Wet Wet Wet

Oh, how embarrassing: all the data I’ve quoted in this entry is actually for Astoria, not Portland. (Except the records — I quoted the records for Portland.) I’ll post correct numbers on the 11th.

“I wonder how much rain we’ve had so far this year,” Kris said as she climbed into bed. Just the sort of research challenge I live for.

Since January first, Portland has had 6.22 inches of rain, which is 3.34 inches above the norm of 2.88 inches. Over the same period last year, we received only 1.83 inches of rain. (And, remember, between February 15th and March 15th, we had no rain and record warmth.)

Even more remarkable is the amount of rain we’ve had since the cold spell ended on Decemeber 18th. Over the past twenty-two days we’ve had 19.35 inches of rain, which is 12.27 inches above the norm of 7.08 inches. Over the same period last year, we received only 4.02 inches of rain.

And, of course, there’s more rain in the forecast.

More rain. And flooding. And, from the banging of the doors and awnings, plenty of wind tonight. Good night. Stay dry.

After I reported on our flooded cellar last week, Dave gave us some advice about extending our downspout drainage away from the house. Over the weekend we attached some sewer tubing to the end of two downspouts, so that the roof runoff drained to the lawn (which slopes away from the house) instead of next to the back porch (where it drains toward the house slightly).

Kris went down to the basement this morning to verify that our handiwork had produced the desired results. It hadn’t.

“The flooding is back, and it’s worse than ever,” she announced. I put on my shoes and tromped down to run the sump pump. I actually don’t mind the flooding (it’s kind of fun) except for the horrible musty smell that accompanies it. I’m deeply concerned that this odor may be overpowering in the entire house by the time May arrives.

At least my roof patch job seems to have been effective. We don’t seem to have any new leaks (though the previous leakage caused even more damage when the ceiling dried: paint cracked, stains appeared, etc.)

When I originally posted this entry last night, I forgot to mention that we’re having a heavy water year. (The water year is measured from October 1st to September 30th.) According to the National Weather Service, Portland has received 40.01 inches of rain this water year, which is 10.62 inches above the norm of 29.39 inches. (Last year we had received 24.20 inches of rain by this date.)

Looking at historical water year data for Portland, it seems that we only need another 7.40 inches of rain for this year to be the firth wettest on record since the Portland International Airport opened in 1940. If we can get up to 56.48 inches, we’ll be the fifth wettest on record since 1870. (I wish the above-linked page had data for 1998-1999; memory tells me that was another wet winter, though wet in a different way: misty and constant rather than full of periodic downpours.)

Capote

Some of you think I only complain about movies, or that I only complain about certain types of movies. (For example, Peter Jackson films.) That’s not true. I like a lot of films. It’s just not as fun to write about the good ones.

Kris and I are woefully behind on our “see all the Oscar best picture nominees before the awards ceremony” tradition. True, the nominations won’t be announced until the end of the month, but it’s possible for one to make some educated guesses. Most years, we see three or four of the five nominees before they’re announced. This year, the only potential nominee we’ve seen is Crash (and, though we liked it a great deal, it only has a small chance at being nominated). To catch up, we’ll probably need to see at least one film each weekend until March.

Today we decided to take in Capote, which has been receiving all sorts of rave reviews. Though I boycott Regal Cinemas out of principle, sometimes the Fox Tower 10 downtown is our only option, as it was this time.

After parallel parking on the left side of the street (a skill analogous to writing with your left hand if you’re right-handed: it’s do-able, but not prettily), and after being literally ambushed for change by a panhandler, we made our way to the theater. The auditorium was small and already a little crowded. Kris spied four open seats in the back row. I could have sat so that we each had a one-seat buffer, but I decided that I’d be polite and leave two consecutive seats for another couple. This was a smart move: those two seats were soon taken. This was also a dumb move: I sat next to a pathetic movie patron.

The man next to me reeked of cigarettes. (“He smelled like the inside of a smoker’s mouth,” I told Kris after the movie.) He smelled as if he always wore the same clothes when he smoked and never washed them. The smoking had apparently taken other tolls as well. His breathing was labored. Every few minutes he let out a deep, airy sigh. (A sigh that, of course, smelled like the the foul pits of hell.) His chest rattled with phlegm. During the film he had a few fits of wet coughing. When he became bored (along with the rest of the audience), he began picking at his cuticles, making rhythmic (and loud) click click sounds.

So how was the movie?

Capote is a beautiful, well-crafted film that tells the story of Truman Capote’s work on In Cold Blood, his famous “non-fiction novel” of the early sixties. The story follows Capote and Harper Lee (of To Kill a Mockingbird fame) as they research the brutal killings of a family in a small Kansas town.

Unfortunately, the film has no point.

