The envelope please ...

Even before foot No. 1 has stepped onto this year's red carpet I already suspect I'll wind up disappointed in the Academy Awards tomorrow night.

Whatever movie wins best picture will be a rip, since three of my tops of the year -- "Revolutionary Road," "The Wrestler" and "Synecdoche, New York" -- aren't even nominated. The smart money for the best picture Oscar is on "Slumdog Millionaire," the feel-good love story set in Mumbai, India, and told through the lens of a popular TV game show. That's fine, I guess. Michelle and I just saw "Slumdog" last week, and while neither of us felt it deserved all the hype I certainly get why people like it. In down times like these, it feels good to feel good.

Other overrated films getting a lot of attention, in my view: "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" (gimmicky storytelling, OK popcorn flick, but not all that), and "Doubt" (great performances, but stillborn cinematically as a play that didn't quite make the turn). We didn't see "Frost/Nixon" as a movie, but did catch it on Broadway with the original cast -- superb! -- and I was afraid the hamfisted director Ron Howard would ruin the memory for me.

"The Wrestler" should definitely be nominated for best picture, but since it's not I hope the star Mickey Rourke wins best actor. He deserves it. Another favorite performance (and film) around here was Sean Penn in "Milk," a movie that I found strangely uplifting, strangely being that it's a true story about bigotry and assassination.

I'm not as invested in the Oscars this year as I somtimes am, at least not financially. At work I always participated in the office Oscar pool -- won it the last year I was still at the P-I, in fact, scoring some free movie tickets and popcorn certificates -- but I haven't been tracking all the odds and prognostication this year.

One of these days I expect Michelle and I will be in the Kodak Theater on Oscar night, waiting for her name to be called in the original screenplay category. Or maybe to watch Gina grab a statue for best director, or Franny for best actress.

Whatever the outcome this year, we always enjoy watching the Oscars around here and I'm sure we'll be tuned in tomorrow, with the Tivo set as a backup. I'm also hoping to check in at The Cooler, where Jason will be live-blogging the show and, as a bonus, signed up his friend Allison, of the riotously entertaining blog Tales From LaLa Land, to cover the red carpet pre-show. Check it out.

Will you be watching? What are your picks for the big categories? Let the bickering begin!

Something to get the argument started: the trailer for "Synecdoche," which no one seemed to like but the Matassalosis.

Same as it ever was

So what did you get for your last birthday? A new tie? Maybe a nice dinner out? A piece of chocolate cake? I've got a girlfriend better than that, and nothing is better than this: David Byrne at Benaroya Hall.

As you know, Michelle took me to Byrne's Seattle concert on Wednesday night, my birthday, and it was one of the all-time great presents.

Michelle is such a huge fan of Byrne -- and especially of his groundbreaking 1970s and '80s band Talking Heads -- that she was afraid I'd consider the tickets a gift for herself. Like if I took her to a Bob Dylan show for her birthday (which I might have done, come to think of it). But no, I always loved the Talking Heads too, and except for the famous 1984 movie "Stop Making Sense" I'd never seen Byrne in concert.

Wednesday's show was everything I hoped. He brilliantly mixed classic Talking Heads stuff with music from last year's album "Everything That Happens Will Happen Today." (That's a terrific record, by the way, one of my favorites of the year. I was surprised to find just now that I didn't include on my Best of 2008 list, but now I remember I put the list together before I heard it; a friend, responding to my list, turned me on to "Everything That Happens.")

At 56 now, Byrne has barely changed from his classic "Stop Making Sense" look and sound, except for his now-white hair. Still whip-thin, constantly in motion, fluid and jangly, he looks like he could still rock a really big suit. I thought about wearing my own big suit to the show, but somewhere along the line it turned into a really small suit.

The Talking Heads may be no more, but the instrumentation, staging and showmanship Wednesday night were all vintage. Byrne played electric or acoustic guitar most of the night, backed by bass, keyboards, two drummers, three backup vocalists and three remarkable dancers. All 11 wore white (slim white pants and shirts for the men; short white dresses for the women), and they executed precise, intricate and energetic moves throughout the two-hour show. Every second seemed choreographed, and beautifully. His collaborations with Twyla Tharp weren't for nothing.

