I'm Concerned About Some of my Hobbies

Falling Forward

2008-10-08T13:20:00.000-07:00

Sometimes pushing through boredom means performing your “funny cowboy dance” for your friends while wearing men’s size 14 wooden clogs and a borrowed sweatshirt with an embroidered graphic of a crab and the slogan “Don’t Be Crabby”. Other times it means unexpectedly running into a drunken Santa Clause and his equally drunk chicken sidekick on a random street corner in a city far from home. In any case, pure unbridled silliness beats the heck out of boredom 100% of the time.

Laughter, good friends, live music, and random absurdity have been the staples of this summer. From Iron Maiden to Brothers of the Sonic Cloth, to Harvey Milk to the Melvins to Red Red Meat to the Fluid to Flight of the Conchords to Radiohead, I’ve rocked and rolled and sweated and sang along with the ‘kids these days’ until the summer began to take her leave and the rain has slowly and incrementally started to return to Seattle.

From Washington to Hawaii to Texas to Oregon, I've surfed and skated and partied and, um, danced (if you can call it that) until the sun came up. I've met new friends and tried new things and stuffed myself with the ice cream of the Gods. Now, even as I hold tight to the last tiny bits of warm weather and golden sunshine before the gray skies begin to rain down on us again, I secretly find myself excitedly looking forward to the fall when the smell of wood stoves will permeate the neighborhood as I walk with my best friend through the crisp evening air.

Time Flies When You’re Being Choked

2008-05-30T06:00:00.000-07:00

The last time you tuned in, I had just pulled my tongue from the mustached mouth of the Iron Sheik. But that was nearly three months ago. Don’t worry, my I’ll never wash my mouth again promise only lasted for a couple of hours. So what, pray tell, has been warding away fits of boredom since then? Why, violence, of course.

If idle hands are the Devil’s playthings, then beware the unholy devastation created when mine are kept busy with a sledgehammer. On the domestic front, I’ve spent the last few weeks ripping apart my bathroom.

But even girl a like me needs a break from her trusty tool belt now and again. And there is no better way to get away from the dust and debris of a bathroom remodel than a good ‘ol horror movie convention!

Last weekend, I doubt my feet ever even touched the ground as I floated on a cloud of joy, geeking out among the horror movies stars of my ~~dreams~~ nightmares: Kane Hodder, Sid Haig, Bill Moseley, Tony Todd, Tony Moran, Ari Lehman and, the pièce de résistance, horror movie star and wrestler Rowdy Roddy Piper!

One truly has not experienced life until one has escaped a good strong choking by the one and only Kane Hodder...I'm never washing my neck again, I swear!

Camel Clutch of the Lips

2008-02-21T11:20:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid, I freaking loved wrestling. Every Saturday morning I would plant myself in front of our veneer and hardwood encased 1970’s style television set and wait with baited breath as Mean Gean introduced the first match ups of the day. I would giggle and squeal with delight as the wrestlers shouted insults at each other, often pushing poor Gean to the side in an effort to get at one another. For the record, I was never a Hulkamaniac, but I did love many of those early eighties icons: Sgt. Slaughter, The Junkyard Dog, Jake the Snake, The Road Warriors, Andre the Giant, Captain Lou Albano, Hacksaw Jim Duggan, Nikolai Volkoff, Rowdy Roddy Piper, oh, how the list goes on and on.

Twenty or so years after the bruises and Indian burns that I inflicted on my younger brother (while reenacting my favorite wrestling moves on him) had healed, I came face to face (quite literally) with one of my favorite wrestlers of the past: The Iron Sheik. He stood on stage at the El Corazon with his World Wrestling Federation Heavyweight Championship Belt glittering under the spotlights. My smile started to spread wider than ever before as I zeroed in on his T-Shirt, which depicted none other than himself in his younger days. My hands started to sweat and my heart began to race.

"Do you want your picture with The Sheik?" the bouncer asked me. I was already showing him how to use my camera before he even finished asking the question. I practically ran to be the first to stand next to the wrestling icon. He looked at me and in a thick Iranian accent told me, "You are very beautiful." I blushed and said "Thank you, Mr. Sheik" in a nervous fan girl voice that was a noticable three pitches higher than my normal speaking tone.

