To eat or not to eat...

So, I've had a few people comment on/ask about my eating habits recently. Eating is one of those strange rituals we have as humans. It's an act that is necessary to our survival, yet we seem to take it to another level- it's social, it's a statement, and sometimes, it's even art. As Remy the rat (above) says in "Ratatouille," humans "don't just survive, they discover, they create...I mean, just look at what they do with food!"*

The first food question I get asked quite a bit is "you're vegetarian?" I'm often taken aback by how this surprises or bothers some people, but first, I shall italicize the inflections, because this can actually be three different questions:

"You're a vegetarian?" The "v" word. To many people, this is a bad thing. As if I am putting my life at risk by not eating the corpse of a rotting animal three times a day. Indeed, I am probably putting the lives of others at risk and keeping the entire American economy teetering because beef is not what's for dinner. Furthermore, I'm probably vocally political and annoying. Most likely, I will lecture you about the evils of Nike, scold you for having a goldfish bowl, or make you feel bad for liking "Transformers," rather than delighting in an obscure, heavily depressing documentary about how bad you should feel every day of your life for even existing.

"You are a vegetarian?" Which brings me more to my point. This is asked by people who swear they have seen me eat meat at some point in time. Didn't I, that one time, eat a piece of steak? And didn't I, that other time, enjoy a bowl of steamed mussels with saffron sauce?

Why yes, I did. In fact, when asked if I'm a vegetarian (which usually comes up only because I've ordered something with tofu or have asked someone to leave the ubiquitous "chicken" off of whatever dish), my answer is usually: no. I don't typically eat meat, but I "can." For the most part, I don't like it. It just doesn't appeal to me. It's not a black and white "decision" or a "statement." I also don’t care for cooked green bell peppers, but this doesn’t bother people as much as my distaste for pork.

(And for the record, while I do find that there are better shoe brands to choose from and do occasionally enjoy the obscure, depressing documentary, I loved "Trasformers" and have two fish bowls.)

This all began for me while I was living in Paris. I'd often see "beef" on the menu. Just like that- in quotes. "Steak" frites, for example. When I asked why this was the case in the less expensive restaurants, I was told that "beef" or "steak" usually meant "horse." I had a horse. I adored him. I also had a rabbit, which someone tried to force feed me at a fancy Parisian restaurant. Once, when my rabbit was cornered by my dog, it screamed. Yes, rabbits scream, and I remember it vividly. To me, eating horse or rabbit is the equivalent of eating my cats. Now, eating cat is generally thought to be taboo, but all of this made me wonder, why?

Why is it okay for us to abuse and cruelly slaughter one kind of animal and not another? When we hear about someone kicking a cat or beating a dog, most of us are horrified- indeed there are laws against it. The kind of cruelty animals raised for meat endure is unimaginable. They are usually malnourished or force-fed and many of them never even see the light of day. Chickens have their beaks broken off so that they don't fight in their close quarters, employees of slaughterhouses have been caught many times "playing" with the animals before boiling (to de-feather) and skinning them alive. Some of them aren’t even well enough to stand by the time they are brought to the slaughter house. If the image of a skinned, sick or crippled cow covered in blood and writhing in pain is not enough to make you think twice about that hamburger...

And that's all I ever ask anyone to do: think. If you're fine with all of that, so be it. As long as you have a reason other than "the commercials/news/my dad told me," I respect it whether I agree or not. We learn to tune so much out simply because it makes us uncomfortable. We in turn numb ourselves by overindulging in what we think makes us happy or getting angry at others for shattering our illusions. Our culture has a special place reserved on every plate for chicken, beef, or pork, but I don't think it always needs to be that way. I think the "fake" chicken nuggets taste just as good, if not better, than the dead ones. If everyone replaced that meat spot on their plate with a substitute just once a week, it would have a major impact on the environment and their health.

On that note, the other question I get asked is “how do you stay so thin?” Usually, this question is asked of me because I am eating French fries or chocolate cake.

That’s a far simpler answer than the vegetarian thing: I never diet. That being said, I also don't eat those things all the time. I think the best way to set yourself up for failure is to tell yourself you can’t do something. It turns that thing into something else... something "tempting" and "forbidden." Once it becomes that forbidden thing, it’s hard to get out of the habit of seeing food as a part of a battle. Then when we "give in," we give in good! We go way too far, eat way too much, and do it while feeling guilty or convincing ourselves that it’s what we really, really want or need to be happy. But what’s the point of eating, then, if it’s either mindless or torture? Just like with the vegetarian thing, I "can" eat French fries every day, but I find that I don’t actually want to. In the words of Anton Ego (yes, I’m quoting this film a lot- I adored it and it's about food, so back off!!!!) I stay thin because:

"I don’t like food, I love it. If I don’t love it, I don’t swallow!"

