradition of matching the team's jersey color. Back in the old days (last year), my friend Amanda and I would fill our travel coffee mugs with beer in the lab and stroll over to see the women's race on Friday afternoon-- it was glorious. Barack Obama even went! If you don't get the chance to go, you can at least get a glimpse of the history and drama of the race by watching the iconic film, Breaking Away, which includes a scene filmed out at one of the quarries, the other coolest thing about Bloomington which I blogged about a while back. For those curious and/or sentimental, Cutters won again this year!

(Obama photo credit: Marc Peters)

Heartbreak on Special

(click to enlarge)

Mi casa, su casa

I had my first real visitor at 501 (and 1/4) Mashburn Lane this past weekend. Shane Lewinski, my friend Darron's long time friend who I became friends with (a long time ago now too) came to visit me, in Arlington. That's right-- ante up old timers, it's time to buy plane tickets. GP and Darron are coming in May, and I am afraid my trailer will literally cook visitors in June, July, and August-- so if you are thinking of visiting, consider September/October when things cool off a little again. By chance, my boss was having a baby this weekend (ok, not literally by chance, but via a process well known to all of you). So Shane only got to sleep in the trailer one night, because we were pet-sitting in a normal size house the other two nights. After the initial shock wore off ("wow, it looks so much bigger in the pictures"), I think he loved it. Four stars, right Shane? Despite the luxury night-time accomodations provided by my bosses, we did spend much of our hang out time in the trailer, which has great acoustics, playing guitar. At one point, there were two guitars, a banjo, a harmonica (and harmonica necklace), and two people in the trailer-- kind of like a clown car of musical instruments. We also barbequed and hung out on the patio schaack/gilbert-style with a bunch of folks from my department and went to a Rangers game at the new stadium (2-0, Rangers lost-- but a fun visit to the ballpark nonetheless). Last but not least, Shane lent his fingers and patience to me for some songwriting on Saturday-- which I now know is much harder than most songwriters admit. It is still a work-in-progress, but I couldn't ask for a more fun weekend. Thank you so much for coming to see me Shane! You are beacon of visitation light!

Curler, Champion of Worldwide Freedom, and Theater Buff

I have been very remiss! It's been so long, I am not sure what to blog about first. Curling? Yes, I went curling for the first time last week and it was surprisingly fun. I now feel like I can buy a Weakerthans t-shirt without being a poseur (don't know the Weakerthans? go listen now, seriously, go...now). Passover? I enjoyed a delicious dinner with my dear friends Charlie, Marta, and Norma down in Austin on Saturday to celebrate the festival of freedom. It is the only jewish holiday I have ever observed, and I have to admit it is mainly because I love the food, but it was and always is a great time to get together and reflect on how lucky we are to enjoy the freedoms we enjoy and to think about how that could be extended to others who do not enjoy such freedoms. As a champion and practitioner of complete and total freedom, I feel like I should think about this at least once a year, and preferably while eating the bread of our affliction, bitter herbs, and the mortar of the temples built for Pharoah during enslavement (i.e. matzah, horseradish, and haroset)-- a tasty combination despite the agony associated with it. Last but not least, I went to a play last weekend! Yes, a play! It had been a long time, and I went to one recommended by my friend Amy's sister, Carrie, who is studying theater at UT-Austin. It was soooo unbelievably good-- I don't think I could describe it in a few short sentences because of all the cleverness, and layers, and cool feelings it emoted (is that a word?) If you want to see it, the play is called The Method Gun and the company that performed it is The Rude Mechanicals. It was terrific and I am now a theater buff. It doesn't take much to make me an aficionado if I like something, does it?

Little Brothers/Big Sister

Sunday I took my "little" and his actual little brother to the zoo. (Big Brothers/Big Sisters refers to kids and the their volunteers as "littles" and "bigs", respectively.) I am not completely clueless when it comes to kids because I have a younger sister (by 6 years) that I loved spending time with when I was little (and still love spending time with), but I am definitely almost completely clueless because these days I rarely hang out with kids, and my tendency is to treat them with the same ratio of seriousness:humor that I use with adults. I would say they take it pretty well, but onlookers often make a funny face when they see me talking completely straight-faced to a 3 year old, with no babyfication of the words. Anyway, we had a great time at the zoo, and Robert and Anthony especially liked the exhibits where you could interact with the animals, like the aviary pictured here and the petting zoo. Little did I know, the parking lot outside my office would provide petting zoo opportunities later that night. As I have mentioned, there are a lot of herpetologists in my department, which means people are almost always going to or coming from the field to collect lizards, snakes, and frogs (ostensibly for their research, but it seems like they also just really like collecting things). The troupe that went out this past weekend came across a motherless baby lamb in the middle of nowhere and decided they had to save it from certain starvation/predation alone in the wilds of Texas. I wish Robert and Anthony had been with me then, as spontaneous-unplanned-baby-animal-ogling-in-the-parking-lot is way more fun than the petting zoo.