I then proceeded to tell him that Hulk Hogan was nothing and that he, The Iron Sheik, was Number One. We made number one signs with our hands and the bouncer snapped our photo.

What happened next was both a blur and an embarrassing eternity. The Sheik hugged me and kissed me on my cheek. I think he was going in for a kiss on the opposite cheek, but I had already turned my head toward him and started to say something else when our mouths collided. All of a sudden, there was a moustache in my mouth. It was prickly and tasted of aftershave. I can’t be sure but for a millisecond, there could have been a hint of tongue. We both pulled away quickly, surprised. He played it off and I thanked him for the picture and embarrassingly scurried away all the while thinking to myself "Oh my God, did I just make out with The Iron Sheik?"

The Journey is the Destination

2008-01-30T21:23:00.000-08:00

There is no better way to christen the New Year than by taking a road trip with your good friend. So my best buddy Celine and I took off work early on Friday, jumped into my car, cranked up the stereo and started out for our favorite bacon maple bar donut making city in the Pacific Northwest: Portland, Oregon. Heading south on Highway 99, we had been on the road for less than twenty minutes when we came upon the First Ave. South drawbridge just south of downtown Seattle.

If the First Ave. bridge is going up, one can anticipate waiting at least ten and perhaps up to fifteen or more minutes before traffic will start moving again. Every once in a while I manage to be on the bridge approach during such an occurrence. I've found there's no better way to pass the time of the opening and closing of the bridge than by shutting off my engine, getting out of the car and doing at least one cartwheel between the lanes of restless commuters parked in their cars in front of the raised deck.

This afternoon, as Celine and I were eager to begin out adventures, we ended up stopped at the bridge in the perfect cartwheel spot. Usually it's dark out when I hit the bridge, but on this magical day, the sun was shining bright and we had all the time in the world, so I, of course, could not help myself. I killed the engine and jumped out of the car. If you could have seen the perfect gymnastic wonder I demonstrated on the bridge approach, you would have thought I was Mary Lou Retton herself. I was showered by an array of car horns honking their approval. The old lady in the car next to us flashed me a big denture filled smile and gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up. I returned her smile and quickly got back into the car to listen to Celine's hysterical giggling. Glancing in my side view mirror, I saw a trucker from the 18-wheeler parked several vehicles back climbing down out of his rig and heading my way. He approached my window and I promptly rolled it down.

"Lady" he said with a slight drawl, "you just made my day. I'm a long haul truck driver and I tell you what, you do two more cartwheels for me and I'll blow the longest, most appreciative trucker horn you've ever heard in your life!"

"DEAL!" I exclaimed.

I got back out, pulled my pants up by my belt loops, wriggled my behind a little, posed for a second with my hands in the air, and busted out with two more near perfect cartwheels. The trucker kept his end of the bargain too. He blasted his fucking horn for a full fifteen seconds and my heart exploded with joy.

SHAGging in Public

2007-12-21T16:10:00.001-08:00

Get crafty for a second with me. Take out your scissors, glue and crayons. Carefully cut the SH off of the end of Josh. Then, cut off the AG at the beginning of Agle. Glue the two pieces together, add a few select solid, vibrant colors and you end up with SHAG, the artist behind some of the most ultra-cool retro-modern works you’re ever going to see. At last Friday’s Roq La Rue gallery opening, I was treated to an exceptionally thrilling new show of SHAG art titled Motorino.

I’ve admired SHAG’s work for years, buying stationary sets, post cards, wrapping paper and even personalized checks with his art on them. So seeing him in person wearing an adorable little leopard spotted fez as he mingled with the crowd made my palms sweat with nervous admiration. Had I not already been trying as hard as possible to maintain some semblance of composure while standing in between two other artists I also totally adore, pin up artist Krysztof Nemeth and photographer Rob Butler, I might’ve worked up the courage to introduce myself—but not this time.