I simply try to make consuming food something I enjoy and savor rather than something that is easy, fast, indulgent, or can occupy my hands while I’m watching television or working. Last night, I ate a huge salad consisting of things that were grown right in my yard- fresh leaves of lettuce, green beans, bok choi, fresh herbs. It was more than food, it was an experience! It took me back to planting the seeds months ago and watching them sprout and grow.

(Peaches from a friend's peach tree)

When it comes to the food that I put in my body, I don't like just gulping something down mindlessly. I love to cook, I love flavor and ritual. To quote Remy again: "If you are what you eat, then I only want to eat the good stuff! " Whether that includes meat or French fries or not...

*If you have not seen this film, you are not allowed to read my blog until you do.

Brad Pitt's Secret Life

Oh boy! Juicy Hollywood gossip! There's been talk lately about tensions arising between Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. Much speculation exists over why this might be happening to this couple we know absolutely nothing about but who look cool and get their pictures taken wherever they go. Some of the theories are as follows: they fight over which democratic candidates they should support, which charity to donate money to, which horrific disease one of them has, who is cheating on whom, etc. (no, I didn't make any of those up.) I'd like to propose a new theory. I have discovered that Brad Pitt has secretly been directing my favorite films:

When I first read this and saw the photo, I thought, "wow, that Brad Pitt is a pretty smart guy when it comes to animation!" Of course, everything made sense when I saw that it was not Brad PITT who said this, but Brad BIRD (who looks like this):

(Also known as "the one who won the Oscar," no offense, Mr. Pitt.)

I also feel that I should point out that Brad Bird neither directed nor wrote "Finding Nemo." That honor goes to Andrew Stanton. I got to "meet" both of these heroes of mine in L.A. last year when I drove out for the Screenwriter's Expo.

"Ratatouille" is quite easily the best film of the year, so far. That's my humble opinion and that only includes films that I have seen, but I have seen a lot, so... take that! Incidentally, if you are wondering what the worst is, in my opinion, I would have to give that award to "The Number 23."

Brad Bird has a habit of directing films that I love (damn him). He directed "The Iron Giant," which I've seen about a million times, and "The Incredibles" (see previous comment). He also worked on "The Simpsons" and created "Family Dog." Does anyone remember seeing "Family Dog?" If you do (and have fond memories of doing so), we should get ice cream. I loved that show.

I should start writing about films again. Ratatouille deserves more than just a blanket "it's awesome" review. Plus, I like coercing people into seeing movies that I love without resorting to "go rent 'The Iron Giant' or the bunny gets it!"

American Quilt Part 9- A Richley Woven Tapestry

I concluded my story with a contemplative trip to the ghost town of St. Elmo. The drive there offered spectacular views of the collegiate peaks. I'm not sure which one was Mt. Princeton, but I imagine that one of them had to have been! The ghost town itself had that essence of Americana that I actually enjoy, and I was glad to have visited.

This little town actually reminded me of Lars von Trier's film "Dogville." Luckily, there were no gangsters or crooked townsfolk (though the place is reportedly haunted by a crazy woman nicknamed "Dirty Annie"). Also, all of the buildings were real, not just chalk drawings on the floor. Incidentally, that was an excellent film. I was able to imagine the setting despite the film's lack of an actual set. It was an emotionally difficult film to watch, but brilliant (with a most satisfying ending).

I was amazed that people actually survived here in 1878. The place made me reflect upon the richness of the history of this country. I'm not talking about Abraham Lincoln and George Washington and other more obvious "patriotic" choices, but this seemed like the kind of spot Jack London would write about. This led my mind to weaving literary threads of Mark Twain, Herman Melville, Zora Neale Hurston, J.D. Salinger, Gertrude Stein (this list could go on for a while and I'd never be satisfied with it). I let my mind wander into the visual realms of American painters and filmmakers, photographers and sculptors... This is MY American history, the part of the culture that fascinates and fuels me. Unfortunately, it is the part that, without commercial zest, sports appeal, or military might, is marginalized by society.

I thought back on my adventures at the springs. I wondered if any of my subjects were aware that the strange, quiet girl sitting in the corner with her meatless meal and oddly-titled book was finding art, poetry, and comedy in their colorful vacation world.

