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I visited Occupy London on an unseasonably warm and sunny day in late October. In a paradox that is no doubt indicative of who I am, I stopped off at St. Paul’s Cathedral, where the Occupy protesters were gathered, before heading off to Spitalfields (the famed shopping district).

It seemed wise not to advertise that I was going shopping right after.

The air was light and jovial – people were milling about and talking. I meandered through, snapping photos, as did a number of other people, but felt too shy to actually engage in conversation with anyone. Ask me to talk about the weather, and I’ll happy oblige. Ask me to talk politics, and I’ll suddenly get timid, and start talking about the weather. Though I did have this exchange with a drunk Russian man:

Him: (smiling at me from ear to ear) …

Me: It’s a nice day …

Him: THIS IS EDEN.

Me: (sincerely) That’s a nice thought.

Him: It’s real. It’s the future.

Me: Sun … shine.

And I spoke to a confused German couple, who wanted to know if St. Paul’s was closed, and for how long (Yes, I told them. Though the protesters are still there, it seems to be open again.)

Still, it's pretty from the outside.

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The only other person I chatted with was one of the police officers on duty. He explained to me that they were just there to keep the peace, and make sure no one did anything illegal. He and his colleagues calmly stood around, occasionally posing for photos with tourists.

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They were letting the kids try on their hats. It was quite sweet.

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They seemed incredibly gracious, and all the interactions I saw between them and the protesters were quite calm and respectful.

Just having a cup of tea and discussing the political climate.

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This was all nearly two months ago. It sounds as though the mood has changed somewhat – the protesters have since been served with eviction papers, and unless they appeal, they will be required to leave by the end of the month. But when I was there, it was, really like a walk in the park. Since shyness and a tendency to talk about the chance of rain compromised whatever traces of journalistic integrity I possess, I have only photos, and little else to share. But I’d like to think they tell enough of a story on their own.

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If we can write it on a neon green piece of paper and pin it to a clothesline, we can achieve it!

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These gentlemen kept yelling, "We are Anonymous!" I wanted to shout back, "No, you really aren't."

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There were tents everywhere. Some had specific functions (a first aid tent, a mess hall, a place of worship) but most were simply housing for the activists who now inhabited the square.

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Heh.

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I regretted not talking to more folks, but really, there are others who are far better interviewers than I. Notice how, unlike me, they approach people with microphones, instead of half-eaten ice cream cones.

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Besides, I’m not sure what more could be said about this scene. It’s simply magical:

These two were talking the whole time I was there. They seemed to get on well.

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And yes, the gentleman at left is wearing the lower-half of a cow costume.

Maybe Occupy London will prove to be fruitless. Maybe the protesters will get evicted, and will all have simply been a huge waste of everyone’s time and money. But I’d like to think that if those two gentlemen found common ground, then it wasn’t all for naught. And maybe that drunk Russian wasn’t so off-base after all.

Except I’m pretty sure Eden smells better.

I’m sure befriending normal people has its merits. It must be nice to go out to a restaurant without having to apologize to the family next to you for what transpires at your table. And having someone dependable who can pick you up from the airport because they are not, at the age of 40, stoned out of their gourd and watching The Transporter 3 (in this PURELY HYPOTHETICAL SITUATION), would probably save you a bit in cabfare.

But, damn, it must be boring. No giggling until you are doubled-over, breathlessly gasping, “I’m going to pee!” No late night invites to drag shows starring people who were invited to your wedding. No immature, tired innuendos when one of you is eating pie. How sad.

I prefer my company to be just slightly unhinged. Not terribly so, mind you (keep your moon-landing deniers – I’ve no interest in them). But if you tell me your new hobby, is, say, painting tiny little leather-clad gimps into beautiful landscapes, or force me to spend half an hour on the floor of my home while you gently perform sacral realignment on me (which involves barely touching my scalp), or decide that even though we’ve just eaten lunch, some Chick-fil-A  sounds like a really good idea, well, we are probably going to be friends.

I call this sweet spot the Doc Brown level of crazy. As in, you probably wouldn’t trust his hotel recommendations, but you would have him babysit your kid for a few hours.

And Chris and Laura fall right into that category. We were lucky enough to hang out with them during our last visit to the Bay Area.

They look so nice and normal in this photo.

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Here’s a picture of Rand inspecting Chris’ face …
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"You are covered in a very fine fuzz."

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And here is a photo of me grabbing them on their respective asses:
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Notice that Laura and I are the same height, yet her legs are like, 6 inches longer and her ass is not nearly as wide. Le sigh.

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Huh. Actually, judging by these photos, it may seem that we are, in fact, the non-normal friends. I am in no way surprised by this revelation.