PS. Betsy-- you'll get your very own blogpost soon, I swear!

Austin, TX is Heaven on Earth

Among several memorable events that occurred last week that might be fun to share (including photos AND audio of John Logsdon's very entertaining karaoke rendition of Suffragette City [click here for his blog]) was my first real visit to Austin, TX. I had driven through once before, but this time got to go down, hang out, and soak it all in for a couple of days. It is just as fantastic as you have heard-- a total paradise for a music lover like myself, to the point that it is probably a good thing I don't live there or I would likely get fired from my job. Glancing through the Weekly Scene equivalent, there are probably ~300 shows per week-- several of which are bands I know and love, and many others by bands I might grow to love if I had the chance to hear them play. Those of you who know how much I love optimizing, and how much I love live music, might be able to predict how much the idea of SxSW hurt my brain, but I am definitely looking forward to occasional trips for special shows. Just another reason to come visit....

The Republic of Texas

Texas 1895

After exploring Texas via kayak last week, I headed west by land with 2 of the 3 members of Jude the Innocent (see earlier post) to see what exactly the republic consists of, other than the sprawling Metroplex where I spend most of my time. The history of the state is actually fascinating, up to and including the controversial annexation in the 1840's and the legendary persistence of the right to (and constant threat of) secession. I have yet to find a good book to read about all this, but I'm on the lookout-- any recommendations? I recently saw No Country for Old Men as a bit of a primer for what lay in store once I got the chance to venture west and, minus the serial killer, it bore out pretty well. The landscape is very dry-- scrubby oaks, cactus, and some juniper; a bit of topography, but mostly very flat; oil derricks and windmills; many small towns that don't seem to have much reason for existing, at least not anymore. It was very interesting to me and made me feel much more like I was IN Texas than I ever feel while nestled here in the biology department. Among the representatives of the Texas herpetofauna that I got to see was the western diamondback rattlesnake (picture forthcoming) which, unlike many things, is just about as menacing as it sounds.

Another Pleasant Surprise

Texas has proved me wrong again! When I thought about moving here, it never occurred to me that there might be a possibility of paddling in this area.... but the other day I saw a lady in a parking lot with kayaks in her car. Whitewater kayaks, no less. I was surprised and, of course, introduced myself and asked if I could go with her some time (even though I have no gear or boat here). She said yes, had an extra boat and most of the required accoutrements... shortly thereafter I was on a river paddling to my heart's content! Turns out, there is a group here called the North Texas River Runners, a fair amount of recreational and competitive boating in the state (no real whitewater near here, unfortunately-- but some other areas of Texas appear to have plenty), and some very friendly folks willing to share paddling gear. Tonight I am going to a rolling session at a pool in nearby Grand Prairie to see if there is any chance I still have a hand roll-- keep your fingers crossed!

Friendly neighbor(s)

As you may have gleaned, Clement (my neighbor, right) and I spend a fair amount of time BBQing and hanging out on the patio between his house and mine. Most nights, our after dinner chatting is interrupted at some point by a visit from the opossum who lives in the attic of the big house, who emerges nightly for a foraging adventure. He comes across the roof, down the tree (pictured, left), and then scurries off into the darkness. His name is Jeremy-Pierre (that is what my parents wanted to name me if I had been a boy-- just another reason to thank heavens I am a girl). JP (as we like to call him) puts up with a lot from his curious non-marsupial neighbors (= us) during his nightly descent-- for instance, this photoshoot which was stressful enough to make his nose moist. We (= Clement), in turn, put up with what sounds like furniture movers in the attic when he is feeling frisky upstairs. In reality, of course, I have to put up with nothing and simply reap all the benefits of communal living and a wildlife safari, while enjoying my very own slice of heaven, warm and cozy, independent and animal-free, in the trailer.