You may ask yourself, is this my rock venue? Benaroya Hall, normally home of the Seattle Symphony, turned out to be a wonderful host for a new-wave concert. The place is beautiful, and it held its great sound from the standing O that openend the show through the four encores including the scorcher "Burning Down the House."

Byrne's voice was supple and rich as it ever was. The concert goes in my Pantheon for sure. Thank you, baby, for an awesome birthday.

Last year we went to Paris. Gosh, what'll we do when I turn 50?

Here's a taste of Byrne back in the day, "Girlfriend is Better," from "Stop Making Sense."

Almondy!

We're just back from the incredible David Byrne concert -- more to come on that, including the terrific slide show Michelle is working on now -- but first I wanted to note the day's other highlight, an afternoon visit by Gina and Franny. They came bearing a cute birthday card and, better than a cake, my favorite treat from West Seattle's Bakery Nouveau, an almond croissant. Around here, those go by the shorthand nickname "almondy!" so when they arrived we all three shouted in unison: "Almondy!"

Very tasty with a cup of coffee. We also played four highly competitive games of Wii bowling. "Throw it hard and crash the pins," as my brother-in-law Manuel used to say at a real bowling alley. Those girlies crash the virtual pins pretty hard.

I'm having to resort to tricks to stay a few pins ahead. Look, over there, the Jonas Brothers!

One thing planned, two to go

Today's my birthday and among several nice greetings I received was this note from my friend Denny Heck in Olympia: "I challenge you to do three fun things today -- three things you wouldn't ordinarily do!"

Well, OK then. I like that. An unusual birthday wish and a challenge to boot.

For my birthday Michelle is taking me tonight to a David Byrne concert here in Seattle. I'm really looking forward to that. I love his music but have never seen him live. So that's one fun thing I wouldn't normally do.

I'm still accepting suggestions for two other things. So far all I've been able to come up with is: Do an honest day's work and get a good night's sleep. Nothing ordinary for me about either of those, although it's already too late in the day to pull off the first.

I need to run out now and get a blood draw and buy some overpriced anti-seizure drugs, but I don't think those errands count as unusual or especially fun.

Hit me with a couple of ideas before tonight's concert!

Happy Birthday, Gina!

We interrupt this long lull in blogging to post birthday wishes for daughter No. 1, Gina Matassa, who turns 16 today. Incredible.

A year ago I noted Gina's smarts, independence, writing ability and interest in movies. All that has deepened in the past year, as she and her friends filmed a remake of "Sweeney Todd" (unfinished), wrote and filmed an original movie, "Stella" (in editing now), and began work on another screenplay, as yet untitled. She can talk movies all day and identify composers mid-film without seeing the credits, as she did last week when we saw "Revolutionary Road" (score by Thomas Newman, it turns out). She and Michelle have really connected on the craft and pursuit of screenwriting. Gina's favorite Christmas present: Charlie Kaufman's original screenplay of "Synecdoche, New York."

She also has turned into quite the cook. With occasional help from her sister Franny or from Michelle or me, Gina whips up delicious and healthy meals, often without a recipe or in an untried cuisine. A couple of weeks ago, a terrific Thai dinner. (Gina just now texted me from school to say she was eating an "awesome pasta salad" that she made herself for lunch.)

As my dad would have said after his trademark birthday question ("How does it feel to be 16?"), "What a beautiful age!"

It is. And as Grandma Rita always says, "Live it up!"

Do that, Gina. Happy Birthday, sweet girl.

(I took the above photo of Gina last June while they were shooting a scene for "Stella" in Pioneer Square.)

What are you thankful for?

One thing I like about Thanksgiving is that you never have to worry about wishing someone a happy one. There are few religious or cultural considerations that can lay political-correctness mines. Almost everyone participates -- whether they take time to reflect on their blessings, spend the day watching football and gorging on food, or like my whack sister Lisa preparing for a post-turkey, pre-dawn Black Friday trip to the mall.

It's not a "happy holidays" holiday, but Happy Thanksgiving. That's cool, I think.

