Gas is FREE! No strings attached!

Gas is FREE! No strings attached!

Mitsubishi Motors current offer, "Gas Comes Standard", offers you a free years' worth of gas (12,000 miles at $2.95/gallon) if you buy one of their cars.

The commercial has pictures of lots of cars and SUVs driving fast, along with high gas station price boards. The website for the campaign claims that "there's only one way to beat the high price of gas," which is to get it for free, buying a car with total irreverence for fuel efficiency. I honestly thought they were going to announce a hybrid or a highly efficient new model. So naive I am.

Here we are giving away free gas and loosening environmental standards to allow more polluting foreign blends of fuel to be consumed in the US. Why aren't we instead asking people to drive less? Why have auto manufacturers stopped producing electric cars? The message is that conservation really isn't necessary. There's plenty of fuel! And if it feels like there's a shortage, well, hell, they'll either pay for our gas so we're more likely to buy a less-efficient car, or just claim that since we're running out we need to drill every last inch and start allowing dirtier blends. It's an emergency. Congress will pass anything.

There's no doubt that gas shortages in Texas last week caused a true emergency as thousands upon thousands tried to evacuate. But the shortage isn't the emergency: it's our unwillingness to consider change; our unwillingness to be outraged at Mitsubishi's propose solution for our expensive fuel bills.

Even though he can sometimes be a total and slightly embarassing liberal whack, I heartily endorse Kalle Lasn's commentaries on "true cost" economics in his book, Culture Jam.

More than any other product, the car stands as a symbol of the need for a true-cost marketplace, wherein the price you pay for a car reflects all the costs of production and operation. That doesn't just mean paying the manufacturing cost plus markup, plus oil, gas and insurance. It means paying for the pollution, for building and maintaining the roads, for the medical costs of accidents and the noise and aesthetic degradation caused by urban sprawl. It means paying for traffic policing and for military protection of oil fields and supply lines.

The true cost of a car must also include the real but hard-to-estimate environmental cost to future generations of dealing with the oil- and ozone-depletion and climate-change problems the car is creating today. If we added up the best available estimates, we'd come to a startling concluion: The fossil fuel-based automotobile industry is being subsidized by unborn generations to the tune of hundreds of billions of dollars every year. Whey should they have to pay to clean up our mess?

In the true-cost marketplace of the future, no one will prevent you from driving. You will simply have to pay the real cost of piloting your ton of metal, spewing a ton of carbon out of the tailpipe every year. Your private automobile will cost you, by some estimates, around $100,000. And a tankful of gas, $250.

He's sort of doing the Fox News-esque "some" bibliography, but still. I agree with him. We have run out of time for this consumptive behavior. Giving people free gas in exchange for irreverent automobile purchases right now is like laughing in the faces of my unborn children.

I think offers like Mitsubishi's should be illegal. And if that makes me a socialist, sign me up.

Forever marked.

Forever marked.

This weekend, our best friends' youngest daughter, Natalie, was baptised. It was such a beautiful weekend here, with your standard-issue San Diego weather: moderately warm, sunny, slightly breezy skies. It's why we all pay the mark-up to live here. Sarah and Scott met up with us for breakfast Saturday morning, for a so-so performance of the usually spectacular Ranchos Cucina. It was great to get a little time with them before the relatives and friends started pouring in, and also before big sister Grace's 15 hour sleepless marathon. We played a little at the new house and in Balboa Park, and then parted while we prepared for the reception we were hosting at our condo. I hadn't really planned anything. When we have parties, there are usually many lists involved. Shopping, to-do, timeline for day-of preparations, etc. This time I had absolutely no lists. SHUDDER THE THOUGHT.

It was a wonderful evening, despite being ill-prepared, party because someone brought a portable zoo kit for the kids to play with on the front porch, and there was plenty of beer and apple juice. But it was wonderful mostly because we were all there to support one little girl in her lifelong walk with Christ. God has had remarkable plans for sweet Natalie for a long time, and one day it will be her choice to embrace these plans and continue her journey of faith. But Sunday morning, we poured a little water on her and welcomed her unconditionally with arms wide open into the body of Christ.