Every aspect of the movie exhibits attention to detail and quality work except the script. The sets and costumes are brilliant, perfectly evoking the world of the early sixties. The acting is top-notch. (Philip Seymour Hoffman ably carries the film as Capote.) The directing is wonderful, slow and measured, patient. The cinematography is beautiful. The script, however, is mundane, even tedious.

Truman Capote is a fundamentally unsympathetic character. The man was a mannered fop, a well-known liar (he told all sorts of tall tales), and blatantly manipulative. In order for a film about him to be effective, we have to care about the other characters, we have to be given a compelling story. That doesn’t happen here.

The central relationship in the film is that between Capote and one of the killers, Perry Smith. We don’t sympathize with the killer, though, and we’re never given any reason to care about their relationship. I was ready to become attached to Harper Lee (played by Catherine Keener, whom I always like), but she’s really a cypher in this film. Think of it: here are the two real-life people used as the basis for Mockingbird‘s Dill and Scout, on screen together again: any fan of the book is wholly willing to become emotionally invested in their adult relationship. We’re never given a chance.

Instead, the film seems to wander aimlessly. When it has a focus, it is on Capote’s relationship with Smith, which is a relationship we just don’t care about. We’re never given any reason we should care.

Capote is not a bad film, but it’s certainly not best picture material. Hoffman could justly win an Oscar for best actor, Bennett Miller (helming his second film) could win for best director, and the cinematography could be honored, but the script, and the film as a whole, don’t deserve that sort of praise. You see? It’s not just King Kong and its ilk that I find fault with — I even find fault with critically-acclaimed films.

As soon as the film was over, before the credits could even begin to roll, the Smoking Man sprang from his seat and slid down the aisle. He was a small, thin man with a biker’s jacket. A million-to-one he was heading outside for a cigarette. Or three.

Venti Mud

I’m proud to announce the arrival of a new Portland foodblog, one hosted here at foldedspace. Amy Jo presents From a Corner Table, her forum for restaurant reviews, cooking tips, cookbook evaluations, and all around foodie goodness. Amy Jo has a long, rich history with food, and I look forward to reading her blog. Check it out!

We had no power when we got to work this morning. A quick call to PGE revealed that a tree was responsible for the outage, that a crew had been dispatched, and that they expected to restore power (to the 1567 customers affected) by 8:45. Wow. A computerized support system that’s actually useful.

There’s not much that can be done to make boxes when your equipment has no power. We offered to take our crew out to breakfast or coffee, but they declined. They sat in their cars to keep warm. A couple of them made a run to the “Chinese market” for sodas and deep-fried food.

I sat in my office and tried to read tomorrow’s book group selection by candlelight.

I was cold.

“I’m going to Starbucks,” I told Jeff.

“Get me a venti mocha,” he said.

“What size is that?” I’ve never been able to understand Starbuck’s sizing system. I have no idea why they insist on using such strange terms.

“It’s the largest,” Jeff said.

At Starbucks, I asked the waitron if they still had chantico mix. “Yes we do, sir, would you like one?”

It was a tough call. “I would like some,” I said, “but I’d probably better not. I’d probably better learn about your other non-coffee drinks. Let me try your hot chocolate.”

“What size would you like, sir?”

“Large,” I said. I was cold.

“VENTI MOCHA! VENTI HOT CHOCOLATE!” shouted the waitron to the young woman standing at the steamer three feet away.

When I saw the size of the venti drinks, I liked to have died. What the hell, people? Do you all really order drinks this large? Incredible. Absolutely incredible. Nobody needs that much coffee or hot chocolate.

On my drive back to the office, I sipped my hot chocolate. Calling this drink “chocolate” is generous. It’s more like “tepid flavorless” or, as I like to think of it, “tepid mud”. Was there any flavoring at all? It was as if a thickening agent had been added to water and heated for a few seconds. The drink tasted vaguely of platic. It was disgusting. Where I used order a six-ounce chantico — a drink of pure, delcious chocolate — for $2.65, I had just spent $2.55 on a venti mud. I rolled down the window and dumped the venti mud into the rain.

I shan’t be buying one of those again. I guess I’ll have to try the vanilla steamer or whatever it’s called. But not a venti. Nobody needs a venti anything.

It’s now 8:50. We still have no power. Jeff, who had been sitting in his truck keeping warm, just came in to give me an update. Jose, who had run to Woodburn for something, drove by the site of the problem. Apparently the power outage was actually caused by an automobile accident. A car struck a power pole. Jose says that the workers at the scene have just placed a new pole in the ground (!?!) but have not begun to string the wires. We’ll probably be in the dark for another hour.

Alas, Chantico, I Hardly Knew Thee

“I’d like a chantico and an apple fritter,” I announced to the Starbucks waitron this morning. I make a similar declaration about once a week.