This week, my old LA Times colleague Steve Lopez -- the best newspaper columnist in the country -- spent an afternoon at Farmer's Market near the old M&M domicile in Los Angeles. He sat down with a cardboard sign asking "What are you thankful for?" and waited for customers.

The response made for a typically Lopez-esque stew of lyricism, emotion and humor. It's a great read.

One older gentleman said he was thankful for four things. Family. Health. "And I'm old, and I forgot the other two."

Me, I'm thankful for all the things I mentioned last year, plus a few more: our cool Pie in the Sky road trip; reconnection with more old friends in the past year, including Jason over at The Cooler; and the vast medical bureaucracy, without which I wouldn't have much to keep me busy during those long hours that Michelle's at work.

What are you thankful for?

"Happy holidays" to all of M&M-ville, regulars and lurkers alike.

Streeter

With apologies for the poor photo above, one of the highlights of last week was our dinner Wednesday night with Kurt Streeter, on the right, along with his cool mom Kathy, on the left and, next to Michelle, Kurt's wife Vanashree and our mutual friend Athima.

Kurt and I worked together in Los Angeles and he was one of my favorite reporters: curious, enterprising, incredibly hard-working and always striving to improve. But his best quality, as a reporter and a person, is his huge heart; he's just a great, great guy, one you feel lucky to count as a friend. Kurt grew up in Seattle, so we had the city as a common background, and his parents met at the University of Oregon, a second link. In fact, they had some celebrity there: Mel was a star basketball player for the Ducks -- the fourth African-American ever to play there, and one of only six black on campus at the time -- and he and Kathy were one of the first interracial couples to marry in Oregon.

Kurt grew up as a tennis prodigy, winning a Seattle City Champsionship and many junior events before becoming captain of the University of California tennis team and later turning pro. At one point as a junior he roomed with Andre Agassi at tennis camp. Read about that here.

When we worked together at the LA Times, Kurt was a beat reporter covering Metro, the public transportation system. He did a fine job, and also began spending "off hours" reporting an off-his-beat story that interested him, a feature about a young girl who was a boxer. Long after I left the paper, Kurt wrapped up his sidelight reporting and turned the story into a five-part series, "The Girl," that was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize. Largely based on that, Kurt landed what he calls a dream gig, as a sports columnist for the Times. He's very good.

Anyway, after our very enjoyable dinner at Bizzaro, an Italian place we'd never been in Seattle's Wallingford neighborhood, Kurt and I squabbled a little over the bill. He thought Michelle and I were contributing too much (we weren't), so I told him he could make up the difference by giving me three tennis tips.

Here's what he said:

* "First, read 'The Inner Game of Tennis,'" by Timothy Gallwey.

* "Try to finish," he said. Follow through. Don't check your swing.

* "Definitely keep your eye on the ball."

* "Stay centered and upright. Stay loose. Don't get all hunched over."

OK, great. I even got a bonus suggestion or two. And lord knows my still-unresuscitated game could use the help. So I went online and looked up the Gallwey book. I hadn't heard of it, but apparently this is a classic sports-psychology sermon, from 1972, and I'm sure it's useful for good tennis players.

"The problems which most perplex tennis players are not those dealing with the proper way to swing a racket," the book begins. "The most common complaint of sportsmen ringing down the corridors of the ages is, 'It's not that I don't know what to do, it's that I don't do what I know!'"

Well, actually, that's not the problem that most perplexes me. I'm still dealing with the proper way to swing the racket.

Until the next time I see Kurt, I'm keeping my eye open for "The Outer Game of Tennis."

Promotion

One of the nice things about returning home earlier than planned was that we got to attend Franny's eighth-grade graduation ceremony last week, celebrating promotion from Madison Middle School to high school.


In a way it seems silly to me that the school makes such a big deal about passing the eighth grade, but on the other hand going to high school is a big deal, and the kids all get into it. The girls dress up, some of the boys put on a shirt with buttons, a few of the class leaders and teachers make short little speeches, the school jazz band plays a couple of tunes, everyone gets called up to the stage to receive a certificate (that's Fran getting hers, in the fuzzy photo above), and academic achievers get called out for special attention.

