Awards Week: Day 2 - The Horseshoe Blog Award

Today I give out the prestigious and time-honored (beginning today) Horseshoe Blog Award.



The horseshoe crab is an amazing and cuddly (though kind of jabby) creature. Since we don't have them on the West Coast, they're like unicorns to me. Yes, when I've seen them covering the beaches of Maine it's akin to witnessing vast herds of unicorns thundering across the savannah. Like unicorns, they are pointy. Their blood has magical properties. And...that's pretty much the extent of how they're like unicorns.

Horseshoe crabs have been around in their current form for the past 250 million years, and so it stands to reason that the Horseshoe Blog Award goes to a blog that has been a mainstay of regular quality posting for many years running. Therefore I award this snazzy crab to Wendy over at Opera Buffo, whose blog has been alive and well since 2004. (!!!)

Wendy's an editor and author - her first full novel is due out this year (it's going to be awesome) - who blogs about cooking, mommy-ing, gardens, eco-friendly living, and (naturally) writing. Everything she writes has something deep about it, even if she's expounding on rainbow sprinkles. (Which, come to think of it, I don't think she ever has. Post idea?)

To accept the Horseshoe Blog Award, the recipient must continue to blog faithfully for the remainder of the year, although the exact definitions of the words "faithfully" and "year" can be disputed in a court of law.

Tomorrow, another astounding nonexistent award!


In Which I Shower Awards on Everyone in a Reality of My Own Making

Wow, last week was quite a collection of nothingness, wasn't it?

While I was in the midst of regretting that not every post here is something grand and glorious, I was forced to remind myself that this blog was originally created for me, after all. If I had the good fortune to write something others found appealing, then I might enjoy the camaraderie as an added perk. My original intent was to give myself an outlet so I wouldn't clog up my group blogs with long, uninvited monologues. I discovered that blogging provided good motivation to keep the rust off my writing. Happily I've chronicled events that I would have otherwise forgotten, since my memory doesn't cover much more than the last few weeks.

One might wonder why I didn't just start a journal instead.

(But...ah, where's the fun in that? Where are the creepy unpublishable spam comments in that?)

About the most amazing thing about my blog is the fact that I've recently discovered how to make mouse-over text on my images, which finally proves that anyone, after fourteen years of using HTML, can learn to write "title =". I am the Queen of the Internet.

And so since my blog has been nothing more than a glorified journal, and since it's not been, on the whole, anything particularly insightful or delightful, I was pleasantly surprised when I was nevertheless given this,



by Violet over at Creative Devolution, whose blog is pretty much an example of everything an awesome blog should be - bright 16-bit colors, humor, do-rags, insanity domestic life, and interior decorating. I started reading her blog, she started reading mine, rainbows formed in the sky, et cetera. I frequently read her posts multiple times, they're that good. Go on and check her out.

Are you back? All right then! Well, what excited me far more than the actual Liebster was the logo that Violet drew for my blog:



Eeeee! I'm so happy!! Also, finally someone realizes that my entire blog is underwater! Yow yow! Hooray for thematic continuity!

Right. So the Liebster Blog is a blogging award giving by bloggers to bloggers for blogs that are especially bloggy, and by that I mean that "liebster" translates to "dearest" or "favorite" from German (and not "lobster," sadly, as Brett over at The Transformed Non-Conformist, rightfully pointed out), ergo one receives such an award for being a likable blog. Other restrictions apply. Not intended for blogs with ridiculously large followings (over 200 followers), must be passed on to five fellow bloggers, this product contains chemicals known to the State of California to cause cancer and birth defects or other reproductive harm.

Huzzah!

But look. I've been out of the blogging loop for a couple of years now, many of the blogs I used to know and love have given up the ghost (at least temporarily), and I lettered in the game of Calvinball, so why do something the same way twice?

(Also, I like to break chain letters. No, I don't think I'll have bad luck if I don't forward this to at least twenty people.)

Therefore I've instead decided to instigate a new batch of awards, since we're playing in a world where I can control the laws of physics. That's right, this is the show where everything's made up and the points don't matter. Awards for everyone! I'll be giving them out every day this week.

For my first award, since I was so heartbroken to find it was "Liebster" and not "Lobster," I bestow this, the coveted Giant Growing Lobster Award, on mining the nooks.



The GGL Award is given to the blog with the greatest potential to grow into something amazing and unstoppable. To accept this award, the recipient must draw an original rendition of a giant attacking lobster. Easy, no?