Laura and Chris met up with us in a town called Tiburon, just outside of San Francisco

“It means ‘shark fin’,” Chris said authoritatively.

“Actually, it just means shark.” I corrected.

“IT MEANS A WHALE’S VAGINA,” he replied. Onlookers were scandalized. It was grand. (Also, fear not: that link is totally safe for work.)

We had breakfast at a place on the water, and Chris did impressions of Tony Danza that mostly consisted of him saying, “Angelaaaaa.”

Also, there was sausage.

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From there we headed to the Marin Art Festival, which Laura had warned us might suck. And it did, in the most glorious way. It was staffed by a group of women who, based on their outward demeanor, had either been diagnosed with crabs, recently abandoned by their spouses, or had just been released from prison. They were awful. Since I wasn’t emotionally invested in the art festival,  and I was high on Vitamin-D from the sunshine, I found it delightful.

We used coupons to get admission for half-price (courtesy of someone in line behind us). When I handed it over to the woman working the ticket booth, she looked at me like I had given her a small turd. We had the following exchange (more or less):

Woman: (holding up the piece of paper and the money I handed to her in between her thumb and forefinger like it was a dead rat) What is this?

Me: It is a coupon for reduced admission to your fine festival. And a ten dollar bill, which I was under the impression could be exchanged for goods and services.

Woman: I hope you choke on a funnel cake.

Me: OOooh, you have funnel cake?

Aaaand scene.

Yeah. It was something like that. EXCEPT THEY DIDN’T HAVE FUNNEL CAKE. I will be addressing that later in a complaint letter, I’m sure.

The art festival was in the middle of a scorched field, next to a large building that’s probably what people in the 60s thought the future would look like.

Moon cars and Tang for everyone!

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It was miserably hot. Our delicate Seattle blood was not accustomed to it. I assumed that it was Laura and Chris’ revenge for having to attend our wedding (in a floor-length dress and suit, respectively) in 105 degree weather a few years back. Rand finally caved and took off his shoes and socks, which meant I got to ridicule him for the elastic line on his calves. This is what he thought of that:

Keep it up, Fishkin. With an attitude like that, you have a great future ahead of you working at the Marin Art Festival.

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In case you can’t quite make it out, that is my dear sweet husband FLIPPING ME OFF. Lest you think he isn’t mortal.

Laura showed some solidarity by doing the same thing. Taking off her shoes, I mean. She didn’t flip me off.

They're barefoot! That's just WACKY.

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As we wandered around the festival, it became aware to us that the art wasn’t terribly … good. I mean, it wasn’t poorly executed, and it would have looked great in a hotel in South Florida, but I wasn’t particularly bowled over by anything. It was a bunch of oil paintings of pretty sunsets and statues of Native Americans, all made by retired white women. Rand was the one who was able to pinpoint what was wrong.

“There’s too much sunshine down here,” he said. “The artists are too happy and content. Good art comes from suffering.”

Sometimes that boy can be brilliant. If the artists in Central California want to up their game, I strongly suggest they consider spending some time in our damp little neck of the woods.

The live entertainment – the art of humanity, if you will – was far better than anything for sale that day. There were stilt-walkers, hobbling around the uneven terrain in ridiculously warm get-ups. Laura got a kick out of it, as it reminded her of her days in the circus. Yes, you read that right – SHE USED TO BE IN THE CIRCUS. I told you: my friends are awesome.

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And if that wasn’t enough, there was a couple wearing matching shirts. It was glorious.

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Forgive me, but as much as this is a crime against fashion, it is absurdly sweet. There’s no mistaking who your other half is. There’s no flirting with the waitress or surreptitiously handing your phone number to someone at the bar when A WOMAN ACROSS THE ROOM IS YOUR SARTORIAL TWIN. I have no doubts Chris and Laura will be the sort of couple that wears matching track suits. They already kind of do it now. Last time we went to visit them, they were inadvertently wearing the same thing. It was delightful.

And speaking of matching outfits …

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The most magical thing we beheld was the trio of belly dancers. I know, I know. It seems like I’m being facetious, which is fair, as that is my natural habitat. But truly, I was impressed. As a girl who hasn’t been seen in a bikini since sometime around 2001, I am instantly awed by anyone who is willing to put themselves (and their stomach) out there for the world to see. Especially if they aren’t rocking six-pack abs (and really, who among us is? I mean, besides Laura.) That takes major chutzpah. These gals are alright in my book. I wonder if they’re looking for a fourth. I suck at dancing of any form, but I’m really passionate about the craft.
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Rand is noticeably less enthused about my future career path.