That's where I ended up getting a little annoyed though. Franny's best friend Lacaia (below, with Fran) was one of 27 kids who managed to get through the three years of middle school with a perfect record of straight A's. Quite an achievement, I think, and nice that she and the others were called up to the stage individually to receive a little trophy. But when the stupid principal, Ms. Hudson (who insists on being called Dr. Hudson), got to Lacaia, she bungled her name: "La ... La ... LaCalla?" It's La-cay-a. She messed up Lacaia's last name too, which is even easier.

That made me so mad. Come on, lady! After all the platitudinous speeches about preparation and taking care of the details, you can't take the time to learn the names of 27 outstanding students? Sheesh. What does a kid have to do to get your attention around here, shoot up in the hallway?

Really, I was so bugged I almost walked up to the "doctor" after the ceremony and chewed her out.

Even so, it was a fun night. Frank looked happy and proud. Gina and Greta sat with Michelle and me in the grandstand, and we all mingled afterward in the courtyard, where we ran into Mich and Gabby (she's in Fran's class).

The ceremony was at West Seattle High School, where most of the Madison promotees will attend next year. Gina went there for freshman year but didn't really like it; she and Fran are both moving in the fall to the Center School, which is a smaller arts-oriented school downtown.

Here are Frank and Gina goofing off:


Gabby and a group of her friends. Gab's third from the right, in the blue floral dress:


Franny and her buds:

For Gina and Franny

This is just to see if they're checking the blog.

When we lived in Belmont Shore the girls and I used to stop at this In-N-Out Burger after spending the afternoon boogie-boarding at Huntington Beach. They loved it.


Michelle and I drove by the In-N-Out this afternoon on the way to Kaye's, and I thought of them.

Girlies? Picture comment me!

Whale Watching on Friday

Okay mom, here's the instructions for your whale watching adventure on Friday:

What to Wear/Bring:
The temperature is always a bit cooler on the water than on land because our water temperature is about 48 degrees. Wind off the water can produce a wind chill factor and acts as an instant air conditioning. Having said that, the Island Explorer 3 is very comfortable with plenty of room to get out of the weather. Layered clothing is recommended with comfortable shoes and a wind-breaker jacket. There are a few days in July and August where you could get away with shorts, but not on most days. Generally speaking, we are fortunate to have good weather here in the islands and if you are dressed well and prepared, you’ll be able to enjoy the outside decks a lot more than those who are not prepared.

Check out the rest here.

And this is where we're having lunch on Sunday.

Opening Day for a fair-weather fan

It was unseasonably warm and sunny here a couple of weeks ago when I noticed the Mariners would be hosting Opening Day baseball with an afternoon game, so I went online and bought a ticket. Michelle would be working, I figured, and being able to catch a day game has to be one of the joys of a debilitating illness. My calendar was open ... Play ball!

When I told Michelle of my plan though she protested that she could have scored a half-day off and joined me. I tried to change my single ticket for a pair, but by that time the game was sold out and the Craigslist scalpers wanted way more than I was willing to pay.

Besides, I thought to myself, there are some times when Mich's Springsteen philosophy applies to baseball: that is, when it's best to go alone. In this case, by buying only one ticket I was able to score a good lower-level seat down the third-base line. Also, while I'm often happy to chit-chat through a game and focus much of my attention on my hot dog and peanuts, as Michelle and I like to do, once in a while the baseball geek in me asserts itself and I feel like really concentrating on the game.

Opening Day, although it's usually as much about pomp as baseball, struck me that way this year. I'm a huge baseball fan, but I don't live and die with one team, the way second- or third-generation Cubs and Red Sox fans do, or even the way I felt as a kid about the Willie Mays-era San Francisco Giants. Still, the Ms are my home team and I root for them and watch most of their games. This year the Mariners have a new pitcher, southpaw whiz kid Erik Bedard, whom they traded half the franchise for over the winter and who would be making his debut today. The word on Bedard: many strikeouts, few home runs, a lot of innings pitched. It was a controversial trade but one I supported, and I wanted to see how he did.

So Michelle went off to work and, an hour or so before game time, I donned my Ichiro jersey -- over a sweatshirt, and under my winter coat -- and walked up to the Junction to catch the bus to Safeco Field. Immediately I felt overdressed and too warm. I stopped twice and pondered walking back home to shed the ski jacket for a windbreaker, but I didn't want to miss the opening pitch.