Introductions or not, I really enjoyed the exhibit. Seeing original works of art is always thrilling to me. It is SHAG’s crisp, clean lines and brilliant colors that catch my eye first. And when I look deeper into the work, I find myself becoming involved in the scenario displayed before me. More often than not, I seem to want to climb right into the painting, have someone pour me a drink in a tiki glass and hop on the back of a scooter for a ride through the jungle.

Turn up the Juice

2007-12-14T16:13:00.000-08:00

By now, you’ve probably gathered that I love me some Rock & Roll—fast and hard or slow and loud, I’ll take it anyway I can get it. But other things tickle my fancy too. Like art. And science. And art mixed with science, oh yeah baby, that’s the spot. Any exhibit that warns you not to enter if you’ve got a pacemaker or a metal plate in your head, well, that’s obviously going to be right up my alley. Enter PEOPLE DOING STRANGE THINGS WITH ELECTRICITY.

Last Saturday was the opening night of the exhibit I had been looking forward to going to since the Seattle Dorkbot meeting last November where in between talking about nonlocal quantum communication and the annoying potential problems associated with time travel, my friend Eric McNeill handed me a postcard advertising the show. When the opening night finally rolled around, a bunch of other engineers, artists and electricity geeks let our inner pocket protectors shine proudly as we wandered the 911 Media Arts Center watching the blinking lights and interacting with the works. In true Rettig form, I had a hand in spilling no less than three glasses of red wine in under five minutes, but few seemed even to care as pure unadulterated chatter about circuits, diodes and high voltage transistors persisted, refusing to be derailed by something as simple as a cup of fermented grapes.

When I wasn't busy adding my own artistry to other people’s clothing, I was able to pick out a few of my favorite pieces. Shelly Farnham’s Electric Scrying Pool, a shimmering futuristic oracle of sorts was on the list. So was Rolf van Widenfelt’s piece, FiveByEight, a light sculpture of scrolling LEDs. It reminded me of a much classier version of my ever so tacky scrolling LED belt buckle that was tucked away in my closet. I sighed when I thought of all the inappropriate places I’d worn that belt buckle, and how this place above all others, would have welcomed me with open arms as I scrolled “For a good time, call 206-351-XXXX” above my crotch--if only I would have thought to wear it.

God of Thunder and Rock & Roll

2007-12-11T09:35:00.000-08:00

My step dad and I used to go to NHRA drag races on the weekends at what was once called Seattle International Raceways (today it’s Pacific Raceways). Typically, we’d watch stock cars, funny cars and top fuel. One day we went down to the track and there was a special guest car from Australia: Gravity Storm. Gravity Storm was the first jet engine car I’d ever seen and I was in awe. The car itself is really little more than a jet engine with a seat welded to it, a couple of wheels and a parachute. I had a sneaky feeling that I was going to need my own seatbelt when this thing fired up.

We were sitting in the bleachers on the Winston side of the track next to a young boy and his dad when the driver of Gravity Storm eased the car up to the start line just shy of the Christmas tree. The driver began to fire up the engine: “BOOM...BOOM...BOOM, BOOM, BOOOOOM!” Everything vibrated with the earth shaking noise. The hair on my arms stood on end and pulsated in time to the thunderous beat. The car tore down the quarter mile track at well over 300 mph. It took mere seconds to reach the other end. The little boy next to me was completely amazed. He turned to his father and after struggling to catch his breath exclaimed “Dad! (gasp) Dad! That felt like I was getting a massage!”

I’ve seen Thrones play many times, and every time they make me think of Gravity Storm. Friday night at the Crocodile Café was no exception. Joe Preston’s music roared like a jet engine. I wore earplugs, but that was more of a formality. Earplugs don’t really do much—your ears are going to ring after a Thrones show no matter what. The sound envelopes you. It spills drinks not being held onto and it vibrates cameras so one cannot take a clear picture. Thrones are like a thunder storm created by angry gods and seeing them play live feels a lot like...like getting massaged by the shock waves of a jet engine.