After the priest poured the water on her, he handed her to me. Sweet confused wet baby. Then, there was a little annointing of oil. It's always my favorite part of baptisms, because the baby always seems completely captivated by the priest as he draws a tiny little oil cross on their forehead, saying, "something something something, you are marked as Christ's own forever." It's like they can feel it happening. As she snugged into the crook of my arm, I watched as she stared right at the priest. I felt like I totally lucked out. Like, who was I to get to hold her for this part? Even after watching the scene countless times, it was life-changing beyond words to stand there and hold her then.

I can only pray that Erik and I, her godparents, might have a fraction of the impact on Natalie that she and her family have already had on our relationships with God. But I look forward to trying, and I look forward to being there for Natalie along her walk with God. Well, she's not quite crawling yet, but she flails and wriggles around on the floor. I'll totally flail and wriggle with God too.

Sweet little powerbook.

Sweet little powerbook.

This right here is my first submission to the infonet from our new powerbook. First of all, it's swanky and lovely. Second of all, just a few minutes ago marked my first viewing of my blog on a Mac or on Safari (swoon). It looks bad. I'm unhappy. Surely a kind soul out there knows my tendencies (some would say "neuroses," but everyone hates a critic), and would wonder why the font in the cagefighter graphic is a little wonky, or WHY THE WHOLE BANNER IS NOT CENTERED, but for some reason chose not to tell me. It's like I don't even know you anymore!

As soon as I figure out how I can fix it, I promise that I will. I apologize for the last three years of ignorance. In the meantime, I will be taking suggestions. And salutations for finally entering the elitist underground subculture club of Mac users worldwide.

Also, another thing we reluctantly enjoyed with our old Gateway Profile (hiss) was the lovely WinXP option of setting up multiple user accounts. I could actually IM Erik and it would be waiting for him when he switched over. I could store my gmail password to memory. How can we work with two sets of usernames and passwords? Help please.

Thank you. Please hold for normal posts, resuming shortly. Depth is forthcoming; aluminum is strangely inspiring. JUST YOU WAIT.

Two years.

Two years.

Today is our two year wedding anniversary. It's been kind of a remarkable day, what with our house closing in the morning and two of our really close and sweet and lovely friends finding out that they're finally pregnant. Yay! But, you know. The usual.


September 20th, 2003

Two years. They flew by. It hasn't even really occured to me that we don't have our pictures organized in an album (but damn it, I coded them into a gallery!), nor did I ever unbustle or clean my dress, nor did we ever eat the top of our cake. I actually have no idea what happened to the top of the cake. To all of the cake in fact. I know that the baker cashed our deposit check a few months after the wedding, so I'm not sure what that means.

These things really don't matter, and dude, if we haven't done them yet, we're clearly not going to do them ever. Dress preservation and aging cakes are so overrated anyway.

Yesterday, as we were running late (my fault) to meet the realtor for the walk-through, I said to Erik, "I am pleased that you're my husband. Are you pleased that I'm your wife?" He nodded, and then slammed on the brakes as we hit a traffic jam. Then I said, "...Even when I make you late?" [pause, silence]. "I mean, even though I make you late?"

I am indeed pleased. With Erik, sometimes it feels like there aren't even any little things to be all "even though" about.

I totally scored.

Hairy toes are just another sign my youth is slipping away.

Hairy toes are just another sign my youth is slipping away.

After a few days of opening this blog to see my toes - and dude, they're distance-runner toes, and they can be kind of hairy in certain lighting - I had to update the blog for the singular purpose of bumping the picture with my toes.

Things are going well, as long as I don't think about work. In fact, if I hadn't carpooled yesterday, I might have quit. But I needed to give Matt a ride home so I figured I'd stick around. Speaking of Matt, these final carpooling days are going to start getting bittersweet. Soon I'll be moving, far away from our favorite little Park-N-Ride, and making all new carpool buddies. What if they're not as flexible? What if they don't participate in trash talking? What if they like country music? (Well, Matt likes country music. We can only agree upon no music, bluegrass, or Johnny Cash). I digress - what if they only like bad country music? What if they don't appreciate my friends drunk dialing them from my phone like that one time with the margaritas and the phones back when Matriarch Sarah had about a two week window where she could drink?