I had the opportunity to meet Galen, the illustrator over at mining the nooks, in person. Even though I'm not much of a horror aficionado, I love her style. Her paintbrush seems to be permanently set to "blood splatter." She also posts links to other amazing artists. Pretty inspirational all around.

Tomorrow, another made up award!


End-of-the-Week Potpourri

Here are some loose bits and bobs that have been rattling around in my head during this week of randomness. See if these random thoughts stir up any random thoughts of your own. We celebrate randomity.

Recently I saw an icicle that had formed on a 45 degree angle. It was perfectly straight, just not pointing in a downward direction. How is that possible? A Rocky Mountain vortex? I have my theories.

Whenever I'm writing to a woman, I never know what title to put. How do I know if they're married? If they're not, is it Ms. or Miss? What's the neutral unknown?!? When I'm trying to address a simple letter I usually go online and internet stalk a woman just to find out their marital status. This seems strange and unnecessary. I mean, what does everyone else do?

Men are easy; just slap on a "Mr." Done. Darn you men. Also with your one-suit-for-every-occasion advantage. I'm waiting for the day when women have something equivolent to suits. Sometimes I want to enlist, be a park ranger, get elected as a judge, or work in hazmat just so I don't have to think about what to wear every morning.

Why on earth do cars still have a headlight setting for parking lights? What the heck are parking lights supposed to do? There's never a time when a car needs only parking lights and nothing else. The setting apparently exists to make me look like an idiot when I accidentally miss the last click. Also, I don't think my brain has ever once thought "That's a car!" when I first see another car driving with just parking lights. It's usually more like, "That's a guardrail traffic sign pedestrian biker motorcycle?...car!"

I discovered the worst-named cookie ever.



I'm sure it's tasty, but...no, wait, I'm not sure. It's too suspicious. It's a front. Like a brothel with a sign out front, "Come In and Get Saved!" I don't go to round black and white cookies for my nutritional needs.

But if you should find yourself with a WhoNuuoou in your hand, what can you do with it? (Besides stair rolling races?) Answer: Dunk it in this.



What am I ending? Life? A bad relationship? Whatever it is, this will make it right, I guess.

Man, misspelled food is always bad news. I'll give some examples. Cheez-Its. Sno Balls. Froot Loops. It's like a two-way admittance of defeat. "Hey," the box says. "I can't be bothered to spell myself correctly, and you can't be bothered to eat actual food, so why don't you just buy me and we'll go watch an entire season of Married With Children together?"

Leading me to a follow-up theory: Real food doesn't have words on it.

Except...that would rule out Dove Bars, with the words "Dove" stamped right on them, and they are very definitely real food. Hum, I'll have to think about this....


Strange things, are blogs

I was trying to figure out what to post for today, thinking maybe I'm not cut out for the three-a-week gig, getting ready to unfurl my white flag, maybe go into hiding for another few years. I didn't want to lay down something short and shallow and unsatisfying. I should be contributing my two cents to the political sphere right now - tis the season, after all, and I love me a juicy debate - but I couldn't drum up the enthusiasm to write anything more creative than, "Hey y'all, this is what I think. Done." And who wants to read that? That's like reading a survey titled What's Your Favorite Color?

(But I don't know. There's an entire show about what might be hidden in storage lockers, so perhaps I don't have a good read on cultural trends.)

So many topics I want to write about, so few that can be written well without some basic background research...

I began thinking about the nature of my blog, whether it's meant for me (a place to vent) or for an audience (a place to come find stuff worth reading.) Oh my, but the two are not the same.

And THAT got me reflecting on all the blogs I've ever stumbled on, and how the vast majority of them are about absolutely nothing. You know what I'm talking about? Baby announcements that end with three posts. Blogs that reblog blog posts from reblogged blogs. Whining. Scattered across the ether. Countless bits of pointlessness. Yet it's those sites, the sites that deliver the pointlessness in guises of humor and wit, that I keep going back to, not to the sites with thoughtful, informative essays. So I suppose I'm just as shallow as the worst of them, a kiddie pool at a toddler convention, excuse me while I go cancel my subscription to The Economist.

Once I realized this, I felt a great burden lifted. All these heavy topics I want to write about...and I will write about them...but I don't have to write about them today.

And while I was thinking all the aforementioned, I had been doodling, because my mind thinks best when my hands are busy. I doodled a picture of myself thinking, but I got my thoughts all cross-wired with a "Drawing Hair" tutorial I just read, and didn't feel like erasing my construction lines or particularly making much of an effort, and didn't know quite what to do with my hair, then realized I could do anything the hackensack I wanted to do with my hair, and with this post, sure, the world at my beck and call...