Tidal Wave of TOOL

2007-12-05T09:08:00.001-08:00

Despite my utter distain for the shocking array of douche bags that I am well aware will unfailingly turn out at each and every TOOL show, when I got the news a few months ago that the band would again be in the Puget Sound area, I found myself setting my alarm to wake up early on a Saturday morning so I could wait my turn in the online ticket outlet queue for a shot at scoring admission. Even as visions of the obnoxiously drunk and tremendously annoying classic TOOL fans flashed before me, I secretly hoped that my karma would be clean enough for me to win the opportunity to once again see one of the greatest bands of my generation. I must’ve done something right in a past life because I ended up with a ticket. But two days before the main event, the universe revealed its cruel sense of humor when it was announced that the Montana show was postponed due to a viral infection that was affecting Maynard’s throat. Would the Seattle area show be cancelled too, or would it go on with a sub par performance from a sickly lead singer?

Virus or no, TOOL, my friends, does not disappoint. Even though Maynard did not attempt the vocal crescendo at the end of Flood, it doesn’t mean they didn’t still hit like a mother fucking tidal wave. TOOL has the unbelievable ability to suck all of the sound out of an arena and hold it inside themselves, leaving the audience to flop on the floor in front of them like fish out of water, until, after agonizing seconds of defiant silence, they unleash it all back full force. Standing in the crowd, you know the sound is going to come at you way too fast to prepare for it, no less escape it—it overcomes you, sweeping you off your feet and forcing its way into your ears and your nose and your throat, filling your lungs and drowning you with its fury. Every time I experience that ferocity of sound, that riptide of music that hits with an intensity of force that one can never fully anticipate, everything inside me is washed out to sea and all I am able to feel at that moment is a primal connection to the music that courses through my body.

SET LIST
Jambi
Stinkfist
46 & 2 (YouTube Link)
Schism
Rosetta Stoned
Flood
10,000 Days
Lateralus (Performed with Pat Mastelotto and Trey Gunn from King Crimson)
Vicarious

MCMLXXXIV

2007-12-04T09:00:00.000-08:00

I was eight years old in 1984 and I can still clearly remember begging my then fifteen year old uncle to listen to his newly purchased and much coveted Van Halen cassette. At the time, I had no idea who Van Halen were or what they would sound like, but the tape’s cover art was so enticing...so daring...so bad. It was the embodiment of rebellion. I was mesmerized by the picture of the little boy with angel wings on the cover. He was doing the forbidden: smoking cigarettes. I simply had to listen to it. So when the opening chords of “Jump” punched their way out of the portable ghetto blaster and into my young eardrums, the hurricane force instantly obliterated my petty little girl crush on Michael Jackson and forever hooked me into the defiant world of Rock & Roll.

Despite using practically all of my preteen birthday cake candle-blowing-out wishes on hopes of seeing them in concert, I never did have the chance to see a live performance of the band whose logo I routinely inked on countless pairs of slip-on checkered Vans and Pee Chee folders. As an adult, I conceded that I never would—I didn’t want to see Van Hagar (or God forbid Gary Cherone), I wanted Van Halen featuring David Lee Roth or I wanted nothing. And nothing’s what I got...until last night.

I sat alone at the Key Arena. I went with friends, but we couldn’t get seats next to each other, and I’d be damned if I was going to let either that or the torrential rains pounding down on Seattle stop me from seeing what Diamond Dave and the boys still had to offer decades after the first time I heard them. What they brought was a montage of my adolescent years set to the perfect guitar squealing soundtrack blasting out of stacks upon stacks of signature EVH amplifiers. What they brought was David Lee Roth, all fifty three years of him, poured into a pair of tight, tight leather pants perfectly balancing a top hat on his protruding crotch. What they brought was pure Rock & Roll. Sure, the jumps caught less air than they did in days past (more resembling high scissor kicks) but it was Rock & Roll none-the-less, and this lifetime fan was not even remotely disappointed.

In the end, I found that my schoolgirl crush on Eddie* and the boys, has never quite been extinguished. The flame just burned on low for decades waiting to be reignited. Only this time the butterflies in my belly were more for excitement and respect at seeing one of the best guitar players in the world perform live and pure admiration for a band that has continued to rock for decades. Last night, I discovered that the rush I felt the first time I heard Van Halen and the spine tingling, goose bump enducing noise that is Rock & Roll still has the same magical ability to move me in ways that nothing else in this world can.