At Safeco, the modern/retro home of the Mariners, I was surprised and disappointed to see the retractable roof was extended over the playing field. After the opening ceremonies and introduction of the players, though, the PA announcer said in his booming voice that Opening Day baseball was "meant to be played on real grass and under blue skies, so let's open the roof!"

And to great fanfare -- the theme from "2001: A Space Odyssey," in fact -- the roof rolled back.

Immediately it was obvious that the blue-skies line was wishful thinking. It had cooled off and clouded up, and even before the roof was all the way open I felt raindrops. By the first pitch the roof was closed again, though without fanfare, or even a clip of Gilda Radner's "Never mind."

Bedard fired the first pitch for strike one and the crowd went crazy. Two more pitches, strike two and strike three, and the cheers were even louder. What a great trade!

He got a called first strike against the Texas Rangers' second batter too, before missing with two balls and then watching as the hitter, shortstop Michael Young, deposited one over the WaMu sign in right field for a home run. Texas 1, Mariners nothing. Suddenly I heard murmurs around me in Section 147 of "Adam Jones," the can't-miss outfield prospect who the Ms traded, with four other guys, to Baltimore for Bedard.

He struggled through the rest of the first inning, though without giving up any more runs, then the Mariners went down 1-2-3, and it was back to another slow, rough (though scoreless) inning for Bedard.

About this time the wind started whipping through the stadium and I decided that my seat, close to the concourse and near an outside breezeway, wasn't as sweet as I'd imagined. An hour into the game it was still only the second inning, and getting yet colder -- I was glad I'd stuck with the jacket -- and beginning to feel like a long afternoon.

After three innings I was really cold and weirdly not that into it and decided to bail. The earliest I've ever left a Major League Baseball game.

Not a great decision, weather-wise. Outside, waiting for the bus back to West Seattle, a driving rain turned to snow -- snow! on Opening Day! -- and I bailed yet again, choosing to wait out the storm at the Starbucks across the street and phoning Michelle for a ride home. What a wuss.

When we got home I turned on the TV to find the Mariners had rallied to win 5-2, though Bedard left before the scoring flurry and didn't figure in the decision. Anyway, the Ms have a winning record, which isn't always to be expected around here.

Tomorrow, Michelle and I are going back for Game 2. She scored us free tickets from the P-I in the snooty (and warmer) Terrace Club.

Here are a few pics from my short day at the park.

Crowds arriving, with downtown Seattle beyond Qwest Field, where the football Seahawks play:


You can almost see our house from here. This is the view from Safeco's upper deck. That peninsula is West Seattle, where we live. On a sunny day you can see the beautiful Olympic Mountains beyond.


The view from my windy seat today. Tomorrow Michelle and I will be just above the scoreboard visible to the left of home plate.


Waiting for a bus in the snow.

Bruce, the real American idol

The last time I saw Bruce Springsteen was on the last M&M visit to the New Orleans Jazz & Hertiage Festival, in 2006, the first Jazzfest following Hurricane Katrina. That was also Bruce's first concert with his Seeger Sessions Band, the rootsy big band he put together to play the folk-blues-gospel music of his new album at the time. Combined with the fresh horror of Katrina, there was something about the sound of that music, plaintive yet uplifting, filled out with horns to give it a New Orleans feel, that was overwhelming. By the time he got to the encore on that sunny late-April day -- as I remember it, "My City of Ruins," "We Shall Overcome" and a dirge-like "When the Saints Go Marching In" -- the show had become a giant emotional release, another levee breaking. I looked around and literally couldn't see one person who wasn't crying.

Hard to top a concert like that, and so when tickets went on sale for a Springsteen show here I wasn't all that surprised that Michelle passed: No huge fan in the first place, she said she felt like she'd already seen him at his best.

But this Seattle gig figured to be no ordinary show; it was the reunion tour of the E Street Band, the hard-rocking group that helped put Springsteen on the map back in the 1970s. I wanted to go, and I knew that my sister Michele, who would happily renounce country, career and family for an evening with Bruce, would be hovering over her keyboard the minute Ticketmaster opened the lines.