“Chantico!” shouted the waitron to the young woman standing at the steamer three feet away. Then she beamed at me and said, “You’re enjoying those chanticos while you still can, huh?”

“They’re going away?”

“That’s right.” She seemed quite pleased, actually. During the year that chanticos (chanticoes? chantici?) have been available, I’ve noticed that they’re a pain for the Starbucks waitrons. They often sigh or groan or make little looks of exasperation when I order them. About a third of the time, I’m asked if I’d mind waiting because “we have to make a new batch”. Apparently the chantico hasn’t sold as well as Starbucks could have wished. (I wonder if their numbers show some sort of statistical anomaly at the Canby, Oregon City, and Oak Grove stores — “Look, Marvin, chantici are especially popular in one county in Oregon. Why do you suppose that is?”)

“How long do I have before the chantico is gone for good?” I asked.

“Until we run out of the mix,” said the waitron with a satisfied air.

What will I do now? What did I order before the chantico came? I guess I tried to order steamed milk drinks, but half the time the waitrons would mess up and give me iced milk drinks. An iced milk is not so appealing as a chantico on a January morning.

(Note: the spellchecker in my text editor has no qualms with the word ‘waitron’. I am shocked.)

I used to carry my camera with me everywhere I went, but I’ve gotten out of the habit. Recently this has caused me much regret.

Last week the heavy rains caused the streams and rivers to swell and flood. There were several shots I missed: the overflow of Gribble Creek, the boathouse that had slipped its moorings and slammed into the side of the Oregon City Marina, the frothy full Willamette Falls, and countless flooded streams and ditches.

On Tuesday I missed two fantastic shots. The first featured dramatic lighting as a break in black storm clouds let the sun shine in at an odd angle, highlighting an old white barn in golden tones. I’m not sure exactly how I would have framed it, but at least if I had my camera with me I could have tried. The second would have been a wide-angle shot of towering billowy clouds near the Molalla hills, vast puffy structures the likes of which used to spark my imagination as a child.

Today I brought my camera with me to work. “Hot dog!” I thought as I pulled onto Oglesby. “Look at that.” The dark clouds over the Molalla hills showed the barest sliver of orange. When I got to work, I walked back to the field behind the shop to snap some images. (Not that I had a tripod with me, but that’s another story.) A great idea, but my camera battery was dead. Of course. When I fail to practice a hobby for a while, I forget the fundamentals. One of the fundamentals of photography is: check your battery (and always carry a spare).

The sunrise was gorgeous: pink and orange and red gilding the low charcoal clouds. I just don’t have it on film to prove it.

On my drive to work — as I was sipping my chantico — I decided that the title to this entry would be “Alas, chantico, I hardly knew thee”, with the caveat that I would need to google for the proper structure based on the source of this quotation. However, a google search was less-than-helpful. For one, it revealed thousands of matches (1.7 million to be precise). For another, it seems that most people use the structure “alas, [blank], we hardly knew ye”.

Ye? Ye? Can this be right? It feels wrong to me. Ye feels like it ought to be the nominative case, but maybe I’m just pulling that out of thin air. (I grant that my mind says that it is “we” who hardly knew whomever.)

What is the quotation I remember? Is it a mashup of Hamlet’s “alas, poor Yorick” and something else? How is it that the web is filled with close approximations with this, yet I cannot find the original? Lisa? Joel? Dave? Anyone care to point me in the right direction?

In Praise of St. John’s Wort

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I don’t care if the benefits from St. John’s Wort are the result of a placebo effect, and I don’t care whether there’s genuine physiological response to the stuff. It works for me, and that’s all that matters.

St. John’s is purportedly a mild all-natural anti-depressant. Its proponents are fond of declaring that it is the most widely used anti-depressant in Germany. From early-May to mid-August I took 300mg of St. John’s Wort three times a day. From early-May to mid-August I felt pretty good, was able to shake the depression that had begun to latch onto me.

Then, for whatever reason, I stopped taking the stuff. Gradually — so gradually as to be imperceptible to me — I sunk back into depression until by the end of November I was mired sorrow and self-pity. I was paralyzed by self-analysis. Just before Christmas I began taking the St. John’s Wort again. “What the hell?” I thought. “It can’t hurt.”

Boy, howdy!

I noticed positive effects within days. (The true benefits of St. John’s Wort take a few weeks to manifest themselves; it takes time for the stuff to accumulate in your system.) The past couple days have been especially fine. I’ve felt at ease in group situations, I’ve felt good about myself and about the world in general. I’m eager to refocus on things like my diet, my finances, and my writing.

So, please: if you know (or suspect) that St. John’s Wort is bunk, please don’t tell me about it. Let me enjoy the placebo effect.

