I had originally meant to mention in the course of The Poky Puppy that whilst I had been pulled over no fewer than four times in my life (warning, 1997; tail light out, 1998; ticket, 1998; ticket, 2003), all of those occasions had featured a Volkswagen (the teenagemobile Jetta, then the Golf), and that I considered the likelihood of a cop pulling over the Poky Puppy remote in the extreme. It’s just not the kind of car cops go after.

So of course, tonight, on my way back to my digs chez LadyLong, I pulled out onto a very well-lit street I have traveled many a time, went through a few intersections, la-dee-dah, put on the cruise control at 41 mph in a 35 speed zone, la-dee-dah, oh shit that oncoming car has a light bar BRAKE oh shit I shouldn’t have braked oh shit he is turning around oh shit oh shit but I wasn’t going that fast oh shit god his headlights are bright maybe I’m getting a migraine—headlights. Are my headlights on? click. I was driving with only my running lights on. After a friendly chat with the Hillsboro PD officer, assuring him I had only been driving a short way, I didn’t mean to leave my lights off, I hadn’t been drinking, and I could, in fact, find my registration in my glove box despite a few strata of Les Schwab warrantees and an inexplicable toy sailboat, I was on my way. No harm done, except to the Poky Puppy’s self-image as the kind of car a cop’s eyes slide right over. Ah well.

In my whirlwind round of doctors’ offices, trying to get myself all checked out, clean-dentifriced, dehistamined and corticosteroided before I am uninsured, I hit the optometrist’s office, something I hadn’t done since approximately my graduation from high school.

Now, the tale of my life as a four-eyes is a long, fairly boring one, but suffice it to say that I had bad eyes, but I was saved by heroical bifocals in time, and by the time I went to college I was down to mild reading glasses, which I promptly lost. It was college, okay? So it turns out that the last few years reading without the benefit of specs have NOT blighted my eyeballs as I feared, and, in fact, I needed new reading glasses (despite finding the old pair in a forgotten backpack pocket) because my eyes had gotten YET BETTER. So now my eyes shan’t get tired looking at monitors a long time, which will be jolly should I ever find my old friend gainful employ again.

So, without further ado, here I am, as of yesterday restored to full bespectacled geekiness (for the purposes of reading and computation):

I love my car. Not in the way that some people love their cars, but I love it, all the same. My car is not a sleek, wondrous machine, promising endless adventure and growling speed songs somewhere out of the range of human hearing. It does not contain feats of engineering so mind-bogglingly cute or useful that passengers are rendered silent by their sheer beauty. It does not do anything particularly fast.

My car is a very dirty white Toyota Corolla, with a very odd and fairly permanent tracing of some black thread, like Goth silly string, along one side and a schmear of peach paint from a wall on the back bumper from the time my depth perception failed me behind Happy Panda one day. It has one little Oregon Zoo decal trying to differentiate it from its myriad Toyota brethren, and three or more hats sitting around the inside or perching on headrests within. It has a special transmission I like to call ‘darkmatic,’ because it is one of the various things in the car that doesn’t light up at night any more. It is a dumpy, frumpy little car, and utterly forgettable.

Until very recently, its sheer normalcy (I have it on good authority that my car is the most common make, model, and color in the country) discouraged me from naming it. It took me from place to place, accepted my stuff without comment, hid my Powell’s ‘Great Authors’ Nalgene for almost a year under its seat, and ungrudgingly carried the same load of castoffs for Goodwill for another year or so. It is a useful, dependable thing, my constant companion, and I felt almost ashamed for not having named it. And so it is with great joy and great affection for my blessedly boring little vehicle that I announce that I have at last thought of a name which both acknowledges its unexciting nature and communicates its beloved state. My car’s name is “The Poky Puppy.”

I can’t decide whether to splurge and baptize the little dear with a car wash.

OHMIGOD OHMIGOD BEST MOVIE EVER.

I thought, “LA-DEE-DAH, I shall go to this movie, because it promises to be… diverting, as do so many of these DROLL pictures from the jolly old beans at Pixar Pictures. And mayhap it shall even tickle my fancy for stuper-heroics!” But, fair people, I WAS WRONG!