American Quilt Part 8- Lloyd's Place

I write this conclusion shortly after the July 4th festivities of this country. Traditionally, we gather in groups to celebrate our "freedom" by eating potato salad and hot dogs cooked over an open flame, drinking carbonated malt beverages, and then lighting explosives while inebriated. For some reason, I wasn't in a festive mood. Perhaps it was the recent commutation of Scooter Libby's "unfair" punishment of a couple of years in prison (why did we freak out when Paris Hilton was allowed to serve the remainder of her sentence from home, resulting in her being thrown back in the slammer, yet this is somehow excusable- driving on a revoked driver's license is, I suppose, somehow more punishable than outing a CIA agent). Or maybe it was a friend's recent experience of having his Internet access at work censored, despite the fact that he is a web developer and needs access to such risqué sites as CNN and Google.

My point is that I can sometimes get irritated at the goings-on in this country that I call home. I get upset when "I'm an American" begins conjuring images of people behaving badly and loudly in restaurants and foreign countries, certain that only here can we drink beer and coke, buy a car and/or gun, vote, drag our country's flag behind our trucks, and not give a damn about any other place in the world that might not like these things. This results in the criticizing from behind a curtain of "patriotism" any citizen who finds this behavior appalling. "If you don't like it, leave," I've heard, as if disagreeing with the government is now unpatriotic, rather than the backbone of the Bill of Rights, or as if your home is akin to a football team that either kicks ass or loses and if you don't like they way they play you should uproot your entire way of life so that you don't spoil the fun of the game. This was the feeling I got from Mt. Princeton Hot Springs.

There are, however, times when "I'm an American" can actually mean something to me beyond what I say to the customs agent when traveling abroad. Arriving at Lloyd's Bed and Breakfast was one of those times.

My initial feelings about the place were mixed. I was looking forward to quiet. It seemed very small and peaceful. However, it came across as an odd mix of "military compound" and "vacation spot." The property was surrounded by a tall, unflattering chain-link fence and contained a man-made pond upon which sat a large plastic paddleboat shaped like a swan. A spotlight illuminated an American flag at the front entrance (reassuring me that I hadn't driven to Mexico or Peru- I was, in fact, still Stateside).

Despite the odd outside decor, I knew I was at least going to get some sleep. I parked my car and beeped the alarm, securing my chips and soda. To my surprise, I was immediately greeted by a smiling man in his slippers. He was soon joined by a woman in her bathrobe. Both of them welcomed me with open arms and offered to take my bags.

I was led through the entryway. It became clear that I was to be given the customary tour so that I could offer my approval of the place before accepting the room. This amused me. Quite frankly, a cot would have satisfied me at this point. I was, however, happy for the tour.

The hallway was decorated with oil paintings of Native Americans, black and white photos of trains, mining towns, and post offices, and various rusted tools that, unlike the random bits of junk that decorated the walls of the Mt. Princeton Resort Restaurant, seemed infused with history and importance. Of course, there were still dead animals on the wall, but they had a sternness to them. There was no faux happiness on their faces and their presence seemed purposefully haunting. These animals were hunted by the person who owned the place, not purchased at a flea market to fill an empty space on a wall.

I was led through the common room where the family sharing the bed and breakfast with me was playing a board game by the fireplace. I was introduced to my fellow vacationers who welcomed me and greeted me warmly.

"She says there were too many spring breakers down the street," the woman explained. My new housemates shook their heads. "Oh, that's too bad! What a way to ruin a vacation. We promise to be quiet, though."

I was led into my room. It was decorated with old furniture and smelled of fabric softener. I had two large widows, one with a view of the swan pond military compound, and the other with a breathtaking view of the collegiate peaks, which I was sure would light up as if they were on fire at sunrise. Most importantly, it had a large, clean, soft bed.

"Well? What do you think? I can give you the same rate as the place down the street if you want it for the night."

"For the night? I'll take it for the next three days!"

American Quilt Part 7- The Parting

We now return to our regularly scheduled program: I do not like being mean to people, but I will be, if necessary. Several times in my life, this has resulted in my being taken advantage of until I have had enough and scream at someone. This comes as such a shock to the people taking advantage that I am immediately labeled as a "bitch." As in, "man, I thought she was nice. Then she yelled at me for repeatedly hitting her in the head, even though that was fine last week. What a bitch, that bitch." And so forth.

Unfortunately, the one woman capable of giving me a refund was the only person who had been kind to me at all: Unfinished Sentences Woman. I tried to hold back my true feelings, knowing full well that she was not the one to blame, and having sobered up entirely from my earlier pint of wine. Still, I was very unhappy. When I approached the front desk, she was all smiles.

"Oh..." she happily began, clearly expecting me to praise the springs. "Yeah, hi," I curtly replied. "Um... what are the chances of my checking out now and getting a refund?" "Oh... are... um... oh...." "This just isn't what I expected." "Oh... I'm sorry... I... oh..." "I was just expecting something a little more relaxing. It's like Mardi Gras down there." "Oh... yes... it is spring break." "Oh? I wasn't aware that this was a popular spring break destination." "Oh... I... sure... I'm very sorry. Yes... we can give you a refund."

