Monthly Archives: September 2008

September 17, 2008 · 5:46 pm

Ahoy, matey!

This is a follow-up to the previous awesome post. FYI- currently Red Square is testing its sound system (aka- a boombox) with torturous Spanish R&B. Maybe it’s Enrique Inglesias and his monster mole. Whoever it is, he keeps bellowing “MIRA!” Well, look here Red Square, take your Spanish sap somewhere else. I’ve got important digi-diarying to do.

So in the previous post, I referred to a top secret, highly classified story I was working on about the old man and the sea. But in this case, its an old man, a bunch of twentysomethings and a lake. So here’s the deal. There’s this fellow named Poppa Neutrino and he builds rafts out of scrap materials- a nicer euphemism for garbage. He’s been doing this for about 30 years. He sailed across the Atlantic on a raft called Son of Town Hall. He’s certifiably on another planet, and I mean that with all due respect. I’d like to buy a ticket on the commuter rocketship to his planet.

Well, Poppa Neutrino is here in Burlington. He’s decided that he’s going to live here until he dies, or until the winds change and a flight of fancy carries him elsewhere. Poppa is way too hard to explain in this blog post. Plus I’m not ready to write about him until I sit down to do the story, which will be out in this Saturday’s Free Press. I will tell you that he’s got a Santa beard, two teeth and wears Oxford semi-brogues with no laces. His constant companion is a Boston terrier named Betty Boop.

Anyway, Poppa Neutrino is sort of a messianic character and like all good messiahs, has quite a following. Here in Burlington, they’re called the Owl Party, the only political party that doesn’t claim to know anything. Apparently. So the Owl Party is planning to build a 100-foot raft on Lake Champlain that will house 30 people and have room for art studios, a bowling alley and shuffleboard on the deck. They’ve been meeting for a month and they just began building last week. Every Wednesday night they have a potluck behind Radio Bean, so I decided to go and check it out.

What a narc I felt like! I get to the potluck and everyone’s sort of artsy and counter-culture and against the man. Here I am in my fleece jacket (so stylish) and my work clogs, looking like a total dork while trying to avoid everyone’s direct gaze. Plus, I work for MSM! Ahhhh! I might as well have horns and a pitchfork. Or be the CEO of Exxon/Mobil. Or ConAgra. Anyway, I chatted with some folks, but once they realized that I was Lois Lane, girl reporter, they made some lame excuse why they had to leave. “Um, I have to, um, go darn my sock.”

During the meeting in the heroine alley, they talked a lot about the sense of community they all felt and the fact that “something big” was happening. Now, I’ve never been a joiner and I have my doubts about a 100-foot junk raft coming to fruition, but it would be pretty cool if we had people living on rafts in the lake. Poppa said that if anyone in the Owl Party became crappy, they would build him his own raft, but he wouldn’t be allowed to live with other people. I like it. Maybe we should just put prisoners on rafts by themselves and anchor them in the middle of the lake. It would at least make navigation interesting for all the Frenchies who come down from Canadialand with their lightning fast cigarette boats.

I plan on following along as they get more involved in the planning and building process. But until it’s built, I’ll just be a landlubber skeptic.

If you want to learn more about Poppa Neutrino, check out this great book by New Yorker reporter Alec Wilkinson- The Happiest Man in the World: An account of the life of Poppa Neutrino. A living legend, here in Burlington. Hurrah!

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· 5:12 pm

Beer, boats and b*tches

Tallyho, Besties!

It’s good to be back. I didn’t actually go anywhere; I’ve just been too lazy to post anything. So much for that brand-building. But in my own defense, I have been really busy and a lot of really fun things have been going on in my life. Like…I’m currently removing a wart from my arm with duct tape and salicylic acid. Also, I’ve discovered that after 30 years of retching every time I look at shredded coconut, I actually like it. And I’ve been spending a lot of time lately measuring my daily gum recession. Screw the economy! I’m worried about my dental work.

But none of this has flip-all to do with my work, which is what I’m supposed to be writing about. I’ve been doing some fun stuff lately. Some of it is top secret and I can’t tell you about it. But here’s what I can tell you. I’m writing about a cool lady in Essex Junction who makes her own beer (and then pours it all over herself and runs around her neighborhood screaming “Yar, this grog tastes like bilge!”). And I just did a video about the big dog party at Shelburne Museum. I’m pretty sure I sat in pee, but that’s just between you and me. Ok, you wore me down, so I’ll tell you what is so top secret. I’m following an emerging story about an old guy who’s building a 100-ft. raft on Lake Champlain. My biggest question is what do you do with the poop when you’re living on a raft in a lake. I’ve been assured the vessel will have “marine sanitation facilities,” which I think just means hanging your bum over the gunwales and lettin’ it rip.

Since we have already established that I’m a lazy sack, I’m going to condense the three possible posts into one exceptionally brilliant post. Be forewarned- this might be the best damn thing you’ve ever read. And by best, I mean it’s probably better than the glittering prose on the back of your shampoo bottle.

