Looks like I'll be pulling more than a few DJ shifts-- part of my job is filling in blank slots on the volunteer schedule, which means the constant possibility of doing every show from classical to country, as KHNS covers a lot of musical ground in its quest to satisfy the whole town. I'm still intimidated by the board but by the end of summer I should be adjusting levels and pulling levers like a pro.

By the way, I love my job. I can't remember the last time I've been able to say that! Two days in and still training, but I can tell you the things that I love most about it already:

1) It's incredibly, impossibly laidback, even when frenzied. They're understaffed and underfunded, but the general "office" attitude is one of easy humor in the face of constant confusion-- people kicking their rain-booted feet up and shooting the amiable shit, the station dogs (Haylie and Oliver) running amok, DJs scrambling around the stacks pulling vinyl and cds at the last possible minute for their show in five minutes, visitors popping their heads in (totally ignoring the "on air" light) at all hours. The computer system is held together by duct tape and string, as all good office systems are, and crashes constantly. Everyone knows how to do everyone else's job out of necessity, so there is a very fluid dynamic between coworkers. There is not one single shred of office speak to be heard, anywhere, at any time. It's like heaven.

2) The stacks! So much music at my fingertips. One of my job duties is to review new cds whenever I can, take note of any obscenities, recommend favorite tracks for djs to play and afix my typewritten review to the case when I'm done. I get to play music critic!

3) I love working in that neighborhood, historic Fort Seward. The rambling old army houses date from the turn of the century and are a refreshing change from most of the other buildings in town, which usually follow a strict "function over form" aesthetic. The station is a 15 minute walk along Beach Road away from home, on a hill looking out over the Lynn Canal. Again, it's not unlike heaven.

Check back in July when I'm sure to be jaded and frazzled (the pledge drive is going to be nuts), but right now I'm the very picture of contentment:



That was taken out at Battery Point, on a hike with the parents and Ron & Suzie. First hike of the year, although it's stretching the truth a bit to call B.P. a hike-- it's just a pleasant jog through forest until you hit that first perfect curve of beach,



where there are usually whales and other sea life (we only saw one seal-- and a beach sprite in a hut).



We kept going over the initial bluff, past the second beach and what has to be the coolest outhouse in the world.



We went further than I'd ever been before, to a third beach all covered in driftwood .



We found some some good sitting rocks on a cliff partially shielded from the wind, and ate trail mix and sausage and passed around a flask of whiskey. And since I can't think of a way to end this post, as it's getting disgustingly smug and "aint life grand"-ish, I'll just close with a picture of mountains.

I Golf

Indulging in a little wireless spree at the school-- feels awfully luxurious! I've been having a lazy weekend. I don't start work at the radio station 'til Tuesday, so aside from helping out with yardwork (de-mulching mom's daffodils and pulling dandelions) there isn't anything I have to do but play legos with our 10 year-old houseguest, Joel, who is one of those oddball genius home-schooled kids that abound here in Alaska. He gives me great lectures on philosophy and gender bias while launching barrages of spaceship artillery at me, and I build pretty houses with rooftop gardens.

Here's dad restraining the rosehip bushes in our side yard; that's the Haines Harbor behind him.



I've been hired as production assistant at KHNS, the local radio station. Pretty cool, because I was planning to volunteer again anyway, so this will get me back on air-- with pay! I'll be putting together the weekend news segments and issuing program logs, etc. Look for my bio to appear here: http://www.khns.org/bios.php, and I may try to podcast my shows, if I end up picking up some DJ shifts (and if a certain technologically enabled friend sends up the promised cable to run shows from my laptop-- hint).

Dr. Jones, the man who delivered me, has built an amazing golf course on the outskirts of town, between the Chilkat River and the Haines Highway. Nancy & Dwight took me out today, and Dr. Jones and his nicely freckled son Matt gave me a complimentary cart. It was fantastic. For a first-time golfer I kicked a little ass! And had one small temper tantrum along that damned 6th hole, but it was hard to be a sore loser with eagles wheeling close overhead and a different, perfect mountain range to look at in every direction.