"Screen door slams, I'm there," was her line last night.

So I ended up tagging along with Mich and Manuel last night to KeyArena. On the way into town Mich recounted her many previous Springsteen concerts, including one she attended alone a couple of years ago. Going solo "is my favorite way to go," she said, because you can score a ticket up close to the stage. Manuel and I looked at each other. I guess I wasn't the tag-along after all. We were co-third wheels.

Although the concert was supposed to start at 7:30 Bruce and the band didn't take the stage until about 8:40. But they had the audience enthralled from the start. The second song, "Radio Nowhere," the hit of last year's "Magic" CD, has a chorus that seemed to announce the return of the E Streeters and the theme of the night: "I just want to feel some rhythm."

There was plenty of it, too, rocking through much of "Magic," "The Rising" album and several older hits over the next two and a half hours, with three or four down-tempo tunes just to let everyone catch their breath. Except for once or twice, when Bruce introduced a song with a quasi-political speech, most of the songs segued immediately into the next, without so much as a space between chords. They're a hard-working crew, for sure. No need for the fake sweat that Springsteen has been caught applying in years past.

At 58, Springsteen looked great in a black t-shirt, black suit vest and jeans. It's weird to see the aging of the E Street Band though, and as strange as it is fun to see them back together. I mean, drummer Max Weinberg spends most nights these days supplying rim shots for Conan O'Brien. You can't look at guitarist "Little Steven" Van Zandt without seeing his "Sopranos" character, Silvio. And Clarence "The Big Man" Clemons, is more like "The Old Man"; 66 years old now, he had trouble walking to the center of the stage, didn't have much energy for his signature sax lines and sat in a big chair onstage between abbreviated solos.

A lot of the audience at any Springsteen concert are Bruce fanatics (Mich comes pretty close) who can cite set lists from their favorite shows and quote lyrics from any recording. I'm nowhere near that level of fandom, although I own and enjoy several Springsteen albums.

What struck me last night was how reciprocal the relationship was. The fans love him, sure, but he seemed to feel the same. You could fake that, I suppose, as easily as you could spray on a layer of sweat, but if you're as rich and successful and accomplished as Bruce, why would you bother? He doesn't need to tour, or even to make records, if he doesn't want to. He likes it.

Unlike a lot of great artists -- my favorite, Dylan, comes to mind -- Bruce doesn't reinterpret his music for his own enjoyment or to make his audience listen anew. No, he plays the songs like his fans expect to hear them, with every grunt or sax line or tambourine clang coming in exactly on cue. The joy of attending an E Street Band show is in appreciating the power of Springsteen's voice, or seeing Bruce and Little Steven share a mic on a familiar chorus, or listening to Nils Lofgren tear through a guitar solo, as he did on "Because the Night," or just waiting to see which favorite songs will make the set and which won't.

Last night's song choices were interesting to me too, because while it was clearly a big arena show (the Key holds about 17,000 people), Bruce stayed away from the big, arena anthems of his pandering "Born in the USA" era. But what happened was that darker, more personal songs of longing, like "Lonesome Day" or "Your Own Worst Enemy," grew to fill the space. They became anthems of yearning.

Our seats, hobbled by coming in a group of three, weren't the best. Maybe the worst, in fact -- behind the rear-left corner of the stage, and four rows from the top of the arena -- but big video screens pointed in our direction helped, and in a way it was an interesting view of the show. Too far away, we agreed, for any realistic hope that Bruce would call Michele onto the stage for a dance, Courtney Cox-style from that long-ago music video. But we could see the girls leaning on the stage from the front row who shared her dream. When Bruce danced downstage close enough for them to grab his legs and even stroke his guitar, Mich struggled to stifle a swoon.

From our vantage point too you could see the entire arena pumping or waving their arms in time with the music, singing along with every chorus. Everyone in the place, I thought, wanted to be Bruce or be with him. No wonder he looks like he's having so much fun.

The yearning was palpable, I thought, and maybe that's why Springsteen's concerts work so well.

