So long...

Farewell...?

Tribe was down so long that the Burn was over twelve days ago, and I can only *today* take down the gone-to-burning-man thing.

If you need me, google this name. Or this name at yahoo, or gmail, or on AIM.

I love you all, and I'll miss tribe. But I'm starting to think that the logo is actually a little robot dude tearing his hair in frustration.

A few good playaheads

Looking for a few good Burners who know who Rick Astley is. Ping me for more details. Muahahahaa.

En Fuego

So it looks like I'm going to Burning Man after all.

I guess I shouldn't have griped so much about not going. I now have three weeks to get my shit together - good thing I camp Faire as much as I do, or this would be difficult.

Also, Dear Subconscious:
How did you know? Why have I found little caches of stuff around my apartment that I don't really recall buying, but that are perfect for Burning Man? The blinky lights, for instance. Or the dollar two-pack of single-ply TP rolls, or the big bag of puddin' cups. Subconscious, you're starting to freak me out. Please clue the rest of me in next time, 'kay?

The End of an Era

I'm standing in a parking lot in the late afternoon sunlight, shivering in the onslaught of a wind that brings a thick blanket of wet, cold, gray creeping over the nearby hills. In front of me is a four-year love affair in red-painted steel and safety glass: a triumph and a milestone, and yet now another milestone and a tragedy. I slide the key into the door lock one last time, turn it and hear the old familiar clatter as the tumblers give way. The door swings open and I sit, take out the title from its envelope, and sign it on the flat plastic center panel that would've been a horn if it still worked. Replacing the title I add the spare key, and hesitate a moment. Taking out the main key one last time, I put it in the ignition and turn.

The engine splutters to life with an uncharacteristic reluctance, and I can feel the whole chassis shaking at the noise the piston rods make against the head. And then oil seeps into those spaces and she quiets a bit, idling down to her accustomed putter. I lean my head against the steering wheel, fighting back tears. Why am I doing this? It's not like she can hear me. More for myself then, I guess. "I'm so sorry hon. You were so good to me, and I tried to do my best by you. I just can't afford to fix you this time. Thanks for holding out until I had the new job. I don't know what I'd have done without you." I turn the key again, and it feels like slamming the door on a friend. The engine rumbles into silence, and I'm left remembering those four years.

There were entire runs of Northern Faire done with the trunk loaded so high I couldn't see out the back. Taking 17 over the hill almost every weekend to escape Santa Cruz. Parking in San Leandro under the tree with the eternal bird problem. Turning on the engine every once in awhile while watching snowflakes fall on the side of a road near Angels Camp. Sleeping curled uncomfortably in the back seat after a long day of working Operations for Golden Gate. Sitting on the tailgate with David, talking in the cold San Luis fog. Parking triumphantly in front of my parents house. Parking in front of ByTheBeach, Dad at my side while we diagnosed the dying battery. Parking, haphazardly, in front of Circus. Parking in front of Atrium. Parking in front of Tom's. Parking in front of Belmont House.

So much of my life in these past four years has depended on this miracle of engineering. I could not have survived Santa Cruz without the distractions she enabled. When I graduated, it was she who made my first job possible, and it was a detour in the commute that landed me the second. And limpingly she ferried me that last day to the third job, and then gave up gasping on the side of the road north of Edgewater.

I put the key back in the envelope, get out, lock the manual doorlock, and hesitate like I always do, heart racing as I feel myself tottering out over limnal space. Then I slam that sticky door one last time, then impulsively stand back and look at her sans-disco-ball-rearview-ornament, sans junk in the back, sans jug of water and case of tools. This is it, this is the end. Tomorrow morning a tow truck will come and take my treasure, my triumphant chariot, my very first large purchase, my friend, my shelter, my companion away.

I manage to hold off the bawling until I walked in the door at Bower. My Red Vixen is gone. Please forgive me if I'm not quite right for a few whiles.

New Tribe

So this going through my friends list one by one and trying to remember who lives in the South Bay thing is for the birds. Especially since we all put "California" or "SF Bay Area" these days. :P

So we've started a new Tribe for South Bay Faire folk. This would be similar to the original goal of the SC-Faire list, with bimonthly pizza meetups and stuff like that. You know you want to join!

tribes.tribe.net/southbayfairefolk

And look, here's a picture.

I really ought to clear out my camera more often...

I dug this picture out of my "Raw files" folder on my computer the other day.
Yes, that's me in my full victorians. Yes, that's a power drill. YES, I was using it, NO it's not just staged. I'd been putting up those coat hook thingies that you see. Clothing rarely will keep me from my power tools. (Or in this case, Dave's power tools.)

New Tribe, New Content

I suppose now that the evil that was Old Tribe is... well, at least promising to better itself, I'll start adding new content again.

Well, okay. I actually have a bunch of new pictures I ought to put up, and I only realized this because I got some previews from a photo shoot on Wednesday. (The pictures are TEH AWESOME, by the way.)

I guess this means I ought to update my fanclub, also. Hm.

Land of the Gods

No Valhalla for me.

I'm sort of on the fence between sad (Dammit, I really, really wanted to go to this) and angry (goddammit stupid cars and argh always at the worst time when I have no money post move), and if we want to make it a three-way fence, well, I feel lonely and left out too. I can make the Gaskells, but it's not the same. Argh.

Some people are idiots

people.tribe.net/ladykales...a5315c6f31

By which I mean, if I was going to show you nipples, you'd be paying for it. And you'd be paying me a LOT for it.

Asshole.