Here I am shortly before the tantrum (you can sense a certain desperation in my eyes under the silly hat):



Siblings (and Rachel), because I'm pretty sure you are the only people reading at this point: I just wanted to let you know that I told Dwight we'd all gather here for his retirement party, whenever that should be. So count on that!

Raining today! The crows are all complaining. According to dad I'm wrong about the bird population-- ravens all live on the other side of the valley, so the cacophonous flock outside our windows is 100% crows. Freakishly large crows, but crows nonetheless.

I've been helping him out at work the last few days; they're building a new school and Dwight has to clear out the ancient, sooty boiler room and his wasteland of an office by Sunday. Dad's organizational skills are very... creative, not unlike my own. The floors and walls are a familiar clutter of fantasy novels and post-it note work orders with smiley faces and file cabinets so full of architectural plans and instructions that they are permanently agape, and every tool you could ever want or need and many that you'd never use in a million years, and hundreds of tiny drawers full of screws and nuts and bolts, and drills and saws and hammers and clamps, and bits of machines that look fantastically far-fetched out of context. He holds them up for me and says, "guess what this does?" and I say, "it's the world's fanciest cookie cutter!", but it turns out to be part of the motor of a microwave. I don't ask why it's hanging from a loop of copper wiring from his massive 12 ft high workbench; like everything in Dad's many work spaces, it has found its way there through a series of events that makes perfect sense in the bigger picture but might take an hour or so to lay out verbally.

So we've been loading up the old school district van with armloads of heavy metal and dolly loads of cabinetry and shelves, and taking it to the now-deserted Primary School, where we've reclaimed an abandoned classroom as his until the new school is up. I like being busy with a job like this-- it feels very nice to be doing something useful and visceral, as opposed to the ephemeral quality that office work done on computers has. I like being sore and dirty at the end of the day. Really, really sore and smudged with grease and layers of dust from head to toe.

Here's a shot of my arms last night.



The full effect is lost in this photo, because after our first shift and subsequent de-griming, dad produced some work gloves so now my hands remain fairly clean. You should have seen them, though! Blackest black. Can you tell how pleased with myself I am?

Tomorrow I'll post lots of pictures and fix the background...

The wifi situation at the library-- isn't. I'm on a guest user card on the computer row, Lady Macbook languishing in my back pack. So I'm not sure if I'll be able to post the pictures I've been taking, although I'll give it a shot from the 'rents' computer tonight.

Spring is sprung! Today the sky is that surreal cerulean bowl I remember so well from lying on my back in the strawberry field growing up. Overnight everything was tipped with green-- the rosehip bush is unfurling pretty little shoots and the rhubarb is twice as tall as yesterday. I got a few phone calls this morning. Lola Vogel, the little old neighbor lady extraordinaire who kept such a watchful eye on us kids when the parents were out of town, said she'd almost called the police last night after seeing lights in the window. I was chastened; should have thought to call her first thing! And Suzie called to say she was thawing out a duck and would we like to come over for dinner tomorrow? Suzie's duck is the best duck ever; I spoke for my parents and said yes with bells on.

Ran into loads of people in the library and got a few job tips-- I'm on my way over after posting this to Sea Otter Woodworks to see what exactly they're hiring for. I intended to ask at Mountain Market but I have to say it's kind of a last resort-- love it as a customer but I think perhaps the nonstop social aspect of it might be a little jarring. Being here makes me miss the relative anonymity of the city, as much as I missed the familiarity of Haines down there.