The fretting on her part continued, replacing my irritation at the situation with stomach turning guilt. Although I assured her that I would be fine to travel back to Boulder, she insisted on setting me up somewhere else in the vicinity. I just wanted to leave Mount Princeton as far behind me as possible, despite the fact that heading back to Boulder would involve my driving through the night. However, sleep did sound tempting and I could tell that it meant a lot to her to try to right the situation, so I let her.

She called Lloyd's Bed and Breakfast down the street. They just happened to have one open room, which they agreed to give me at a discount. After much apologizing, "umming" and "ohing," I parted ways with Unfinished Sentences woman and headed to Lloyd's. Well, I headed about two miles in the wrong direction. Then I headed to Lloyd's.

As I passed Mt. Princeton Hot Springs resort, I had to slow down and swerve around an object in the middle of the road. As my headlights illuminated the dark shape, I recognized it as a pair of swimming trunks. Somewhere on Mount Princeton, a naked teenager was streaking through the forest.

Why Haven't You Blogged?

I'm asked. It's not that I don't want to. It's not that I don't care. I do. I think about blogging. I've just been working day and night on a new video project. More details later. While I enjoy working on my films and videos, you know you have a problem when the last time you remember bathing, it was for a shot you needed:

Good thing blogs are scentless (though I did have the good scents (sic) to bathe recently).

And now, a series of behind-the-scenes candids shot by my talented neighbor, Geneva (who is working on a story with NPR about a time capsule car that she helped bury in 1957- it will be unearthed on the 15th of June):

Setting up the blue screen. My partner, Carl Fuermann graciously filming me instead of working on his own video. Thanks, Twigs!

Everybody was Kung-Fu fighting! Okay, only me.

Then everybody was Kung-Fu stepping-on-a-rock-and-injuring-their-foot (soon to be a popular song)

So everybody was Kung-Fu dancing (because that doesn't involve pointy objects)!

I'm clearly Kung-Fu worried about something here, but I have no clue what that could be. Oh yeah:

"I shall fight this Pteradactyl flying down at me!" (or, "crap, the cat is in the tree again!")

Gratuitous action shot. Please note that none of this has anything to do with "real" Kung-Fu, which would be an embarrassment to the entire art form! I was just looking for "shapes" in front of the blue screen.

I do apologize that all of this came up in the middle of an epic tale- there are more hot springs antics to share...

In the meantime, here is a great blog to read:

The Heliocentric Pantheon: An Interview with Walter Murch

(Many thanks to Sam for sending this link to me.)

An American Quilt, Part 6- The Springs

For those of you who might not be familiar with what a hot springs pool is, let me elucidate: A spring is basically water that flows from the ground. Well a hot spring is just a spring that is produced by the emergence of geothermally-heated groundwater from the earth's crust. And a hot springs pool is just a collection of said water. Thank you, wikipedia.

What's the big deal? First of all, they are warm. It's kind of neat to sit outside in hot water when it's snowing. Secondly, they are thought to have healing powers. Because they are warm, they can hold a variety of dissolved minerals and elements, from lithium (mmm... mind bending) to sulfur (mmm... smelly). There's quite a bit of evidence to suggest that soaking in this mineral water can help with a variety of ailments, from stress (my ailment) to arthritis.

Even a monkey knows that!

To be fair, they can also hold a variety of bad things, such as the naegleria fowleri amoeba, which lives in warm waters and soils worldwide and can be a cause of meningitis. Several deaths have been attributed to this amoeba, which enters the brain through the nasal passages. Thanks again, wikipedia.

While the above is an extreme example, hot springs do kind of contain their own ecosystems. Time almost seems to stand still around them. Not only do the seasons not matter- I once watched a snake sunbathe in the dead of winter- but neither, it seems, does evolution. Ants the size of nickels march around the edges of the pools and dragonflies as big as grapefruits flit from palm frond to palm frond (and palms don't grow in Colorado). I digress.

I've had some great experiences with hot springs. Several times, I've visited the Orvis hot springs in Ridgeway, Colorado (a good ten hour drive). This is a "clothing-optional" facility (read: "nudy") where the water is perfectly warm and does not smell sulfurous and is chock-full of calming, soothing lithium. Massages are given in yurts and health is the word of the day.

And then there is Mount Princeton.

I was told that there were two options for hot springs soaking. The first option was the man-made pool, which I could see was crowded with children. The second option was to actually sit in the creek that ran alongside the resort. This was the option that appealed to me. There was something romantic about the idea of sitting in a warm river at the foot of the mountain. Plus, there was enough light for me to continue reading "Naked." Plus, I was still kind of drunk and was romanticizing just about everything.