This movie was not diverting, it was 135 minutes of sheer unearthly bliss. My face hurts from smiling. I was so enthralled at one point my dear friend grizelda thought I was seriously worried for a character’s wellbeing. This movie managed to be both desperately endearing and cuuuuute whilst incorporating mid-boggling acts of sheer badassery. The animation was gorgeous (the hair! the fire!), the voice acting was splendiferous (if I didn’t have my own mommy to be my mommy, I’d want Holly Hunter to be my mommy!), and there was this part with this little funny lady who designed super suits - HA! - and there was Samuel L. Jackson bein’ a stuperhero - heeee! - and there were heartwarming lessons about how some people are just special, and about capes, and there were ‘SPLOSIONS and AEROPLANES and power feats and geekery and acts of cuteness and…and…just GO! GO! NOW!

Bottom line: Why are you still here? Weren’t you listening? Best. Movie. EVER! 10 out of 10! Explosions! Funnies! Kidlings! SUPERHEROES! Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

The maple bar is one of the greatest accomplishments of lowbrow pastrymaking. An easily consumed rectangular pastry, slathered in delectable maple frosting, it is one of only two donuts I consider worth the calories. That being said, it is crucial to acquire the most superb maple bar one can for the considerable caloric expenditure.

There are many factors at work in selecting the ultimate maple bar. There are, of course, the standard donut criteria: freshness; non-greasiness; the texture of the outer skin, which should be tough enough for structural integrity whilst delicate enough to part easily for the teeth. Questions exclusive to the maple bar include such traits as the thickness of the doughy portion of the bar. Too thin, and it risks sogginess, or being merely a vehicle for frosting as opposed to a ground and complement thereto. Too thick, and it risks sticking dryly to the mouth of the gourmand, and even over-filling the stomach. There is the matter of frosting being spread as close to the ends of the bar as possible, to ensure one’s last bite does in fact contain the precious frosting. Lastly, there are aesthetic questions, which are largely a matter of personal taste. I, for instance, find that more uniformly rectangular maple bars seem disturbingly industrial, whereas a slightly irregular bar has character, and looks handmade.

You could consider all these factors, run a comparison of all local and chain donut shops, bakeries, and grocery stores, or you could just buy your maple bars at Haggen for 55 cents each.

The Beav, as my sister calls the old burb, is infested with Taco Trucks. They roam the countryside and set up temporary dens in parking lots. I’ve become accustomed to them, learned to ignore the vague feeling of menace they give me - why would you need a getaway car for selling FOOD? - but today, I was freshly disturbed. As I eased my car to a stop at TV Highway and 170th, I saw beside me a taco truck blazoned with the ominous name, Master Taco. Beside the brightly colored words, a red pepper in a sombrero stared, implacable, unreadable. “MASTER TACO,” read his hatband.

Who is Master Taco? From whence springs his power over his peppery minions? What are his goals? We can only guess.

Master Taco

In the walk-in freezer of a fast food joint, a lone enchilada shivers. The door clanks open. He isn’t alone. He squints as the to-go bag is pulled off his head and his eyes adjust to the light. He almost wishes he still couldn’t see. The Pepper Brothers. Master Taco’s left- and right-shell foods.

“Ummm, hi guys!” Bennie Enchilada stammers, green chili sauce streaming from his brow. “What’s up?” he squeaks.

“We hear you been looking for Master Taco,” one Pepper says.

“Healthy food don’ look for Master Taco,” the other adds. “But then again, you don’ look too healthy.”

“Enchiladas never do,” snorts his brother, then flicks away his toothpick and grabs Bennie by the tortilla in one quick motion. “Why you lookin’ for Master Taco, Bennie? Why you lookin’ for death?” he bellows.

“I just wanted to know!”

“WANTED TO KNOW WHAT?”

“Whether he exists!” Bennie squeals.

The Pepper pulls back, and exchanges blank stares with his companion. Ice crystals crackle in Bennie’s chili sauce. The chill quiet is broken by the Peppers, as one, opening their mouths, slits so thin they could have been cut with a kitchen knife, and laughing, long and low.

“You don’ believe in Master Taco, Bennie?” one says when they’ve recovered. “We’ll show you Master Taco.” The to-go bag descends, and Bennie sees no more. The world is spinning, then rumbling, rushing, the sound of engines and roadruts drifting through to the terrified foodstuff.