I'm a little let down about the internet situation-- what good is my fancy lappy if I can't use half the features? I did make a song on garageband this morning-- sitting in the old green rug room with Sparkle purring on my lap, banging away at some of mom's many percussion instruments (and a violin and the little thumb plucky-thing). The spring air is bracing; it summons creativity from the depths and beats back procrastination. That's Alaska.

good morning

I am sitting in my parents' bedroom drinking coffee; Sparkle is to my left in a sunbeam making threatening faces at the ravens in the trees, who are easily three or four times her size. She's already had several disturbing skirmishes with Lady and Gray Cat. Lady doesn't really mind other cats-- she's a voluptuous slut with elaborate ear whiskers, and her real occupation in life is rolling onto her back every five minutes to allow any nearby humans to admire her complicated pantaloons. But Gray has decided Sparkle is worth eating. He, like the ravens, is Alaskan-sized and scary, and makes a noise like an overweight child skipping rope when he trots downstairs.

Our flights up were easy and on time. From Oakland to Seattle we sat next to an older man who slept through Sparkle's take-off aria. When I apologized to him upon landing, he touched a hand to his hearing aide and said, "What's that?". On our flight from Seattle to Juneau, we sat between a big cat fan and a man with severe cat allergies. Luckily, the allergic one happened to be my dad's best friend, Ron Scollon, on his way back from serving on an advisory council at a disarmament convention in Geneva, and he gallantly downplayed the dander factor. We had a good time talking about Haines and our families; he painted a great picture of dad as king in a post-Big Disaster world, graciously doling out crucial mechanical equipment and advice from his garage, his junk-collecting habit vindicated at last.

In Juneau my bags (including Sparkle's carrier, which was a little nerve-wracking) were whisked away by the small plane company, so I couldn't take any pictures of the Kodiak bear behind glass or the unseasonably long skirts of snow the mountains are still wearing. You always run into a lot of Haines residents at the airport, and I ended up sitting down with my fifth grade teacher, Mr. Buck, and talking about the long, hard winter they'd had which is only barely ending now, and his memories of San Francisco in the 60's. He was on the same plane out as me, while Sparkle took a plane just behind us.

Our plane was delayed because Mr. Buck's seat kept falling out, and the pilot had truss it down with luggage and reposition everyone to accomodate the change. I really, really regretted my missing camera; flying from Juneau to Haines is an unbelievable experience, even if you've done it many times. The rattle of the old plane parts shifting, the low passage between blue mountains over blue waters under blue sky, the glaciers-- there is too much to look at and your neck hurts from craning by the end. Haines's backside is awfully cute, and I give an involuntary cheer every time the pilot makes the last turn over the eagle-dotted sand flats to the landing strip on the river.

So I'm here, the house empty except for warring cats, and my coffee has grown cold in the cup. I slept for thirteen hours last night and am feeling the apartment move and the baggage lugging in my arms and back. I left San Francisco without saying goodbye to a lot of people, as is my regrettable wont, so I've got a lot of email to write and calls to make. I've also got a lot of pictures to take, which I'll hopefully be able to post from the library, my parents' dial-up connection not being up to the task. I also have to find a job. But first-- a shower!

At the airport...

Poor little Sparkle is very suspicious of travelers and loudspeakers, mewing at everything from her nylon cave. I am a bad mother. I've been up since 4:00, though, so everything's hysterical, even the bubble gum smelling froth at the sides of her mouth from the Benadryl...



Boarding in 5.

I fully intend to post a little bit about Haines, and maybe try to explain this newborn blog's reason for being-- later. For now, here is how I spent my next to the last Saturday in the Bay Area:

We woke up late and went walking around Buena Vista Park, where we saw one million dogs and many banks of prehistoric looking plants with brilliant blue blossoms.



We left the park on the south side, and followed Upper Terrace to the funny little stone obelisque that lives at the hilltop cul de sac. Its enigmatic emptiness and lack of identifying plaques pleased Valentine as much it had pleased me when a visiting friend's aunt showed it to me last November. What used to sit on top? Why do people write occult and astrology symbols on the base in chalk, layered over older chalked symbols that have faded or been eradicated by rain? It's a mystery, thrilling to my inner Nancy Drew...



who has has been rendered obsolete by google. No more staking out suspicious houses late at night wearing sensible jumpers and using morse code to signal my chums for help. Apparently, the hill was once named "Mount Olympus" and was at one time the geographical center of the city. The obelisque is the base for a long-gone statue, "Triumph of Light", inaugurated by Adolph Sutro in 1887. No idea what it looked like or who actually made it, so maybe there's room for a little Nancy Drew moment at the library later after all.

