Archive | March, 2012

Folks, I have many, many, many, many flaws.

If it’s okay with you, I’d rather skip the details and just leave it at that. I’m a decent human being. I’m not a great human being.

But Spain made me a slightly worse one. And I’m kind of okay with that.

Despite my many flaws (see above), I can say one thing definitively: I’m not a thief. Except for that one time when I was 13 and shopping at the mall with my brother, and I accidentally knocked a ring into the sleeve of my giant hoodie, (and maybe I sort of noticed but didn’t say anything because I could totally get away with this and then claim IT WAS AN ACCIDENT, since it kind of was. All the thrill of shoplifting, none of the guilt!) and then I swung my arm and  the ring went projectile flying across the store and my brother was not at all happy, I’ve never even thought about stealing. Nope. Not at all.

Not until that day in Barcelona. On that day, I stole something. But I had to. In the name of JUSTICE.

And because they started it.

Let me explain.



I hate making split decisions. They send me into a panic.

“Chocolate or vanilla?”



“Paper or plastic?”



Spotted in Manhattan.


I don’t profess to know very much about anything, desserts and the career of Jeff Goldblum excluded (what? I have my passions). Other than being an authority on these two very important topics, I consider myself a rather middling resource. And yet, time and again, I get emails in my inbox from new bloggers who want me to share my “wisdom” with them.

I, personally, find this equal parts hilarious and misguided. You might as well ask me for driving directions or financial advice (other topics of which I am uniquely unqualified to discuss). When it comes to blogging, I honestly and truly don’t know what I’m doing. I’m still figuring things out for myself. I still make tons of mistakes.


Seattle’s weather has been crazier than usual lately. In the span of an hour, I’ve seen every form of precipitation: drizzle, sleet, snow, hail, and then, for good measure, blue skies. I’m not quite sure what’s going on, but it just might be the end of the world (no one warned me that the end of days would require galoshes).

Or maybe it’s just March. Either way, I’m going to start stockpiling canned goods. You enjoy these links.


Totally digging the comic-book and video-game-inspired art of Christopher Umiga. (Props for making the Joker look adorable, which is no small feat).


First, turn the volume off (otherwise it will drive you crazy), then enjoy wasting your precious time playing the Kanye Zone Game (it’s low tech and addictive. Here’s the story behind it).


Folks, I have some sad news. This will be my third and final post about Gaudi’s architectural feats in Barcelona. (In case you missed it, here’s Part One on La Pedrera and Part Two on Casa Batllo.)

I know, I know. You’re devastated, aren’t you? I can tell by the way you’re joyfully skipping around the room, screaming, “THANK GOD IT’S OVER!” (Yes, through the magic of the internet I can see you, and no, I do not appreciate your candor.)

Okay, fine. Perhaps the last three days of architecture-centric posts haven’t been the most interesting, but I promise, today will be. Because today I’m going to tell you about the Sagrada Familia: the enormous church at the heart of Barcelona that is Gaudi’s opus.


I have no problem with the notion that Jesus lives. Whether you are referring to your passion for your lord and savior, or simply taking note of a Hispanic man named Jesus who happens to have a zest for life, I find this statement to be pretty innocuous.

However, I do think it’s kind of weird to scribble that on the back of your vehicle, as opposed to say, buying a bumper sticker. It looks hastily done; suggesting that someone wrote it in a hurry before they were forced into the trunk.

Seen on our drive down to Oregon last summer.


Maybe they were only halfway through the message, which actually held an ominous warning. Maybe it should read:


If it isn’t actually a cry for help, then a bumper sticker is always the best choice for sharing a message with your other drivers (unless you are talking about your honor student, at which point scribbling that message on the back of your car will make you appear to be not only an awesome parent, but also tough. Think about it).

Casa Batllo. AKA, Spanish Fraggle Rock.


Remember Fraggle Rock? I positively loved that show (I’d really like to see a “Where Are They Now?” feature on the Fraggles. I hope Wembly finally got into rehab).

The beginning always scared me, though. Something about the baseline, and the dingy house, and the tiny mouse hole into which the Fraggles ran gave me the heebie jeebies.


Eat your heart out, Mike Brady.


I never really “got” architecture.

I blame Mike Brady. Supposedly an expert in the field of home design, he squeezed six children into two bedrooms. He was no architect. He was a sadist. And – hello – is it really a good idea to cram that many biologically-unrelated children into two rooms far at the other end of the house, just as they are approaching puberty?