It may be that we're all longing for a different thing -- love, or the old days, a good party, great friends like Bruce has in his band, a government we could respect, or maybe merely people we'd enjoy working with as much as Bruce seems to -- but there's something in these anthems that feels like it fits whichever strain we have.

When it came time for an encore, Bruce came back onstage and grabbed a sign from the audience calling for "Tenth Avenue Freeze Out," a fave from the "Born to Run" days.

"Sing, sing, sing, sing, sing it again," he sang. And everyone did.

---

Bonus Bruce clips and links

Patrick MacDonald's Seattle Times review
Gene Stout's Seattle P-I review
Backstreets.com review

A few minutes of "My City of Ruins" at the 2006 Jazzfest:




Mich's fantasy:




When the Saints Go Marching In:

In the bonus!

A long time ago, with a girlfriend far, far away, I made the mistake of taking a simple question at face value and answering honestly. "What would be your perfect day," J said.

Fun!

Well, let's see. I guess it would start with the Sunday New York Times and a cappuccino at Trieste (we were living in San Francisco at the time; Caffe Trieste, in North Beach, was and is my favorite coffee joint anywhere). And I'd go to a Giants game, play some poker, see a movie and have some good Chinese food, maybe at Hunan.

"Hmm," she said. "Is that it?"

I racked my brain to see what cool stuff I might have left out or could still fit into one day. Skiing, impractical. Reading all afternoon at the beach would squeeze out either baseball or poker, no good. Bowling, nah.

Yeah, I said, that sounds like a pretty good day.

My mistake, it turned out, was that my perfect day didn't include any plans built around J or, for that matter, even mention the possibility of her tagging along. One of many lessons that I like to think of now as Boyfriend School.

---

Years before that, in college, my friend Gohman and I used to waste a lot of time at the tavern playing video games and pinball. If you scored enough points to win an extra round, Gohm would happily announce: "In the bonus!" You had beat the game, tricked the actuaries. You had permission -- almost an obligation -- to play with abandon, to explore the game for hidden points, go for the trick shot. In the bonus was free life.

---

Today is my birthday. The past few days, leading up to it, Michelle has kept asking how old I am, thinking maybe she'd freak me out. (I am getting up there.) Then last night, at our little birthday party with the girls, she pulled out my Dad's famous (in our family) question whenever anyone had a birthday: How does it feel to be .... 11, 23, 35, 60, whatever the magic number was. To which, whatever the answer and whatever the number, he'd follow up with, "What a great age!"

So, how does it feel to be 48? Considering that at 46 I had two brain surgeries and was diagnosed with a fatal disease and, for a while there, wasn't sure I would make it to 47, 48 seems pretty good. I feel like I'm in the bonus.

It's nice of them to make a national holiday on my birthday. Michelle's off today for President's Day and she asked me the other day what would be the perfect way to spend the day.

Adjusting for geography and the fact that it isn't baseball season, my list hasn't changed much. Only now there's a preface.

"Since you have the day off," I said, "I think it would be cool if we ..."

We're going out for our cappuccino now. Poker session and Chinese food at the casino to come later.

(Michelle took the above picture of me at Trieste during our visit last summer.)

I've got blisters on me fingers!

Mark sauntered forth today and bought himself a Guitar Hero for the PlayStation2 his ex Greta gave us. Must admit, that little plastic guitar is a little addicting. You basically have to rock out to a bunch of songs by pressing one of the five "keys" and flicking a little strum thingie.

"I blew it out by going up!" Mark reports.

He's playing the Van Halen/Kinks song You Really Got me.

According to the legend of the game, the harder you rock, the bigger the arenas you get to play. I'm not sure what happens when you hit maximum rockoutedness. We're pretty far from there at the moment.

(Pause to take my turn)

"Man, you suck," Mark says. Everybody's a critic. He's right. I only got 69 percent of the notes to his 74.

"Watch out," he says, grabbing the guitar. "I'm going to blow this one out."

And so he does.

M&M Christmas weekend challenge

Last weekend after Michelle posted some photos of our holiday decorating day, I had the idea of inviting M&M readers to send us their own pics. But Ronelle beat me to it, e-mailing these photos of her family's Oceanport, N.J., stylings even before I got around to asking. Thanks Ronelle.