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By this point, you may feel lightheaded by all the awesomeness I have thrown your way. You may need to sit down, take a few deep breaths, and re-group. That’s fine. I’ll wait. Because the glory of the Marin Art Festival is not yet over. For I have yet to tell you about the food court.

Those of you who have been following my blog for a while (I don’t know what is wrong with you, but thank you. Thank you a million times over.) may recall that Rand and I visited a food stand in which the young people working behind the counter were faking accents, and badly. This, too, was part of the Marin Arts Festival food court. As was a place called, I kid you not, Sausage Paradise.

Where good meat-eaters go when they die.

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Better still, this was the guy manning the grill:

Sadly, this was the best photo of I could get of him. He barely looked up, so dedicated was he to his craft.

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He looked like Jerry Garcia, and he no doubt had a prevailing aroma of sausage about his person. I might have said I wanted to run off with him, in a bout of honesty that comes from having spent too many hours in the sun.

What? Don't you bastards judge me.

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Actually, it started to seem like maybe ALL of us had been in the sun a little too long.

I have no idea what was going on here.

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This is not an appropriate way to get hydrated.

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So, after one more brief encounter with yet another horrific woman at the ticket counter (they had asked us to return some raffle tokens if we didn’t use them. We did, and the woman screamed, “What do you expect me to do with that?!” I had several suggestions, but kept them to myself) we decided to head home. And while it may be the aftermath of spending 2 hours in 100+ degree weather talking, I hope we get back to the Marin Art Festival. I hope the staff remains as cranky and irritable as ever. I hope the art continues to be mediocre.

I hope our friends continue to be un-normal.

Life is better when it's odd.

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The Essentials on The Marin Art Festival:

Verdict: Recommended (but that might be the sunstroke talking), though I don’t think I’d make the trip just for that

How to get there: It was about a half-hour drive from San Francisco. Rental car/personal transportation required.

Ideal for: Belly dancer enthusiasts; people who love mediocre art

Insider tips: Look online for coupons on discounted admission rates; the sun is incredibly hot, so consider bringing sunscreen or matching hats for you and your spouse.

Nearby food: Two words – SAUSAGE PARADISE. (I can’t vouch for it personally. It wins on name alone. I sincerely hope they are there next year.)

Good for kids: Sure! Children are impervious to heat and can’t appreciate art, anyway.

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Or when I was in Italy a few weeks back, exactly at the same time that the tsunami happened. And while shopping at the Campo de Fiori in Rome, I saw this exchange between a vendor and a tourist:

Vendor: Where are you from?

Woman: Japan.

Vendor: (Handing a her a tiny dried tomato). Try this. It’s flavor explosion. Hiroshima Nagasaki BOOM!

Woman: …

Had my jaw not been dragging on the floor, I might have yelled at the man (even though I know how pointless it is to yell at a Roman. Yells to an Italian are like the sounds of a plane to someone who lives near an airport: they simply don’t hear it anymore).  The tourist in question, showing no small amount of restraint, thanked the man for the tomato and walked quickly away.

Here is the idiot in question. Because of that dear woman's grace, he is not on the ground, bleeding.

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I would like to think that I could have handled it that well, but I know I wouldn’t have. Perhaps I would have screamed, no matter how futile it would have been. Though, far more likely, I’d have written a Dick Move! or three, raged to Rand about the events, and found myself acting excessively polite in hopes of making up for the shaved baboons that I often see pushing each other on massive transit. And, as I often do in the face of such douchebaggery, I may have found myself humming the song “Tenderness” by General Public (if you aren’t familiar with it, please watch the video immediately. Let no one say the 80s were not magical).

That song comes to mind when I think of that Japanese tourist. Because at that moment? She didn’t need some asshole making callous remarks. She needed a little tenderness.

And it is with both that woman and that song in my thoughts that I tell you about the benefit my friend Mimi has put together. It’s called The Sun Always Rises (clever there), and the proceeds will be going to Japan’s Red Cross. There will be some fantastic performances, music, drinks, and drumming groups. If you are in the Seattle area on SATURDAY, MAY 21st at 7pm, I strongly suggest you get yourself to the ACT downtown. Tickets are only $25, and I am positive there’s not a better use of your money (Nope. Not even cupcakes.)
So, if you are free and in Seattle next weekend, please consider going (or donating to Japan’s Red Cross directly if you are not). It’s sure to be a wonderful and inspiring night. And a great way to show a little tenderness.

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The bargain gene also extends to thrift stores and garage sales, which I absolutely adore, but again, the hubby can’t really tolerate. One person’s trash might be another’s treasure, but to a third person, it’s still trash.