Getting back in the Mini, we drove slowly through the Sunset. Valentine has discovered "Synchronicity", which was the tape cassette I attempted to steal most frequently from my sister during the years 1984 - 1986. He says that latter-day, cheesy Sting had soured him on the idea of the Police being any good, but all of his drummer gods sing Stewart Copeland's praises so he's giving their discography a shot. I am an unapologetic Police fan and particularly fond of Copeland, so it's worked out well.



OH yes.

We had a mutual craving for fresh juice, so went to the Atlas Cafe in the Mission for ginger lemonade and to split a smoked trout salad. Their lemonade is so potent that your lips and stomach tingle for a long time afterwards, which is just the way I like it.

We drove back to V's apartment, which was flooded with late afternoon sunlight, and played shadow puppets.



Then Valentino made me soyrizo tacos...



and we watched the sun set over Cala.



I would rate that as the best goodbye city day I've had so far, thanks to V and his tacos.

Dress, I Guess

Preparations for my move in full swing: furniture on Craigslist, boxes piling up in the livingroom, last minute fights with St. Vitus, who is supportive but sad. I told him I was going to start an Alaska blog and he groaned. St. V is already so over the need to have a blog, having come of age hand in hand with friendster and livejournal. In our first months together I used to love googling him for traces of his old online personas-- V as emo poster boy, V as bloggy goth, V as car enthusiast or digital artist, V on message boards (he knows of my search habits, so it's only just a little bit creepy.) For me, as a 30 year old fogey and partial-luddite, the concept is new; for him, old hat.

Sparklemotion was a trouper at the Oakland SPCA yesterday, which I would recommend to any East Bayians looking for affordable vet options. They're great, quick and cheap. She was probed, pawed, petted and vaccinated and only once emitted that low yet ear-shattering yowl she reserves for being Outside of her normal universal. She has her official travel certification! I don't know how she'll adjust to Alaska (and Alaskan cats, all brawny and bullying) but since I'm dragging her up there with me, she has the right to keep me up for as many nights as it takes to convince her that the crunchies are just as tasty and sunbeams just as prime for the napping as down here. That's our deal.

My first entry, and all I want to do is talk about dresses. Since I made the decision to move well after I quit my job and just as I ran out of money, I've had to take advantage of La Sirena's head buyer position at (well-known second hand clothing chain) and unload my closet through her. At first I was taking in conservative bags of things I wouldn't really miss-- thrift shirts never worn, skirts with safety pinned hems, work clothes I won't need ever again. Moving is expensive, though, and my budgetary needs expand daily, so I'm now down to selling my most prized possessions-- the Dresses.

Between 30 and 35 dresses is just the right amount, I think. That way, you have enough to gloat over but not enough to warrant installing another pole in the ceiling of your closet to create a third rack. I've had over 50 dresses before, and that felt ostentatious. I was embarrassed by 50 dresses. But 35 is perfect. They range in era from the '30s to the '80s, in color the whole spectrum, in print from palm trees to polkadots, in fabric from polyester to taffeta. And I love them like I love babies, only more so because they are mine. I found them, peeking out between muumuus and crinolines, unloved by the general public (except when briefly trendy, and then discarded again immediately). If they were smelly I gave them gentle Woolite baths, if they had threads poking out or buttons missing or particularly unfortunate sleeves I mended them. And now I must sell them to fund my exit. Their numbers are dwindling; last night, after I realized I will definitely need to travel by small plane rather than ferry on the final leg of my trip ($100 extra), I laid several of my favorites to rest in a plastic bag, and will take them in on Sunday. It's for a good cause.

I'm going home!