SET LIST
You Really Got Me
I'm the One
Runnin' with the Devil
Romeo Delight
Somebody Get Me a Doctor
Beautiful Girls (complete with Diamond Dave shaking maracas!)
Dance the Night Away
Atomic Punk
Everybody Wants Some
So This is Love
Mean Street
Pretty Woman
drum solo
Unchained
I'll Wait
And the Cradle Will Rock
Hot for Teacher
Little Dreamer
Little Guitars
Jamie's Cryin'
Ice Cream Man (and stories of Dave's early pot smoking years)
Panama
Eddie's amazing guitar solo!
Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love
1984
Jump

*Even though a friend recently reminded me that it was, in fact, a good thing that Eddie Van Halen broke my young and tender heart when he choose Valerie Bertinelli (that bitch) over me, he will always have a special and cherished place in my music crush history.

The Holidays Can Be A Real Drag

2007-12-03T12:38:00.001-08:00

With warm holiday greetings like the one I received from one of my family members on Saturday, “Happy Holidays! I had a hysterectomy the Friday before Thanksgiving and my dog had 16 teeth pulled the Tuesday after the holiday. Stay warm!” it’s no wonder I haven’t yet been able to make myself take down the Halloween decorations and put up the ‘ol Chanukka bush.

So I figured, what better way to get into the holiday spirit than by spending an evening with friends at the Dina Martina Christmas Show, Seattle’s most neurotically funny and hellaciously adorned one, er, woman Drag Queen Christmas Show at the ReBar. From the repurposed and remixed classic Christmas carols, one of which included an hysterical medley of Morrissey lyrics and one that was complete with an amazing Louis Armstrong impression in the deepest voice you’re ever going to hear from a Queen in your life, to the Secret Santa audience gifts, or as Dina pronounces it, jiffs (Do you like meat? And do you like strawberries? Good, then here’s a strawberry flavored gummy steak for you!), my cheeks were completely cramped from continuously laughing for so long.

The entire audience loved Dina. The sold out house roared with laugher at the train wreck of emotion she displayed. At times we were laughing at her, but mostly, we were laughing with her, as we could all relate to the emotional pendulum ride that is the holiday season: crazy relatives, past lovers who treated us poorly and holiday songs where we only really know the words to the chorus.

Looking around the auditorium, I was heartened to see so many couples, partners if you will, completely comfortable in publicly showing their affection toward one another as they genuinely enjoyed themselves without having to put up a guard and without having to worry about offending anyone. As I watched those couples hold each other, and as I watched groups of friends (including my own) laughing together and sincerely enjoying each others company, I have to admit, I felt a little bit of something that I feared I might not feel this year: the holiday spirit.

Ladies Night at the Gun Range

2007-11-07T19:51:00.000-08:00

There was something so enticing about the phrase Ladies Night at the Gun Range that even though every fear receptor in my body cautioned me against it, I immediately began researching to find out the earliest possible date I could attend and participate. Then I remembered a few things that I thought could be of minor importance:

First - I had never physically touched a real handgun in my life

Second - I wouldn’t have the first clue what to do with a gun once I did touch it

Third - Guns scare me almost more than anything else in life

Fourth – My political ideology doesn’t really match up so well with squeezing off a few rounds of ammo while standing between, who I honestly believed would most likely be the female versions of Ted Nugent and Dick Cheney

Yielding ever so slightly to those annoyingly practical points, the levelheaded engineer in me decided it would be prudent to first enroll in a gun safety class instead of simply haphazardly reaching for a potentially lethal weapon and bustin’ caps all over the east side of Puget Sound. Luckily for me (and the rest of the range) my good friend was willing to take the class with me. So off we went, Thelma and Louise, to the gun range.

In the safety class, I quickly discovered that the first lesson would not consist of teaching me the John Woo style side falling, double gun blasting, going out in a blaze of glory move. Instead, I learned universal gun safety rules, heard terrifying stories of guns gone wrong, wondered what freak accident caused my instructor to have a cast on his right arm from the elbow all the way up to the top of his thumb (any why he didn’t freely volunteer that information the second he walked in the class), and became increasingly paranoid that at any moment a stray bullet would be penetrating one of the freshly painted classroom walls and lodge itself in my spine somewhere below the base of my skull. Break time could not have come as more of a relief to me.