Flashback to 1999

I am looking forward to a talk tonight being given by Richard Wrangham-- esteemed primatologist, author of numerous books, Harvard professor, etc. (pictured below, also with Daphne Onderdonk). When I saw the sign posted, I couldn't help but think back to my field season in 1999 when I worked in Kibale National Forest in Uganda, which just happens to be one of Wrangham's field sites as well. It was a stupendous summer. Western Uganda is gorgeous, the forest we worked in was beautiful and full of amazing wildlife, and the people I worked with were a blast (one of whom I lost track of-- Matt Becker, where are you?)
Not long into the summer, 4 people were killed in the park by rebels involved in the conflict in neighboring Rwanda. The threat to us was not significant, but all researchers in the park evacuated for about a week, and while hanging out at another field site, we really got to know each other well. When it was time to go back to Kibale, I promised one of them, Tammy, who was stationed by herself at Ngogo, that if she ever came to see us at the main station at Kanyuwara, I would throw a party for her. A few short weeks later, we got word through the almost-literal grapevine that Tammy was on her way. Armed with a guest list of about 12 world-class geeks, a transistor radio, a bag of balloons, and a few crates of beer, I fulfilled my promise to Tammy by throwing an impromptu shindig, the main entertainment at which was the temporary fulfillment of my summer-long desire to have a butt implants.
Post Addendum:
I went to the talk, and afterwards went up to him with a copy of the picture in hand.
Me: "Hi Dr. Wrangham, I am certain you don't remember me, but we met one night at a party at Kibale in Uganda about 10 years ago."
RW: " I KNEW I recognized you from somewhere!"
He graciously signed the picture-- HAPPY MEMORIES! Richard Wrangham
I'm such a groupie.
(Thanks for digging up the picture Amy!)

Home Improvement

This weekend was spent upgrading the trailer. There were two main projects: making my bed big enough to sleep in while fully extended and preparing the trailer for the heat of summer which, here in Texas, arrives about mid-March. The first endeavor was a great success! Clement helped me construct a pine box to semi-extend the reoriented bed, on his birthday no less, at about 9 pm no less, when I decided I had to go to Lowe's to get raw materials and address the problem. Clement, being from France, had never been to Lowe's, so I figured it was practically my duty as an American to take him there on a Saturday night to get supplies for a rash, DIY project-- it is our heritage afterall! A few hours later (I won't say how many), my new bed (AND shoe storage area) was complete!

Happy birthday to me!

The second project was not a complete success, as of yet. I need to order another space blanket to fully prepare the trailer (for summer, not for space travel-- although I like the idea). More on that next weekend!

Peking Duck

Last night, my new officemate Cheng took Assie (my labmate) and I out for dinner. Cheng is from Beijing, and arrived in Texas about a week ago to start a post-doc with my boss #1, Ellen. His trip here was his first time in a plane and his first time outside of China, and he was eager to find and share authentic cuisine from his homeland with us. Qi (pronounced chEE), a chinese grad student in my boss #2's lab, suggested we go to King Chinese BBQ (pictured). Among other things, we got duck-- which I hadn't eaten since I was in Vancouver on my 28th birthday several years ago. At the place we were last night, we got Peking duck, which actually means you get three dishes all made from the same individual. First, the roasted skin (served over non-pork pork rind like puffs, which you eat with a sweet sauce between pieces of delicious, steamed dough, like a little sandwich). Second, the minced duck meat, which you eat wrapped in lettuce leaves, and third, duck soup made with the carcass. All three, delicious.... and so efficient! You all know how I love efficiency. It was funny-- on the way to the restaurant, I asked Qi how he decided where we should go given that there are chinese restaurants all over the place in Arlington. He corrected me-- "No, no, there are really only two." A-ha, now I get it... two where you can get Peking duck.

The Heartless Bastards

Friday night I went into Ft. Worth to see a great band-- The Heartless Bastards. Ft. Worth is the most cowboy-esque city I have ever been to and has an entirely different feel than its behemoth neighbor, Dallas. Ft. Worth is so cowboy-y that even men going out on dates to non-country-western-style bars wear cowboy hats. Most of the stores have western fonts to their signs and double swinging doors like in Dodge City. Thus, it was only natural that the HB played a venue called the Longhorn Saloon, which opened in 1919 (it's the oldest drinking establishment still in business in the city and is located near the stockyards were cattle are still run twice daily). I probably should have ordered a whiskey, but I did not want to miss one second of the show, which was amazing.
Here is a picture of the lead singer, Erika (whose voice is like a tornado picking up speed) singing Into the Open, where she plays keyboards and guitar at the same time.