We start our combo deal post at the home of Anne Whyte, Vermont’s most famous breweress. I’m not sure if breweress is even a word, but I’m digging it. I thought it would be rad to write a profile of a local home brewer for Oktoberfest, which starts this Saturday in Munich. Not many people of the female variety get into brewing, so Whyte is a bit of an anomaly.

I love doing stories where I know nothing about the topic, which is pretty much every story except those about bikes, home wart remedies and apartments that smell like dogs. In this case, I am a teetotaler and beer ain’t my thang. But Whyte never knew that. She and I bantered back and forth about lagers and ales and pilsners and ports and everything in between. I knew enough about barley wine to be dangerous and reasonably conversant (thank Christ for my 22-year-old beer snob sibling) and luckily I had recently had a sip of a gaggy spiced fall beer and I could tell her just how gaggy I thought it was.

After spending more than an hour in Whyte’s kitchen brewery, I was wasted from the smell of the mash and the hops. Such a lightweight! Then she pulled out some sample beers for Glenn, our inimitable photog, and me, our office temperance unionist. I couldn’t blow my cover and tell her thanks, but no thanks. Glenn didn’t think twice about swilling some frosty brews mid-afternoon, but then, he has two teenage daughters and I’d do the same if I was him. So I had to accept the beer. We had a little tasting and a little chat about the flavors and then Whyte went back to cooking up her brew.

But then, just as I was thinking of heading out, she pulled some more samples from her expansive beer cellar and forced Glenn and me to drink them. Now, I’m not saying that I was drunk, but let’s just say that a few pedestrians did have to jump off of the sidewalk to avoid my car. Ok, drunk driving isn’t a funny thing. We only probably had a half of a beer total. I’m just embellishing for the sake of this pathetic blog.

I’m going to end this post now because it’s already longer than John McCain is old. You can read all about the “boats and b*tches” part of the title in another post.

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September 2, 2008 · 9:57 pm

Liveblogging experiment gone awry

The following are live blog posts from the first day of school, which was last Wednesday. Which means these aren’t actually live. Details.

8/27/08, 11:27 a.m.–

So I’m sitting outside on the “structure” at Allen Brook School in Williston. Ms. Deforge’s class has recess before heading into lunch. Personally, I’d prefer lunch before recess, but that’s just me. I’m hanging out with Ms. Deforege’s 1/2 class for the first day of school. I’m already exhausted and it’s barely the halfway point. Already, we’ve done a scavenger hunt, read a book, p[layed some name games, had snack, leaned how to properly wash our hands and probably more stuff that I’m forgetting because I’m old.

During the scavenger hunt, I felt like a leper because none of the kids would talk to me. But before long, I had about a dozen small humans sitting in my lap. I was minding my own business, but kids, like dogs, find any available lap they can.

Recess seems awesome. I wish there was recess during my work day. If I could swing on a swingset or shoot some hoops during lunch, I’d prbably be a whole lot m ore productive. Also, if I had more juice boxes and Jello cups in my life, things would be a heck of a lot better.

Ok, I’m off to climb the monkey bars.

Here’s a picture of Ms. Deforge reading to us.
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8/27/08, 12:20 p.m.–

I stole away from reading workshop to file a little blog about lunch. How can anyone eat in only 20 minutes? It takes me that long just to unfold my napkin. Well, if you’re in elementary school, apparently you have a smaller stomach and thus consume less food. That food takes less time to eat, so the logic goes. Well, if you’re an adult-sized human, 20 minutes is enough time to down two bites of pasta, three forkfuls of corn and half a pear in light syrup.

Despite not having must time, I quite enjoyed myself. Matthew, Emily, Katie, Bray and I had a riveting convo about fruits and vegetables and how they don’t like any of them, except kiwis, avocados, artichokes and peas. Everyone loves peas. I confessed that I ate a plant-based diet and they didn’t quite get that. “I don’t eat meat,” I said. “Does that mean you don’t eat steak,” Matthew asked. “Does that mean you don’t eat salmon?” Bray asked. I love kids.

Here’s what I ate for lunch. Don’t be jealous.

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8/27/08, 2:21 p.m.–

I just played a cracking game of octopus tag and now I’m a sweaty mess. Here’s a friendly tip from me to you- do not wear Dansko clogs when playing octopus tag. That’s just asking for a trip to the emergency room.

Naturally, I crushed at octopus tag. Those kids didn’t stand a chance. I wasn’t about to let them win just because I have about four feet on them with my wingspan. Think Michael Phelps. Anyway, I’m pretty sure I’ve gotten my cardio for the day.

We’re getting ready to go, thank god. I’m exhausted. I need to go pay attention so I don’t miss my bus. I need a contingency plan if I do, though. I wonder if Ms. Deforge would give a pathetic reporter a ride home.

Here’s a pic from our wicked game of tag.

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I’m happy I’m not in first grade anymore,  mostly because I can’t really hack it. It’s too tiring. I’m better at sitting at a desk and writing. Be sure to check Thursday’s Free Press for a complete story about the first day of school. And check back on my blog, oberandout, for a better, more thoughtful digidiary.

PS- Every kid here has had to go to the bathroom about 50 times. In the last minute.