I think "hillbilly" describes the situation more than "romantic." It suddenly dawned on me that I was essentially sitting in a warm, dirty puddle. This epiphany came about the same time that I realized that this place was apparently a hot spot (pun intended) for spring breakers (boy, this is just full of double entendres). I found this somewhat ironic, since it was also spring break at the university where I worked and the last thing I wanted to do was actually follow the students to a place where they felt they could be even louder than they are on campus.

Sex-crazed college students chased each other through the water (splashing, of course, my book). A group of guys was having a contest to see how far they could throw large boulders into the creek (splashing, of course, my book).

I decided to head to the man-made pool.

Let me take a moment to say here that I love kids. I adore them. But when a twelve year old does a belly flop five inches from my face and then emerges from the water to say "holy shit, ma! Did you see that belly flop I did?" To which "ma" replies, "yes, honey." I begin to find them less endearing.

The kids were on crack! They were kicking strangers, running around the pool, cannonballing everyone in the water, and ma did nothing while pa just rolled his eyes. I'm guessing that "yes, honey" might be a common response for ma.

"Ma! I have head lice." "Yes, honey."

"Ma! Can I light the baby's diaper bag on fire?" "Yes, honey."

Sitting in warm water in a pool full of kids makes one cringe a little. My idealism began sobering up. I decided to head back to the room and attempt to sleep. On my way back, I stopped by the front desk to ask if there is any chlorine in the water, wondering if it mattered one way or another. I stood by the desk and waited to ask my question. I waited. And I waited. You see, the towel boy was busy making out with his girlfriend.

I could empathize with my fellow travelers, sure. Yes, we like to party in America. We like to eat steak and drink beer and sit in restaurants with fake and/or dead versions of things stapled to the wall. We like to drive SUVs, RVs, wear stupid hats, have things our way and...

You know, I live here too! It was time for me to join in. I decided to exercise my right as an American to demand a refund...

We interrupt this story...

...to bring you some sweet springtime images. The geese who live next to my office had babies recently. There's a family of four little goslings and one of an only child. These photos were all taken with the high end camera we just got (click on the images for the full-sized versions):

Ain't they just the cutest? And a macro image of a flower, for good measure:

American Quilt, Part 5- Fine Dining

A bad sign: "Do Not Play the Piano!" I've hated this sign all my life- hated the fact that it is usually hanging on a piano. What else is a piano for, if not to play? They ought to stick a different sign on it: "Reduced to Furniture." This was the first thing I saw upon entering the restaurant.

The second thing I saw was a series of grotesque, stuffed animal carcasses, all of which were posed to look tame and smiling. I stood by the brass "Please Wait to be Seated" plaque and waited, staring at their vacant expressions. And I waited to be seated. And waited...

I finally grabbed my own menu and sat myself at the bar. Most menu items contained one or more forms of beef and cost $15 or more a plate, so I settled on a wine dinner. I asked for a wine list. Of course, there was no wine list. The waitress pointed at the bottles on the bar.

Now, I'm fine with cheap wine. Some cheap wines are very good. I try not to be a snob about such things, but when the fanciest wine on the menu is Kendall Jackson, you know you will not be drinking anything spectacular (and the dinner prices had given me false hopes). I pointed at "red" and she poured me a glass. And I mean a "glass." Think of a glass of water. Take the water out. Replace it with wine. It was a good 16 ounces of cheap, red wine! I'd never had a pint of wine before (though I can no longer say that). I happily lapped it up in an attempt to calm myself. I cracked open my new book and began reading.

David Sedaris is an amazing writer. He has a way of turning any awkward situation into a humorous, thoughtful, and touching story. Like I said- a perfect traveling companion for a vacation like this. My mind was in tune with his long before I opened the book. Opening the book helped, though. As did the wine.

Suddenly, I found my situation... charming. The smiling mountain lion on the mantle, propped (quite unnaturally) next to a fake fern was... sweet. The elk head, turned in a gaping smile, tongue wagging was... quaint. Why, even the curling iron plugged in by the cash register behind the bar made a quirky sort of sense! "Of course," I thought, "what better place to curl one's hair?"

My fellow diners with their screaming children suddenly endeared themselves to me. These people probably worked very hard for their vacation. We all work hard here in the U.S. of A. After we work hard and earn our vacations, we just want to go someplace where we can eat a fancy steak, let our kids run wild, and sit under the gazing eyes of a murdered animal. Not exactly my idea of "vacation," but I was happy for my fellow travelers. They seemed very satisfied (though to be fair, they probably weren't staying in one of the six remaining so-called poolside rooms). The family in front of me found it somehow... cultured to pass around the plastic toothpick dispenser after their meal. Their children crawled on the floor, moving from table to table in search of... something.