(Also: apparently it was the St. John’s Wort and not the melatonin that had gave me such fantastic lucid dreams last spring and summer. The dreams faded when I stopped with the St. John’s Wort, and now they’ve returned in the past couple weeks. Crazy dreams, wild stuff. Exhausting. I love it.)

As I mentioned above, I’m ready to write again. Story ideas have begun to occur to me while I’m driving, so that I have to pull over and jot them down on the backs of business cards. I’m researching the writing classes offered by the various colleges in the Portland area. I’m reading about writing. And, perhaps most importantly, I’ve joined Andrew, Josh, and Paul H. to establish the Eastmoreland Writers’ Guild (or Woodstock Writers’ Guild, if you prefer). Our hope is that monthly meetings will goad us into productivity.

Buy Low, Sell High

Today is the day: after a year of working on debt elimination (an ongoing process now focused on two remaining large debts), I actually get to have some fun with my money. I get to begin investing.

This may or may not be a good thing.

Several years ago, the MNF guys formed an investment club. We pooled a thousand dollars and voted on which stocks to purchase. Then, every month, we each pooled another $300 to buy something new. We dreamed big — we were going to be rich!

This worked well for a while; we had caught the very tail of the tech-stock boom. However, things quickly headed south. We threw good money after bad. We didn’t approach our investments from any sort of logical perspective: our choices were based on emotion rather than actual research. A couple of us were resentful after we’d spent hours researching particular stocks, only to have our suggestions passed over in favor of passionate arguments from people who had done no research at all. (I still make snotty comments about Autobytel (ABTL), which I wanted to purchase at $1.58/share.)

The group lost money, but we learned a lot. I don’t regret the experience.

Now I’m ready to give it a go on my own. I still lack market wisdom, but that will come with experience. Paul C. and Nick have been giving me advice, but ultimately I’m on my own. Until I get a feel for things, I’m simply going to “buy low, sell high”. (Paul is urging me to develop a set of parameters for both the purchase and the sale of stocks. I’m sure his advice is sound.)

What have I selected as my first investment? I’m going to pump money into a 2005 Roth IRA, trying to max it out by April. As a first step, this afternoon I’m putting $200 into General Motors (GM), which is trading near historic lows (and which also pays a quarterly dividend).

I hope I get a chance to sell high!

Wet New Year

Our New Year’s Day was a wet one.

As you’ll recall, when we moved into the house, we had Gale Contractor Services install some insulation. They messed up the job in four ways, three of which were apparent immediately: they drilled holes in the wainscoting despite explicit instructions not to do so; as one of the workers was crawling around the attic, he fell through the ceiling; and while working in the mud room, they knocked a bunch of stuff off the shelves. We were not happy with the experience.

Then last September, when the rains began, it became clear that Gale Contractor Services had made a fourth, more serious, error: the roof vent they installed was not properly sealed. We had a leak.

The company sent somebody out to fix the leak, and the repair lasted all winter. However, apparently the heat of the summer caused the plastic (!?!) roof vent to curl again, and gaps developed in the seams. With the recent heavy rains, we’ve had lots of brown wet spots developing on the ceiling.

Would I hire Gale Contractor Services to do work for us again? Hell no.

I took Thursday off from work to attempt a repair on the roof. I spent an hour at the hardware store, reading labels on cans and tubes and buckets of roofing sealants. I brought home a couple of options. After a bit of time on the roof, I think our leaks are repaired. I think they are. I’m not sure. I have no real way to tell. I drilled a couple of holes in the ceiling, and no water came through, but the sheetrock still feels damp. Time will tell, I suppose.

Meanwhile, we learned why the house came with a sump pump in the cellar.

The other day I noticed that the cellar’s concrete floor was beginning to look damp. There were radiating lines of wetness extending from certain points. Yesterday I went downstairs to fetch some clam juice (to make the Best Clam Chowder Ever for today’s Ham Feast) only to discover that the basement had begun to flood. There was a small pool of water at the bottom of the steps, and it was draining in a small but flowing stream to the sump pump hole. (You’ll notice that the sump pump hole is now covered with a milk crate. We don’t want Kris to step in the hole again, do we?)

Fortunately, the sump pump works well. We plugged it in and flipped a switch and the hole drained completely in seconds. We’ve made a point of going downstairs every few hours to drain the hole.

I have a couple of concerns, though: if the water table is this high already, how high will it get if the rains continue? (Last year was very dry, so we didn’t encounter the flooding issue.) Will we get an inch of water in the basement? Two? A foot? And what happens when we drain the water to the outside? Isn’t it just settling back to the water table, ultimately re-flooding the cellar?

Most of all: what about the smell? When we bought the house, the cellar had a faintly musty odor. The smell faded with time. Actually, I had credited the bathroom remodel with eliminating most of the odor. After just a couple of days of dampness, the cellar already smells musty. What will it be like in April?

Stay tuned, faithful reader. We’ll all find out together.