So I made you a drawing of me thinking about thinking while my hair goes off into dinosaurs and Teddy Roosevelt. I'll bet no one has ever said that in a sentence before.



That, dear readers, is how you ended up with a post about absolutely nothing. Only quality stuff here at Fifteen Feet, yessir.


The Location Stats Game! (Also, South Africa)

I don't know exactly when Blogger put in the ability to view stats, but sometime during the eight years I've been a'bloggin', they slipped it in. Right under my nose. I've just discovered it, and now I stare at it obsessively, interpreting the data like a political pundit with 1% of the votes in and hours of air time to fill.

I'm sure everyone with a blog has experienced the same thing. The one post that turns out to be wildly popular, even though it's hardly the best thing you've ever written. The post that the search engine spiders suddenly haul out of the depths because it's relevant to some current event. The post that's only a few sentences long, several years old, and not interesting in the slightest - like, "I was not posting last week, but now I am posting" - that for some inexplicable reason gets a ridiculous number of hits day after day. My third most popular post is like this, a complete non-event. I can't for the life of me figure out what keeps drawing people to it.

But my favorite thing about stats is the "audience" feature. I've discovered I can play great games of international manipulation just by using certain terms. Say "Oxbridge," and WHAM...Suddenly I get hits from Britain. My recent digressions about Prague gave me a healthy Russian readership. When I mentioned the city of Weed, the Netherlands appeared on my map. Heh.

This seems like a fine challenge. Can I snag a specific country just by using a subtle reference? Bag it as easily as Shelly Russell slipped past Yogita Bali to help secure a trip to the London Games?

Erk, no. This is not an easy game to play. Dropping in references to South African field hockey doesn't come naturally. And I suppose I can't grab the attention of the search spiders just by yelling Nelson Mandela! Amandla! Oudtshoorn Ostrich Ballet!There should be a question mark somewhere in this sentence! Shouldn't there? That was a poorly-constructed rhetorical question, and also a poor grab to make South Africa appear on my map.

But I CAN legitimately talk about South Africa by saying that I, now, in the year 2012, have at last discovered streaming internet radio. Holy cow! Did you know that many radio stations worldwide stream their content for free online??? Also, they're making talkies in color now!

As soon as I found this out I immediately went on an online tour of international stations I have known and loved. One of the first I looked for was SAFM, a station out of Johannesburg, South Africa. Merrily to their website did I frolic, thinking I that there I would find a big "Listen" button that would instantly transport me back to the vast Antarctic-breeze-kissed reaches of the veld.

Instead I found a handy "pick a radio station!" bar. SAFM's parent company evidently owns every radio station in South Africa, possibly the entire continent.



This screen grab probably fails to capture my actual feelings of confusion and betrayal and dismay.

But I finally found it (because it's listed in big letters) got it streaming. I hoped I might be just in time to catch my favorite South African radio program, The Tim Modise Show. When I lived in SA I used to start my day with this show, munching on apples and ostrich biltong while Tim Modise's cheerful voice welcomed questions from callers and instructed everyone to proudly buy South African. Because I was in such a remote area, he became the voice of the country to me. I couldn't wait to hear him again.

When I didn't hear The Tim Modise Show on the stream, I went searching for it. That's when I learned that it had only ever aired for two years, right during the time I lived in SA.

My reaction.



Even worse, I can hardly find a reference to the show, let alone an audio clip of it. So my legitimate grab for SA readers is, if anyone knows where an online copy of the show exists, please let me know! And if you do I'll say "thank you" in all of South Africa's eleven national languages:

Dankie (Afrikaans)
Ngiyabonga (Zulu)
Enkosi (Xhosa)
Ke a leboha (Sotho)
Ke itumtese (Setswana)
Inkomu (Tsonga)
Ndi a livhuha (Venda)
Ngiyathokaza (Ndebele)
Ke a leboga (also Setswana??)
Ro livhuawa (also Venda??? uh-oh…)

And others.

Clearly I also need help saying "thank you."


University Rooms

When I travel, I stay in hostels. I love hostels. Mostly. Sometimes when I'm just trying to cook up a meal in a kitchen filled with staggering, drunken teens, or read the morning paper over the thumping sound of bass, or sleep in a crowded bunk room where one person is snoring, one has a constant cough, and one has a boy sleeping next to her, I think, "I might be getting too old for this."