"Up, Mitchell! Up!" the mother commanded brightly, as if Mitchell was a pup in training.

High on wine and compassion, I walked out to the lobby where I would simply inform the woman behind the desk that my phone didn't work. She began every sentence by trailing off as if she'd hoped they would finish themselves.

"Oh! Oh... I'm... oh... so sorry... um..." "Not a problem! I was just calling to complain about the dog next door..." "Oh...oh..." "No, no. It's okay, but I also wanted to book a massage. Can I do that from here?" "Oh, yes! Yes, by all means. Oh..."

She offered me the phone. I smiled and took it from her, feeling guilty that I had mentioned the dog (she was clearly concerned), and called down to book my massage. The woman on the other line asked me if I wanted Carol or Sue. I said that I knew neither, but I'm sure that they were both just fine.

"But which one do you want?" she insisted. "I have to put you down for one or the other!" "But all I know about them is their names," I replied, defensively. "Fine. Nine A.M. with Carol."

And with that, she hung up. Just another odd employee, I'd guessed. In the back of my mind, I was somewhat fearful of what a massage was, if "customer service" was such a foreign concept. But I couldn't be bothered by that now. I was heading out to do what I came here for: soak in the hot springs! Surely that would melt away all of the day's headaches...

American Quilt, Part 4- The Arrival

Tired and sore, I turned onto the winding road leading to the hot springs resort, eager for a nice, hot soak. My first view of the place took my breath away. Not because it was awe-inspiringly beautiful, but because I almost passed it, thinking it was a construction site. Actually, it kind of was. A bit hesitant (I am NOT up to date on my tetanus shots), I exited my red Chevy... car thing, pushed the remote control buttons to announce to everyone that my car was LOCKED, so don't even think about stealing my snack foods, and approached the check-in desk.

The woman at the desk was very friendly and animated:

"Oh! Hi there. Checking in? How exciting! Oh! Let's see. Hmm. Oh. So, I see... you are upgrading to our cliff side room on Sunday? Oh. Um. Oh. Okay. That will be nice. The pool side rooms haven't... really ... been upgraded yet. It's too bad you can't stay in our cliff side room all weekend. The pool side rooms really aren't as nice. You will love it, though! Oh, and check out time is eleven o'clock, but you won't be able to check back in until three, but I'm sure you can find something to do for that time. So. Okay!"

I signed some papers, followed her finger across the map (ice machine, pools, rooms, restaurant...), and collected my room key. I returned to my car and drove to my room.

I wouldn't exactly place this getaway spot in the "spa resort" category. I would place it more in the "motel" category. In a further sub-category, I would identify it as "the kind where bad things happen to people." I've been to spas. You get to walk around in a bathrobe and slippers all day and breathe in the scents of eucalyptus and chamomile. I've also been to crappy motels. You sleep fully clothed and hold your breath when walking past certain "stained" parts of the room so as not to breathe in the toxic mold spores. This was clearly the latter.

Although I had requested a non-smoking room, I could tell that "no smoking" was a fairly recent rule, enforced, perhaps, sometime in the eighties. I determined this from the scent and color of the 1950's wallpaper that was peeling off of the wall. "You're here for the hot springs," I reminded myself, "not the room."

I'm a pretty happy-go-lucky gal, so I let it go. I began unpacking my bags and said hello to my neighbors who were on their way out. I actually found the motel to be somewhat charming- one of those old "Americana" type places sprung straight from the pages of "Lolita" or the frames of "Psycho." You know, a family place? My neighbors even had an old hound dog in their room...

...who immediately began baying when its owners drove off.

"Okay, okay," I thought. "This is not a problem. You brought your entire MP3 collection with in-the-ear headphones and foam ear plugs for sleeping." My getaway had suddenly degraded from "relaxing at a hot springs spa resort getaway" to "hiding in a dirty motel room with crap stuffed in my ears." I tried watching the television (the only nice thing in the room) to drown out the noise. Despite the fact that I was watching one of the loudest scenes from "Zathura" (very good movie), I could still hear the dog. I turned the television off.

"I'll schedule a massage," I thought. "And while I'm at it, I will inform the front desk of the dog." I picked up the phone and dialed the front desk. Nothing. I hung up. Picked it up again. No dial tone. I did the "trick" (which never seems to work) of rapidly pushing the little button that hangs the phone up. Nothing. No phone.