So you can imagine my excitement when we found out that there would be a citywide garage-sale in the town of Jacksonville (just outside of Ashland) the weekend we were going to be down there. And my absolute shock when Rand said, “Well, let’s go.” (I suspect it must have had something to do with it being our anniversary and all.)

Jacksonville is both creepy and adorable. The town’s roots are in the gold rush, and a lot of the “Old West” style facades on the buildings have been preserved and restored. Still, there’s something a bit spooky about it – perhaps it might have to do with the fact that the town has regular cemetery tours, or the numerous ghost stories associated with it. Though most of the time, the latter borders on the  absurd. From Jacksonville, Oregon section of GhostsOfAmerica.com:

“A person with a skeleton face dressed in gloomy robes may be perceived frequently looking for a hat underneath a parked Chevy in a Jacksonville parking lot at the stroke of midnight.”

(I just have to know – is it a specific Chevy, or what?)

It came as no surprise, then, that the Jacksonville garage sale, like the town itself, was a mish-mash of all things charming, strange, and occasionally creepy.

The drive into town was really lovely …

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Then we saw this (keep in mind, we were there in mid-September):

A giant pumpkin or skeleton I understand ... but Lucifer? Really?

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It was 90-something degrees when we got to the garage sale, which spanned all through downtown. For those of you un-familiar with Pacific Northwesterners, 90 degrees is about 20 degrees above what Rand and I would consider “hot”.

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They were set up in front of an abandoned gas station ... which ranks well below "abandoned theme park" on the list of scariest places ever, but is still kinda creepy.

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The stuff people were selling revealed some pretty unusual fetishes:

Who DOESN'T want a framed tryptic of the Dionne Quintuplets?

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This peeler is described as “everyone’s household pet.” You know, for when your kid asks for a puppy and you decide to confuse and disappoint him, instead.

"Sorry it's no beagle, Timmy. NOW GET PEELING."

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And there were containers, to be used for either storing moonshine or realizing one’s dream of being in a jug-band:

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And then there was Wog.

For those of you who don’t know, I have wanted a wiener dog for roughly the past decade or so. But given our travel schedule, Rand’s allergies, and the fact that I have a pooh-phobia (even if it’s cute, tootsie-roll-sized wiener dog poohs), we cannot get one. But I long ago decided that if I had one, it would be called “Wog”: both an abbreviation for “Wiener Dog”, and the punchline to an anecdote that takes too long to tell, but involves an unfortunate middle school nickname.

Plus, you know how they say people look like their pets? Wog and I are identical. Big noses, brown hair, green eyes, short legs. Really, I dare you to try and tell us apart. Here I am:

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And here’s Wog:

OR MAYBE IT’S THE OTHER WAY AROUND. You don’t know, do you?!! The point is, that dog was meant for me, but sadly, it was not meant to be. So I bid him adieu, and Rand promised me that he would end up in a very good home and be fine with out me. The dog, I mean. Not Rand. Rand would be a mess without me. Pooh on the floor would be the least of the problems.

So we continued on with the garage sale, while in the back of my head I wondered how we’d transport Wog back to Seattle. Of course, I ended up discovering even more candidates for buyer’s remorse. Like this:

I seriously wish Rand had considered this facial hair option when we got hitched. It's so timeless.

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Or this (It was missing a few key pieces, but fortunately John Boy’s mole was not among them). I am dying to know what game-play must have consisted of:

This is was parents in the 70s bought their children ... if they hated them.

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Since we saw a ton of other stuff, I’ll try to be brief. No more than 5 word descriptions for everything else we saw at the garage sale …

Simply labeled: “Antique medical device.”

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“Plug cut” sounds vaguely dirty:

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Tetanus shot up to date?

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Nothing like “old lunchbox smell”:

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Old National Geographic architecture ad:

Love, love, love, love, love:

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Okay, that’s seriously waaaay harder than it looks. I’m going back to being long-winded.

During our excursion, we stopped for food at the Back Porch Barbeque, which came highly recommended. While we enjoyed the decor (they really pulled off the gay cowboy aesthetic well), the barbeque wasn’t great (good, but not great).

This was apparently an appetizer.

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Lots of photos of John Wayne.

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And more John Wayne ...

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And, what the hell, a John Wayne cut-out, too.

In the future, if you’re in Jacksonville, looking for barbeque, I recommend driving a few miles over to Roscoe’s in Phoenix. They catered a barbeque for us before the wedding. Be warned, though – they are never open. Like, ever.

So, after a few hours of browsing and lunch consistently primarily of meat, we headed back to Ashland. I realized we didn’t buy anything. Which was probably for the best. After all, there was really only one thing that caught my eye …

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Bye, Wog. I hope you found a really good home.

In the meantime, where the hell’s my peeler?