That thought hung over me like a gloom as I searched for hostel options in Oxford. I already had some familiar mainstays for London, but I knew nothing about Oxford, and the hostel reviews were grim. A bed and breakfast might give me some of the same group atmosphere that hostels are good for - less drunkenness too - but I wasn't quite ready to bump up to that level.

That's when I discovered a great site called University Rooms. The site works with various universities around the world to rent out their vacant rooms, especially during school holidays. Rooms cost more than a hostel but less than a bed and breakfast.

In most cases you might ask, "Why on earth would I want to pay to sleep in some kid's empty dorm room?" But for Oxford it was perfect. For Oxford, it meant that I got to march boldly into colleges that are normally closed to the public. It meant I could loiter in the quad in the morning and watch the light shine through the stained glass at night, and there was no tour guide looming over me to rush me along.

I stayed in Oxford for several nights, and each night in a different college. Like a bed and breakfast, my stay always included breakfast in the main dining hall. If you want to imagine what that's like, picture the dining hall at Hogwart's, but smaller and with no floating candles. Picture servers who won't let you raise a finger, dishes engraved with the school's crest, and rows upon rows of austere scholarly dead guys gazing down upon you. (Non-moving portraits, sadly.) And then picture contentedly strolling back through the gardens, up the narrow stone staircase to your room, recently cleaned by the scouts, where you make a cup of tea while looking out the window at the rooftop spires while the bells of half a dozen towers ring out the hour in discordant unison.

To think, right now I could be tiptoeing over the mystery stain on the carpet in a hostel while Tuberculosis Girl hacks over the communal sink.

Of course, not all Oxford rooms are created equal. At one college I was in a room several hundred years old, while at another stayed in an addition build in the 1960's. The newer rooms lack charm, but the older ones lack...heat. Plumbing. I think there has been a general philosophy over the centuries that the more uncomfortable you are, the better you learn.

Here are the rooms I stayed in. Can you guess which colleges they're from?


A modern (and teensie!) room that overlooked a street. A little too much traffic noise for my taste, but I imagine you get used to it if you're into your reading deeply enough. (If you're not into your reading that intensely, what are you doing studying here?)


And old room that's been modernized. The little fireplace was sadly non-functional. (It had carpeting underneath it.) But pretty classy, otherwise.


I drew the curtains because it was nighttime. I'm pretty sure these curtains (also the furniture) were original to the circa 1960's room.


Wow, a room that doesn't have gray carpets! I really liked the permanent Dutch angle feel to this room, which, as you can see, was shoved right up against the sloping roof. Kind of a hobbit room. Did Tolkien ever stay here? Hmm...


This room might not blow you away, but man oh man, you should have seen the view out that window. Plus those shutters opened up completely and the ledge was two feet wide, so I could sit halfway out writing in my journal while eavesdropping on conversations below. I might be biased for this particular room just because it was the first one I stayed in.

Did you guess the colleges? Did you see the wicked trick I just played on you?? One of those rooms is a Cambridge room, of course! Bwa-ha! How delightfully droll of me.

In that last picture, notice the one brilliant, rebellious, eye-popping decoration on wall. Weee! This is one of the big differences between Oxford/Cambridge college rooms and American ones. When I was a university student, I moved in to my room big time for the entire year. And by that I mean I grew tropical plants there, strung up Christmas lights, got an awesome ghetto $20 recliner, flipped the beds, had a gecko, stuck posters and postcard to every surface...That room was mine, baby.

(Well...and also my roommate's, to be fair.)

At Oxbridge they do a pretty good job of communicating the fact that you are just passing through - nay, that you are a wispy seed of a person who hardly deserves to settle more than a moment upon the venerated stones of those schools. If you should go out into the world and do well for yourself, that's another matter. Then you can donate a lot of money and have a renovated section of rooms named after you. But you want to hang a picture on the wall? Forget it. To make sure of this, they uproot you from your room every eight weeks and rent it out to ogling tourists like me.

So, if you ever find yourself in Oxford (or Cambridge!) without a place to stay, I highly recommend you take a look at University Rooms.

That way when you get sick with a cold and have to sleep and sip tea for half the day - like what happened to me - you can stare at the walls and at least feel like you're still having a unique travelling adventure.


This post is not about squirrels

This has been one of those weeks when I have a million things I'd like to write about, plus some things I need to mention (prizes, yes, I'm getting there), but this is also a week when deadlines are raining down from the sky.

That's probably why my brain is dredging up so many post ideas. It's doing everything it can to avoid thinking about actual important stuff. "Hey! What about squirrels? Yeah...? Squirrels? Let's write about SQUIRRELS!" it says.