Okay. Fine. I will just drive back down to the main desk. I was eager to begin a new book ("Naked" by David Sedaris, which turned out to be perfect for this trip) and have a glass of wine, so I figured I would just grab dinner while I was down there. I opened the door to leave my room, and for the first time, really took in my surroundings:

Kids ran wildly around the campground, music blasted from most of the rooms, construction workers yelled on cell phones (very spotty service up there at 12,000 feet), and the water slide that the happy young lad surfed down on the web site was in pieces, all of which were strewn about in a field in front of my room. The pool (which my room was apparently "aside") was just a concrete hole. I held out hope that the cliff side room would be better.

"You're here for the hot springs... You're here for the hot springs..."

American Quilt, Part 3- Pit Stop in South Park

I drove through South Park to get to the hot springs. This is neither as cool nor as funny as one might imagine. There is nothing particularly exciting about the real-life town aside from its name, and most of its inhabitants (from what I could tell) weren't very geometrical or funny and didn't speak in strange voices. In fact, I took a photo, but was driving through rather quickly, so I didn't get a chance to focus on anything. Still, I've looked at it and I see nothing strange, funny, or copyright infringing about it (click to enlarge):

American Quilt, Part 2- Getting There

(in stupid blog style- part one is beneath this post, so scroll down if you haven't read it) Because I am a member of Mensa, I get a significant discount on car rentals. I'm not sure exactly how this relationship works, but I'll take it. Mount Princeton is a good two and a half hour drive from Boulder and I didn't want to leave my significant other without a car for the weekend.

I arrived at the Millennium Harvest House Hotel, eager to pick up my car. There is something exhilarating about renting a car. It is one small way a person like myself, who would spend $20,000 on film stock before buying a new car, can participate in the excitement of American consumerism. For a mere $40, I get an entire weekend of "owning" a new car, with all of its smells and none of its monthly payments. To boot, they even gave me an American car! A red one with a remote control to lock the doors, beep the horn and flash the lights!

But before I got my car, I got a little sidetracked at the hotel. The signage for the car rental company led me to a dead end. I had to make my way back to the front lobby. I suddenly found myself at the annual regional sewage conference (ahem, I mean water and wastewater plant operations conference). As if this wasn't funny enough in and of itself, it just so happened that I had helped design their web site just a month prior. While it was tempting to sit in on "Why Chlorine?" "Biosolids," "Advanced Activated Sludge," and the other tantalizing classes I had fantasized about while updating their web content, I had a date with a swanky hot spring resort and didn't want to sully it with memories of sewage (for those who have never been to a hot spring, most of them smell like sulfur).

I eventually found the car rental booth, and before I could say "limited liability," I was on the road. I made a brief stop at a local Target to buy an adapter for my MP3 player (the radio doesn't work very well in the mountains), fully intending to exchange it for a set of knives upon my return. "It didn't work," I'd lie, "but I do need a new set of kitchen knives."

About 15 minutes into my trip, I sadly realized that I would not have to lie. It didn't work. It worked better than the radio, but it wasn't the experience I had been hoping for. Without the music to drown out my voice, it became painfully obvious to me that I knew very few of the lyrics to Beck's new album. "When the in-for-mation comes you'll know from the bacon!" is most likely not what he's singing.

This was not the road trip of my dreams. It wasn't even as pleasant as the road trips of my past. My bag of chips exploded due to the change in altitude, causing me to scream and swerve before realizing that I had neither a flat tire nor a gunman in the back seat (but pathetically, this almost ALWAYS happens to me on road trips- someday I will learn to open all of the bags before ascending). Despite the slick sexiness of my brand new car, I never seemed to be going fast enough to satisfy the other drivers on the road. Junk food and cans of Red Bull were flying through my car with every dangerous mountain turn, but my fellow drivers were still passing me left and right. There must be some unknown law of Physics that I do not grasp. Or maybe they were just using cup holders.

One thing was certain: they all had big cars. Vacationers like myself stuck out like a sore thumb here in rancher country. We were all driving cars, minivans or VW buses. The locals had SUVs and trucks. "Heavy duty" and "super duty" were two silver decals I saw passing me on many occasions. Saying "super duty" out loud always makes me giggle and consider proposing a new course for the wastewater conference. But I'd never tell them that...

American Quilt, Part 1- Reservations

So a few weeks ago, I decided to take a four-day weekend and spend some quiet time in the mountains. I eventually got my wish (more or less), but the path leading up to it was pretty damn funny, so I thought I would share it here: Like many adventures of our time, it all started with a web search. A search for "hot spring resort colorado" yielded several results. After sorting through the reviews, clicking on web site images, and comparing prices and distances, I chose "Mt. Princeton Hot Springs Resort." Their web site featured pictures of a happy lad of nine or ten, joyfully slipping down a hot springs water slide, glistening bare backs of pronate women receiving luxurious massage services, clean, well-lit bedrooms overlooking the mountains, and happy couples enjoying brunch on a wood deck. Perfect.