When we did actually get out on the gun range to shoot, something strange happened—I became very emotional, almost overwhelmed. I felt like I might cry at any second. As I looked around, I realized I wasn’t the only one. I saw my friend pull her hands in close to her body and haunch her shoulders in. I saw people change their breathing from the normal rhythm to long, deep inhales and slow, almost apprehensive exhales. I felt my own stomach knot up.

Our instructor, experienced in dealing with this phenomenon, quickly addressed it in the best way he knew possible, by telling us to deal with it. After we were allotted 2.8 seconds to deal with it, we were instructed to step up to one of the six guns he had placed in the lanes, check it’s readiness, load it, aim it at the target, place our finger on the trigger, fire, repeat until all of the ammunition had been fired, empty the used cartridges, put the gun down, move to a different lane and do it all again with a different gun.

The arsenal of the guns used in the class included various types of single and double action revolvers (the models of which I can’t remember due in part to the continuous stream of adrenaline squirting directly into my throat for a solid 45 minutes) and two types of semi-automatics, the single action M1911 and the 9 mm Luger Glock. Every one was different and there were definitely some that were easier to use than others.

As a reward for not accidentally maiming any of our classmates, our instructor brought in a special weapon and made it available for anyone who promised not to crap their pants if they tried it: the Smith & Wesson Model 500 Revolver. Sure, it sounds innocent enough, but this is the gun that separates, well, it will fucking separate anything it touches. It’s the largest handgun manufactured to date and is made for hunting big game—I don’t mean deer, I mean bear. The barrel is 10 and a half inches long. It weighs over four pounds. The bullets are the size of IHOP breakfast sausages. My head told me there was no earthly need for a handgun of this size and power. My heart thumped hard. Then, I think it may have stopped. But my feet, having not yet received the message from above, moved forward, bringing my body along with them.

The gun fired so easily that I barely had time to prepare for the canon blast that vibrated all of my inner organs on discharge. My arm was thrust upward and I involuntarily screamed "WHOA!!!" Then, in an instant, it was over. I was drained.

My first time on the gun range was frightening, exhilarating, stimulating, and exhausting. I left full of unexpected emotions and dizzy with internal conflict. I have not yet decided if I’ll go shooting again, but one thing’s for sure: I won’t soon be forgetting this experience.

Roll With It, Baby

2007-10-30T08:49:00.000-07:00

For the past roughly four years, I’ve had the kind of hobby that made my mother worry that I would break either my own teeth or, as she would say, “God forbid someone else’s.” What started out as a quirky interest morphed into a powerful sport, and my involvement in it also transformed from naïve participant to serious competitor. The sport was Women’s Flat Track Roller Derby, and my league was the Rat City Rollergirls.

Over the course of my roller derby career, I had the opportunity to participate in some of the most spectacular events, meet the most interesting and engaging people, and do the kinds of things I never would have believed possible prior to my involvement. Opening up the December 2005 edition of ESPN magazine and seeing a full page photograph of myself still to this day makes me rub my eyes with disbelief. And that was just the tip of the iceberg.

But roller derby, a fast paced, hard hitting, full impact sport is harder on the body than one might expect. And after four years of smashing, blocking, hip checking and crashing, I’ve decided to take a breather. While I don’t imagine that I’ll ever hang up my skates, I have decided to stop formally competing.

So what’s a girl to do with her spare time suddenly free from training requirements and her mind wide open and curious to the goings-on of the world? Jump right in, of course.

Derby Links:
Women’s Flat Track Roller Derby Association
Rat City Rollergirls

A Few Derby Photographers
Alistair James, Seattle, WA
Geoff Carter, Seattle, WA
Jules Doyle, Seattle, WA
Joe Schwartz, Seattle, WA
Michael Coyote, Seattle, WA
Phil Peterson, Kansas City, MO
Scott Engelhardt, Seattle, WA
Ziv Kruger, Austin, TX