There is music where they take Bennie. Mariachi music, and the sound of people murmuring. Bennie smells other foodstuffs, many of them. When the bag comes off, he is in a backroom. Slender flautas preen themselves in front of mirrors before flouncing off for the floor show. He stammers a greeting to one, but she stares and brushes some flour off her taut, crispy shell pointedly.

“Heh,” one of the Peppers laughs, “Master Taco, he likes his women spicy.”

Bennie Enchilada is bundled along a long hallway, grim burritos and the occasional debauched tamale giving him curious, amused glances as the Peppers push him on. “It’s all right, guys!” Bennie yelps, “I believe you! I believe in Master Taco! You don’t gotta prove nothing!”

“Too late, boy,” comes the rasp from the chill vegetable heart. A swinging door looms ahead. The Peppers throw Bennie inside.

Again, Bennie squints. The world is dark, musty. Low lights on the walls reveal a sumptuous room hung with cheesy faux-Mexican rugs and velvet sombreros. At the end of the room, on a great platter, is Master Taco.

It could be no other. He is immense. A novelty taco. His long-stale corn shell, a foot tall, bulges with rotting meat and long-wilted lettuce. A dollop of pink sour cream serves him as a forelock.

“You must be Bennie Enchilada,” he wheezes. “Come closer.” Bennie does, shrinking back from the decayed smell of the ancient feast. “So, you didn’t believe in me?” Master Taco laughs. “Why’s that?”

“Umm, Master Taco, sir, I…” Bennie drips uncomfortably onto the carpet beside the platter. “I didn’t think any food could live so long as they said you had!”

Master Taco laughs. “Good reason, Bennie. I got a secret. You want to hear it?”

Bennie nods silently.

“I am still alive,” Master Taco says in a whisper, and Bennie leans closer. ”...because of preservatives.”

Bennie frowns. “But, Master Taco, sir. We ALL have preservatives.”

“That’s right, son.” wheezes the old boss. “But I get extra preservatives…”

“How?”

“FROM EATING CHUMPS LIKE YOU!” Master Taco roars, and Bennie Enchilada’s last sight is the stale, stale shell descending to crush him in its crunchy jaws.

I have been getting quite thoroughly acquainted—one might even say ‘integrated’—with my dear new friend, Puck. I am using iCal to organize my life, and Address Book (no sexy name for that one!) to organize my friends and contacts. I especially like finding pictures of people and cropping them down so that Address Book is full of smiling faces.

So, today, sadly bereft of WiFi and therefore unable to add smiling faces to Address Book, I consoled myself with entering useful data. As I entered LadyLong’s information, I found myself stymied.

There is only one place to enter ‘homepage’ in Address Book.

Phone numbers, e-mails, relations and friends, these you can add until you run out of laptop battery. But homepage? Only one line to fill. “How can this be?” I raged to myself, “Don’t they REALIZE some people have both a blog and a homepage? Or a personal homepage and a professional one?” Then I listened to myself for a moment. “Don’t they realize I’M A BIG GEEK?”

Lake Oswego is a beautiful, affluent community on the outskirts of Portland, centered around a man-made lake and bedecked with community improvements like thriving flower-baskets and pedestrian plazas. It is, without a doubt, a gorgeous place.

Chance brought me there once again on Wednesday and I putted down the avenues, admiring Mt. Hood, who seems to be in austere mourning for her sister peak‘s current distress, so dark are her flanks in the summer melt. I ducked into a Starbucks looking for an easy WiFi fix (note to fellow laptop users: Starbucks WiFi Big Pain. Lake Oswego Public Libary reportedly free wireless mecca) and found myself surrounded by the very contradictions that make me uncomfortable with Lake Oswego even as I enjoy its beauty, comfort, and artistic offerings. On the patio was a woman, under 30, who without a doubt was actually attempting to look like Paris Hilton, in her current overwhelmingly pink phase. She had the supercilious pinched look, the exact cloying shade on, the clothes, and several hair extensions to make herself look even more fake. Why is Paris Hilton a role model? Because she was born into money? If arbitrary accidents of birth confer idol status, maybe they should be lining up to emulate my corduroy and denim wardrobe—after all, I was born the day after Paris Hilton! That’s as good an accident of birth as any! I stifled a giggle as the woman sipped a Frappuccino in affected boredom, and went inside.