One day before my departure, I received a phone call from Mt. Princeton resort. The woman on the line informed me that there was a slight problem with my reservation. "You chose the poolside room for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights," she questioningly scolded, "but the room is scheduled to be remodeled on Sunday."

I apologized and informed her that I didn't consciously pick a "poolside room" and would be happy to change my selection. I simply took what the web site offered. She responded by informing me that there were no more rooms in my price range and suggested that I either cut my vacation short by one day or pay to upgrade my room to one of the "cliffside rooms."

Annoyed, I told her that I appreciated her suggestions, but the option that seemed best to me was that the hotel give me an upgraded room, free of charge, or shove it (though not quite using those words). After all, they were the ones who both chose my room and scheduled it for remodeling. After much sighing, she told me that she would "get back to me" after she spoke with her manager to see what they could do.

Two hours later (I guess it was a tough decision), the woman called me back and told me that I would need to switch rooms in the middle of the weekend because they were overbooked and couldn't find a room that would be available for the duration of my stay. While the prospect of packing and unpacking four times in as many days did not seem appealing to me, I reminded myself that my real reason for going was the hot springs, not the room, and accepted her offer.

I should have taken this as an indication of things to come, but at the time, it seemed like a small snag. Perhaps the woman who called me was just a little... untrained in customer service techniques? How was I to have known that my resort getaway was secretly planned out by John Hughes?

Yet another competition

But this one is really cool! This is one that I actually hope I win and have no reservations about entering. Bjork's new album, Volta, comes out next week. I'm excited for a variety of reasons. The first reason is that I always look forward to a new Bjork album. She is one of my favorite musicians. The second reason is that I have front row, center tickets to her concert at Red Rocks. The third reason is that she is hosting a music video contest for one of her songs: Innocence! Apparently, she will hand pick the winner. If I had to imagine a musical counterpart to my visual rhythms, Bjork would be at the top of my list! Here's hoping she might feel the same way...

Oh, to hear the song, you can visit my MySpace page. Or Bjork's.

Sexy Back

I just downloaded "Sexy Back" by Justin Timberlake.

Does that make me a bad person?

Polymer

Polymer was a sort of chain mail/penpal film. Carl Fuermann and I began sending a high-resolution image back and forth, each one modifying it before returning it to the other. We then used each image as a frame of film and recorded it out to 16mm film. It's only 30 seconds long, so make sure you are paying attention! When it played at the New York Film Festival, the lights hadn't even dimmed fully before the film was over

Sweet Intuition - Part 2

This second part consists of about 7200 16mm frames of the film "Amelie" (a more "professional" romantic fairytale view of Paris, but a parallel one). Each frame was cut out, stacked in order, placed in bundles of 24, labeled and then individually re-pasted (in order) on strips of 35mm film that had been flashed with colored lights and scratched. These strips hung in my lab for two days while the glue dried, then they were spliced together to form the complete five minute film below.

This film celebrated an anniversary of sorts this last Saturday. I participated, in my way, in my friend's annual all-night meditation. I stayed up until 5:00 AM cutting my 16mm frames in my own quasi-meditation.

Sweet Intuition- Part I

This was a labor of love. I say that for many reasons- romantic, obsessive, blind, sentimental- but I will leave out the personal reasons and focus on the technical for now! I split this film into two parts and I'm sharing them one at a time. It would be too long, otherwise. Part One (below) consists of Super-8mm footage I shot in Paris. Part Two will eventually be above this one. I'm not fond of this method of blogging organization, by the way. It gets quite annoying when one wants to continue a thought at a later time and can't do so fluidly without directing readers to the post just below it. It's almost like starting a book with the last chapter and asking the reader to skip to the end and read from the back. I digress.

The film is a reflection on romance. The setting is Paris (bien sûr). This first part is a fairytale daydream view of the City of Lights- complete with Eifel Tower and carousel! The second will come tomorrow...

Guest Vlogger- Jason Bortz and "Taxi Ride"

Blog, meet Jason, Jason, blog. Jason Bortz is a guest filmmaker here today. Like me, he entered one of his films in the On the Lot competition (and like me, got nuthin'). I've decided to post one of his videos here today because, well, I just like it!

I'm a huge Tori Amos fan (we share a birthday and a love of pianos, among other things). Below is Jason's submission to a competition Tori (well, officially Sony) was hosting for filmmakers to make a video for her song "Taxi Ride." Jason's video made it to the top nine!

Click the image below to watch the film and the link on the side (or above) to see his other works:

Yang T'ai Chi

A sketch I did in my all day class. The instructor told many colorful stories while we sat and listened.