(Don't worry, I'm not going to write about squirrels. I do have a little veto power, after all.)

So here, while I go off and work on deadlines, you can stare at this...thing...I found in a newspaper in England. It's fantastic. I don't have any clue what it means. I feel I have to spread this joy. (Click to enlarge.)


You're welcome.


In Which I Try to Talk About Weed But Get Distracted by the Weather

Last week while I was in a hotel in California...

Wait. I should explain that I wasn't supposed to be anywhere near California. But I had to get from Colorado to Oregon, and on the morning I was set to drive the freeway going west was closed due to ice and blowing snow. Closed all day, the gates shut. The Wyoming traffic cameras showed what looked like a perfectly untouched white meadow, no visible pavement as far as the eye could see. Colorado was equally awful. There was no way west.

Meanwhile on the national news, weathermen were warning about a vicious storm that might hit New York and surrounding areas, but fortunately hadn't made it past the Midwest yet and had a good chance of swinging down south or into Canada or somewhere else unimportant. While the West was getting hammered by blizzards, the edge of the weather map ended near Missouri.

This is always the case. Sometimes they show a map of the whole country, but the West is where the weatherman stands, even while swirling red and blue graphics rage behind him. Like this:


Or this:


Or even (what the heck?) this:


Do you know how annoying this is? I find myself weaving back and forth in front of the television as if I can peer around the weatherman's head. Oh! I got a glimpse of my town behind his ear!

The rest of the world complains about the US being too US-centric, but we in the West know that this is not true. The US is New York-centric. If the weather gets bad enough to kill more than a few people, we might get a mention. Ah well. He with the national network gets the national coverage.

(But we were just a little ticked off that NBC chose to interview a woman whose morning coffee didn't percolate while we over here were having avalanches and closed roads across five states. Vent. Vent.)

Since I couldn't drive straight west, I had to swoop down south through New Mexico and Arizona, coming up the backbone of California to get to Oregon.

Thusly did I find myself in hotel in California, and late in the night was standing at the sink when I detected a strange smell coming through the air vents. It was vaguely familiar, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Kind of sweet...Where had I smelled that before? It made me think of fairgrounds, for some reason. Shopping in Boulder...stores with Free Tibet bumper stickers and tie-dyed dresses...and incense...and mandalas...

That's when I realized that I was smelling marijuana. Okay, so I'm not terribly quick on the draw. This should tell you something about how often I've actually been around it before. I'm a big believer in getting my highs from life. Better highs. Like, I don't know...staying up until 4am listening to Wagner and deliriously writing Latin poetry. Whatever.

Because it was the time of night when my imagination likes to take off, I had an overwhelming desire to find which room the smoke was coming from. Not by walking the halls (dull!) but by scaling the building from the outside, via the balconies, crawling all around like a midnight vigilante. Then kick the window in and make a citizen's arrest. I could be a hero.

But medical marijuana is legal in California, and with my luck my "criminal" would be a 70-yr old woman lighting up for her rheumatism. Also, I reasoned with myself, I'm kind of against the over-criminalization of marijuana, what with all the other directions we could be pointing our police forces. And yet...I would never have the moxy to kick down the door of anything more severe, like a meth lab or a kitten-juggling ring. Arg, what a catch-22! How am I supposed to start my career as a citizen crusader if my level of crimes are the same petty crimes being over-criminalized?

I am aspiring, but meek. I'm going to go put some firmly worded notes on double-parked cars now.

The kicker to this story is the name of the city where I was staying- Weed, California. Seriously. The irony didn't even dawn on me until the next morning. This led to a whole series of jokes about how Weed got its suspicious name. Is that really fog hanging over the valley? What happens if you go to the Bank of Weed, or try to check something out of the Weed Library? Then there's the hypothetical Weed Airport, where one might reasonably assume you can catch a flight on Weed Air. Your pilot gets on the intercom to say, "Duuudes....this plane is huuuge!" You never go anywhere, of course. The plane sits on the tarmac while everyone looks out the windows saying, "Whoaaa..."

Fly Weed Air
"For when you don't care."




Where His Legs Is At

Bonus Sunday post!

Keeblerkidd located my Toilet Tube Man's missing legs! So exciting!


Toilet Tube Man's legs went down the swirly bowl in Scotland and ended up on a stock photo of a street sign in Australia. This makes sense.

Now the two can be joyously reunited.


And he lived happily ever after until the next time it rained.