Inside, it was one of the nicest Starbuckses I’ve ever seen. The music was classical and unobtrusive, they had far more than the normal ratio of comfy to hard chairs, and the selection of pastries was almost dizzying. I sat down with my treats and started wrestling with the WiFi question, and was treated to two carefully chic teenagers filling out job applications. “Our parents WON’T BUY US OUR FIRST CAR,” they explained in great distress to the teen already employed by our caffeine-vending overlords. “They say we have to get a JOB.”

I sat typing away on my little Puckster, trying to suppress a smile as I listened to them seriously assure themselves their answers dovetailed to questions about which coins to give customers in change and other basic arithmetic.

I really like Lake Oswego, but Lake Oswegans scare me… perhaps this is what America looks like to less wealthy countries—children of privilege in a parade of folly and vanity….

My recent silence, good readers, has been a result of my recent struggle with a bad cold. The symptoms wax and wane in a most confusing manner, as does, seemingly, the effectiveness of Tylenol Cold, and this morning I awoke husky and low-voiced.

It is not, as yet, a truly disturbing transformation. I am, at worst, an alto. (No offense to altos!) However, the shape of Wanda floats in the offing, inspiring me with dread, like unto Marley’s Ghost in the Muppet Christmas Carol…

Most of my favorite roleplaying games are published by White Wolf Gaming Studio. Their original gameline, World of Darkness (now in its second, all-new iteration), included various games about various supernatural critters living secretly in a world exactly like ours, except perhaps a little more sucky. Vampires lurked and preened, werewolves committed acts of ecoterrorism and anthropophagy, human mages bent the laws of reality, and brooding ink drawings of each stared out moodily from the pages of their respective rulebooks. And then, there was Changeling.

The World of Darkness’s take on the fae, Changeling was an odd game, hard for most people to take or understand. Its tone included vibrant joy, abiding melancholy, menace and promise. It was about the first wonder of childhood and the way the world blows it away. It was a beautiful, idiosyncratic thing, its pages brightly painted with the splendid and the macabre.

Now, it wasn’t perfect. I’d argue it was far too regimented to seem truly fae. But even its regimentation had charm—for instance, the strictly defined ‘kiths’ or types of fairyes. They were limiting to character creation and nearly antithetical to the free-flowing chaos one naturally associates with faeries. But at the same time they were charming, intriguing, and had that grain of truth that makes a myth appealing.

I, of course, identified strongly with changelings, beings of dream and fancy hiding within boring flesh. In the game, changelings can see each other both as the fleshy shell and as the true spirit - a puckish satyr lurking within the skater-boy, a deer pooka peering from behind the hair of a shy art student. For myself, were I to write myself up as a Changeling character - and there’s no other system into which I think I’d fit so well—I would be an Eshu, one of the travelling, tale-telling fae, that love nothing so well as stories. And every once in a while, I see another changeling.

On MAX once I caught sight of a girl who was clearly a surly, tinkering Knocker, shouldering a bag of textbooks with a frown. I have caught a girl’s profile and carriage for a moment in passing and seen the aristocratic poise of the Sidhe. These are not just people that fit the stereotypes of the game’s kiths—they are people who have a touch of individuality, an aura, an Otherness. It’s only in my imagination, but it amuses me much.

A few months ago a post-doc joined the group in my building. I’m not sure where she’s from. She is thin, with sallow skin and long flat black hair, a quiet face and mournful eyes. She always seems to wear black, and move around things to go forward, like a snake. The moment I saw her, I thought, “She’s a Sluagh.” They are quiet, creepy faeryes that hoard secrets and cannot speak above a whisper. I could almost see her fairy form, even thinner, more downcast, dripping as if just pulled from a nest of seaweed. In the three months or so since, the impression hasn’t gone away. I’ve only heard her speak once, a clear, sweet, normal voice, exactly the kind you might expect if there were some chimerical pet wrapped around her shoulder, speaking for her to the world to allay the mortals’ suspicions….

Sometimes I wonder, when I see these people, if they too see with the eyes of Glamour, and whether they see a tidy, Gap-clad admin assistant, or a bronzed fae arrayed in silk and deerskin, chiming with knotted celtic jewelry and shrouded in her own braided, beaded hair?