L U N A T A L K with Eva Moon

Disappearing/Reappearing Airport

When I went to the airport this morning to pick up my son (returning from four months in Japan) I figured I might be waiting awhile, so I brought a notebook along with the intention of writing. It turned out to be much more interesting to watch the arrivals.

They came up the escalator in spurts as Customs and Immigration released them into the sea of waiting family and friends. One after another, they rise to the surface like travel-stained Aphrodites, eyes scanning the supplicants on the shore.

Then there’s this moment: The instant a familiar face swims into view. You can see it every time. Suddenly the airport disappears for that person. The long hours of travel, the search for bags, the endless wade through customs all fall away and there is nothing in the universe but the face of someone who loves you.

Of course the world reappears a few moments later as each group begins the next leg of the journey from airport to home. But it was a wonderful hour that left me misty and smiling. Some moments:

Fifteen diminutive Japanese school girls in matching white blazers clustered like ducklings around the American tour guide who was there to greet them. Poof.

A trio of Japanese moppets flinging themselves into the arms of a tall white-haired American with shouts of “Grandpa!” Poof.

A shriek from the back and a dash to the top of the steps by a tall, thin blond girl who engulfed a pretty Japanese brunette. They stood there for several minutes, blocking traffic while the blond wept, petted her friend’s hair and said, “Please don’t ever leave again” over and over. Poof.

A tiny elderly duo greeted by their son with bows instead of hugs, but no less warmth and joy. Poof.

A heavy American in shorts, flip-flops and a t-shirt with a drill printed on it inexplicably carrying nothing but a Hamilton-Beach blender under one arm. No poof for him.

The passing of a chubby baby from the arms of her mother to the arms of her grandmother, perhaps for the first time. The grandmother held her as if sheer love could melt the baby into her body and keep her there. Poof.

A heavy, middle-aged woman capering with excitement at the sight of her old dad. I could see the giddy little girl inside. Poof.

At long last, my weary son’s head rises into view. It took him a few seconds to find me. Poof!

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Fresh Meat

After nearly two weeks of computer wrangling, the end is in sight. Persistent, maddening and yet oddly boring malfunctions have had me pacing the floor, snorting steam through flared nostrils, and looking for something to rend. And now Apple is sending a Christian right to my very den.

I don’t usually bite on service contracts. They are the work of the devil; a scheme to chew extra dollars from the hides of customers. But this was a business expense, so my chewed hide was at least tax deductable. And now I get a live Apple tech for a midmorning snack!

On top of that, in one of those satisfying moments that drop into one’s snarling maw all too rarely, the scheduler tossed me a meaty straight line:

“So, what’s your calendar look like?” he asked.

(Who could resist?)

“Oh, you know. It’s a square thing with lots of boxes.”

The box that represents Tuesday morning now contains the name of the sacrifice. Look out, Gabe.

And while we’re on the subjects of Christians and lions, here’s a video of a lion named Christian that’s astonishing on so many levels:

I’m sure you had the same thoughts and emotions watching that as I did: OMG! Those mullets!

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Feeling Sequimish

A week and a half (and counting) of infuriating computer mayhem was interrupted by an idyllic weekend on the Olympic Peninsula. We snagged a last minute ‘cottage’ between Sequim (pronounced “Skwim”) and Discovery Bay. By cottage, I mean a single-wide mobile home with a hideously uncomfortable bed and a shower that would have a hobbit grumbling about insufficient headroom. But it was right on the beach.

I could rant about my fried hard drive. I could rage about the mind-numbing horror of (shudder) smooth jazz endured on hold. I could storm about countless hours spent installing and reinstalling (and reinstalling) the same fucking software. But I won’t even mention it. I’d much rather dwell on this:

Saturday: A solitary walk early morning walk along the beach was punctuated by a pair of bald eagles who burst from the trees and skimmed the beach only a few yards away. The curse of the digital camera is the maddening wait for it to wake up and decide to actually snap a pic. But the birds were feeling generous.

In the evening, sharing the beach with a wary heron who flew off, cursing loudly when I got too close. I think I’m glad I don’t speak Heronese.

Sunday: A week early for the Lavender Festival, but not at all too early for the lavender. The Sequim area is a pocket microclimate that is almost identical to Provence, France, making it ideal for cultivating the stuff. Now I have lavender soap and lavender bath oil. Ahhhh!

Monday: morosely monkeying with the malevolent machine once more. Fortunately, songwriters have their own ways of dealing with life’s knocks:

Driving to Lynnwood
By Eva Moon

I was staring at the screen when the icons disappeared
I tried to save my file but it was just as I had feared
My PC wouldn’t run and my work was not backed up
I sadly pulled the plug and got it all packed up

Driving down to Lynnwood, my computer at my side
It’s sunny down in Lynnwood and I hope the disk ain’t fried
The computer tech is cute and has a crown of golden hair and his
Warm blue eyes are filled with care… And I know… it’s gonna be alright

Five days later, he greets me with a grin
Your ram chip died, but we put a new one in
I drove home and plugged it in with a hopeful heart
The screen went blue. The cursor stuck. The system wouldn’t start