I feel like I need to somehow commemorate the carpool breakup. Maybe we could tailgate in the Park-N-Ride lot and blast bluegrass, drink margaritas, talk trash about work, and drunk dial Sarah, preferably at a time when we won't wake up any of her sleeping babies. So much has changed since our halycon days of drinking with whoever we want without any fetal alcohol syndrome side effects or disturbing naptime or having corporate jobs with carpool buddies. Our lives are zooming by us, and I fully intend to appreciate the little moments, the little rites of passage, the little hairless toes of youth.

Wish you were [there].

Wish you were [there].



This weekend I went to Maui. I know, I know. I really do have a rough life. The best part is that my trip was pretty much all paid for, as I was asked to be on music staff for a retreat out there. I went without Erik (gasp!), which was such sad times, but, and you didn't hear this from me, kind of nice to get a bed to myself for once.

Four and a half days later, the persistent heat and humidity did not in fact end up being a four-and-a-half-day facial and instead made me ripe for biting. I am covered in mosquito bites. I spent most of my time a little bit inland, just outside of the great town of Haiku. It felt like a jungle.

I am also dead tired. Somehow, I had the bright idea of coming straight to work after a redeye flight. Please allow this to also explain my haphazard sentence structure. I do have a lot of pictures, but, because I came straight to work, they are still stuck on the camera. The ones in this post are cameraphoney.



Side note: here's where I totally had to explain my penchant for group and solo self portraiture, especially because there were always plenty of idle people standing around able and willing to take pictures. I guess I take for granted the fact that Erik is immune to my "art projects" and/or the people I spend most of my time with are a little more understanding of the blogging/self-portraiture culture.

Also upcoming, after a little work and sleep: details and pictures of my sweet ex-work-boyfriend's rowdy Jewish wedding in Mexico. Remember, dear reader, the days of Joel the work-boyfriend who work-broke-up with me?

I still love you, Prius. Hybrids 4EVA.

I still love you, Prius. Hybrids 4EVA.

Let me preface this by reminding you all that we are a proud hybrid-owning family. We were very excited at the prospect of getting a fancy little sticker allowing us solo access to the carpool/HOV lane, since the federal government allowed CA to do so a few weeks ago.

This weekend, we finally got our stickers. Yes, plural stickers. There are four of them. They are HUGE. They are bright yellow. And all four have to be affixed permanently to the car, interspersed along our shiny smooth Prius bumpers.

They look exactly like this, but SEVEN INCHES LONG:



I've been cracking myself up commiserating with this thread at greenhybrid.com.

From an LA times article linked in the thread:

They're big. They're ugly. They're offensive. So say owners of the hybrid Toyota Prius -- not about larger gas-guzzlers that hog the road but about the decals the state is handing out that allow hybrid owners to drive solo in carpool lanes.

Prius owners cheered when Congress approved solo driving in carpool lanes last month.

But a growing number of drivers are now protesting because the California Highway Patrol is requiring that four bright yellow decals -- 7 by 3 inches and 5 by 2 inches in size -- be displayed on their cars.

I firmly believe this is karma coming back to bite us in the ass. We were so proud. We were so smug about our fancy little efficient cars. So holier than thou. This is everybody else's mustard-yellow way of getting back at us. If they can tell that our one inch registration sticker is current or that someone is carpooling with a two year old in the back seat without four gigantic stickers permanently marring the paint, then they can certainly tell that we're driving one of three approved hybrid vehicles eligible for HOV access. And hell, it's up in the air whether the stickers will mean anything after 2007.

I'm guessing the guy who designed the access sticker and placement requirements doesn't drive a hybrid. Bitch.

Recommended reading.

Recommended reading.

A retired priest and parishoner at my church, Bill Mahedy, gave this sermon yesterday morning. It was incredible. Luckily, he's also a blogger and had the sermon on his website right away.

Reflections On The Hurricane

I promise, it is worth reading every single word.

And you'll be comfortable in your ergonomic desk chair, instead of sitting in the second row on wooden pews, trying to take stealth sips of your latte while the priest isn't looking, because the senior warden should totally know better than to bring a latte into church.

Bill has such an amazing voice for a Christianity in crisis. This sermon changed my life a little bit, and armed me to be fully vocal for a more socialist concept of government and public life. [Especially stumbling across the U.S-Mexico border in stillettos on the way home from Joel's wedding last night. More on that later (the wedding and/or the border juxtaposition.)]