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· 9:08 pm

Back to School Redux

Dear Digidiary,

This is your bestie Lauren here. It’s been a while, I know, but I’ve got a good excuse. I went back to school last week. Wednesday to be exact. And boy am I pooped. I spent the day at Allen Brook School in Williston and I only just recently woke up. I had to take a week-long nap after all that activity.

I thought it would be super clever of me to go to school for a day with the kiddies. I’d ride the schoolbus, sit in class, eat in the cafeteria, make rubber cement boogers, play on the monkey bars and then head home. I had no idea that I’d need 168 hours of straight sleep to recover.

My day began at 6 a.m. I had to be at the bus stop by 7 a.m. for the big back to school bus stop bash thrown by one of the neighborhood parents. I rolled out of bed, wiped the sleep from my eyes, stumbled into the shower and somehow managed to clothe myself. It wasn’t until later in the day that I realized my underwear was on backwards. Oops.

I drove over to the bus stop and waited with my new school friends. I felt a little out of place because I didn’t have new shoes with lights or wheels built into the heels and my backpack wasn’t the size of a juvenile gorilla. But nobody looked at me askance. Neither parents nor students even batted an eye when I boarded the bus for my first day of first grade. (Disclaimer- I have actually been to first grade before when I was six. I passed with flying colors, but got bad marks for my apparent lack of self control. Hmmph.)

Riding the bus is not fun. I hated it when I was in school and I didn’t even take the bus. It’s so stressful figuring out where you’re going to sit. I shuffled to the middle of the bus and found a sweet-faced boy named Justin who looked like he wouldn’t mind a lame-o adult sitting next to him for the duration of the ride. I was right. Justin was lovely. We talked about Boy Scout camp (I’ve never been) and his favorite subject (art, at which I am crapola).

Here’s me on the bus:
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The bus ride was turning out way better than I anticipated, until we made a few unexpected stops in unfamiliar neighborhoods. The bus regulars nearly mutinied when they saw all these newbies boarding. Within minutes the bus became a clown car of limbs clad in back to school finery. Bob, the kindly bus driver, instructed us to triple up on the seats. Justin and I squeezed close as we were joined by a wee thing called Lily. Lily wasn’t sure what grade she was in. She told me I’d have to ask her mom. I’m guessing she was a kindergartner. I’m hoping that she was at least school-aged and that her parents didn’t just drop her off at the bus stop because the babysitter cancelled.

With me riding in the middle, flanked by Lily and Justin, our little bench seat was nice and cozy. It felt good to feel my shoulders brushing against my earlobes and those bruises on my knees still look quite fetching. What a great way to start the day- on a school bus filled with 3,000 screaming children.

One of those children seemed very interested in me. She kept craning her neck around to see me. Perhaps she felt bad about my bum seating situation. Finally she opened her mouth to ask me a question. “Whose class are you in?” she asked matter-of-factly. It didn’t really occur to her that if I was still in school, I’d probably be in 23rd grade by now. So I went with it. I told her I was in Ms. Deforge’s class. Satisfied, she turned back around.

FYI- If any of you three readers are wondering what kind of clothing is in with the under-12 set, it’s madras, madras, madras. And a little tartan thrown in for good measure. I’ve been waiting for madras to become more than just Hamptons-wear.

By the time we alighted the bus, I was ready for a stiff drink, a snack and a nap, not necessarily in that order. Kim Deforge, perhaps the world’s nicest first/second-grade teacher, was kind enough to let me hang out with her class for the day, as long as I kept my yap shut and sit in the back. I found it nearly as hard to do as an adult as it was when I was a kid. I found myself wanting to blurt out answers whenever Deforge asked questions.

I won’t bore you with the minutae of my day, but I will give you some highlights/observations.

- Never trust boys with long eyelashes. They will always get you in trouble. A long-lashed little fellow named Noah wouldn’t stop talking to me about his pets. He nearly got me sent to the principal’s office.

- Girls in first grade don’t worry about anyone seeing their underwear. All of them sit crosslegged regardless of whether they are wearing skirts. When do people start caring about those things?

- Regardless of how old you are, Madlibs are always awesome.

- Sitting criss-cross applesauce is a lot harder after two knee operations and that unfortunate affliction, old age.

-Recess seems way shorter than when I was a tot. Though come to think of it, I never got to experience recess much. I was always “on the wall.”

Lunch should have been a highlight of the day, but I barely had time to unforld my napkin let alone eat my pasta, corn and pears in light syrup. As I shoveled the food in my mouth, the corn spilled into the pears and made for an unappetizing mix of food. Then the kids started getting up and I figured I had to go with them. I took one last bite of food before scraping my leftovers into the compost bin. It was a bite of food that nearly was my last, ever. The food went down the wrong pipe and by down I mean it got sucked up into my sinuses. I nearly had to go to the school nurse.

I pushed through my post-lunchtime food coma and rallied for storytime and octopus tag. Then it was time to go. Not a minute too soon because I was pooped. I rode the bus back, though this time I sat next to a skeptical fifth-grader whose name I never got. She couldn’t figure out why I would want to go to elementary school for the day. To tell you the truth, inquisitive no-name fifth-grade girl, neither can I.

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