Driving down to Lynnwood, my computer in the back
Clouds are rolling in and my mood is turning black
The young tech runs a skinny hand through his tousled hair as he
Meets my eyes with a cool blue stare… And I hope… it’s gonna be alright

Three days later, the guy in Lynnwood called
The system was corrupt, but now it’s reinstalled
I drove home and turned it on and said a silent prayer
The motor groaned. The menus froze. The keyboard wasn’t there

Driving down to Lynnwood, my computer in the trunk
Cold rain slicks the highway and the thing’s a piece of junk
I think that tech is growing horns, they poke through lanky hair and I
Know as I see his icy glare… It ain’t… gonna be alright

I don’t know how I thought that tech was something I desired
His filthy hair and steely eyes should really get him fired
I couldn’t go another round or take it anymore
I picked up my hammer and headed for the door…

It’s snowing down in Lynnwood but I’m feeling so much better
I don’t have a computer so I’ll send this in a letter
I may be spending all my days in this cold prison cell
But that blue-eyed tech surely burns in Hell… and ya know… that’s alright.

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The Wages of Beer

We played outdoors in Bellingham Sunday afternoon at a lovely, old-fashioned village square on a perfect sunny day filled with babies and dogs in the grass. The people danced for three solid hours. (I hope to have some pictures soon, but in the meantime, here’s a picture that shows the setting, if not the band).

Afterward, hungry and thirsty, we headed for the Archer Ale House across the street. If you’re ever up in Bellingham, Washington, I recommend you stop in for a brewski from their extensive selection and please, please, please don’t miss the beer-steamed mussels. You’ll need extra bread to sop up the heavenly liquid. I fashioned a crude spoon from an empty mussel shell. A bluesy three-piece blue grass band strumming by the bar drowned out the Yankees/Red Sox game on the overhead plasma TV. (By popular vote, Coco Crisp is the best name in baseball. Perhaps the best name in sports. Ever.)

First pitcher of beer: The chatter turns to sports. Specifically, which sport has the stupidest athletes? We thought it might be either baseball or basketball. In the end, I offered to consult an expert. My friend, Calvin Beam, who was a sportswriter in Philadelphia had this take on the subject:

“Ahh, always a great debate. It used to be baseball and hockey players, because they were drafted right out of high school, while the others were sort of exposed to four years of college. But the advantage to baseball and hockey players is that they have periods of time in the minors with long bus trips. They at least become social and a reasonable quote for sportswriters. So now, I’m leaning toward basketball. They either don’t go to college, or go for a year and bail.

This of course is discounting boxing, which wins all these arguments hands down.”

Boxing! Doh!

Second pitcher of beer: Suds-inspired entrepreneurial creativity sets in. We invent a bar/restaurant concept that we’re convinced will make a fortune (a good thing, since music ain’t doing it): Pitchers. At the future Pitchers Ale House, everything is served in pitchers. You can get the pitcher of fries, the pitcher of pork. Even the pitcher of mac’n'cheese. Given the American addiction to trough-feeding, how can it fail? As an added entertainment element, diners will be given a substantial discount if they consent to consume their pitchers with hands handcuffed behind their backs. Investors, email me for a chance to get in on the ground floor.

Ok, so we’d been drinking.

Third pitcher of beer: There’s something so sad about the fact that the more you drink, the more brilliant you get but less you remember. I suppose it’s nature’s way of limiting the havoc that might be caused by too much brilliance.

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Falling for Antonio - The Final Chapter

There is something cheery about a long list of languages. I keep a list handy that tells how to say good morning in over 800 different languages. The language list for my GPS device is just 200 but I still find it remarkable. As I scanned through the list I imagined legions of little Tomtoms reaching out around the world, guiding Zulus, Walloons, Ojibwas and Chechens safely homeward. I imagined Basque shepherds leading their flocks with renewed confidence. Sardinian fishermen heading safely to harbor. Sinhalese farmers finding new routes to market…

Like most idealistic dreams, however, this one was soon crushed. The Zulu page is sadly empty. As are Amharic, Fijian, Church Slavonic, Khmer, Macedonian and a host of others. Still, the mere existence of that list is somehow welcoming and optimistic in a “build it and they will come” sort of way. “Here,” it says, “We’ve made a place for you. Come.”

Even with the gaps (No Tagalog?) there are many options. There are voices of men, women, children, robots, even celebs (Darth Vader I can do without, but who wouldn’t want to follow John Cleese’s silly walk?).

But you may be wondering why I was looking at the list when I was besotted with Antonio? The truth was I was getting in over my head. I would purposely get lost, just so he could rescue me once again. The gas bills were obscene. My husband was suspicious. He took an instinctive dislike to Antonio and insisted on chilly Sister Catherine when he was in the car. It was a wrenching decision, but I had a family to consider. I sadly plugged the GPS into my computer and pulled up the voice list. Mike was keenly interested in the sultry, seductive Nathalie. A sadder but wiser Eva knew the pitfalls and gently guided him away. We picked a few Brits and I decided to brush up my Russian while I was at it, but my heart wasn’t in it. I was pining for Antonio.

Until I started driving with Vlad.

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