Here you go, and let's see what you've got!

Addendum: For a terrific slide show of Kaye's winter solstice walk in Long Beach, check it out at the NiteNote.

Double new addendum: I forgot to add the long-promised picture of Ronelle that she sent earlier this week. So that's now posted below. I believe the little girl is Gia, Ronelle's niece or cousin, I'm not sure which, on her mom's side.

Party weekend

Sandwiched around the fabulous Sharon Jones concert this weekend were a couple of big P-I events: the annual holiday party on Saturday evening and the wedding of a couple of friends from the paper on Sunday. Both were good parties -- the wedding, especially, was very cool.

Saturday's holiday party was at the Museum of History and Industry, or MOHAI as it's known here in Seattle. It's part of a tradition at this paper of holding the Christmas-season parties at places that aren't especially festive. An exception was last year when they held it at a cool new Asian restaurant in a skyscraper downtown; excellent food and drink at that one. Before that, since Michelle and I have been at the paper, one P-I party was at the new downtown public library (terrible), another at Pacific Science Center, a sort of kids museum/activity center by the Space Needle.

Setting aside, the evening's always a nice, low-key backdrop for non-work chat and a glass of wine. I've actually enjoyed the parties more, I think, since I've been off work. It's more fun to see people when you haven't just sat through a boring meeting with them the day before.

On Sunday evening, we took Gina and Franny with us to the wedding of Claudia Rowe, a P-I reporter, and Dan Kearney, an editor at the paper. The wedding was on the Skansonia, an old, docked ferry at the north end of Lake Union, which was very nicely decked out and turned out to be a great spot to get married. The bride and groom were radiant with joy, the ceremony itself (presided over by a friend, the husband of another reporter at work), was light and funny and personal and engaging; just right. And the food was terrific. A 4-glioma wedding, for sure.

The girls were a bit of a hit too. I was almost embarrassed, with so many people telling me how beautiful they looked. But it was true, and very cool and sophisticated-seeming too (nice trick!). And when I think back on the last time most of these P-I folks saw G&F, as cute but much younger-seeming girls at the public-library party, I see why they were so impressed.

One strange conversational tic I noticed at both weekend events, especially Saturday's party, was the intrusion of Facebook. As I noted in an earlier post, that social-networking site has recently beat its little wildfire path through our friends and workmates. But being a cynical bunch of old journalists, we're all a little chagrined that we've been caught up in it, I think. So I heard many snippets the other night of reporters apologetically explaining why they have a Facebook profile -- I needed to sign up to track a source or find a document or keep an eye on my kids -- before trading knowing jokes about something posted on each other's "wall," or the latest "Scrabulous" game, or a long-lost (but now Facebooked!) friend.

Man, I said at one point, the only thing more pathetic than the fact that we're all on Facebook is that when we actually see each other in person we stand around talking about it.

We all laughed ... and then promised to Facebook each other pictures of the party, which has been happening ever since. Goofy.

For those without a Facebook account, I'm going to go really old-school and put up a few pics here on the blog. Here you go. Party on!

M&M at the P-I holiday party.


P-I colleagues Chris Grygiel and Caroline Chen


Photographers Karen Ducey of the P-I and Dean Rutz of the Seattle Times. Dean had his own experience with neurosurgery, and they were very cool and helpful to me when I was going through mine.


Radiant bride Claudia Rowe and retired P-I writer Mary Lynn Lyke


Latest in my long-running series capturing Michelle with P-I reporter (and West Seattle friend) Angela Galloway


Our boss and friend David McCumber, at the wedding with his adorable kids Dylan and Katie


The fabulous Gina and Franny at the wedding (and Michelle's not so bad either)


For the sake of comparison: Gina and Franny at the library party, December 2005

'Making pizza, huh?'

That was the bagboy at the store tonight, when I went to pick up a few things. I'm guessing the giveaway was the two pizza pans and the pizza slicer and maybe, if he were really paying attention, the can of Italian tomatoes, the mozarella cheese, Italian sausage and a few other ingredients.

"But where's the dough," he asked.

That was already home on the counter, "resting," as Grandma Matassa used to say. Following Mom's instructions I had made and kneaded the dough and left it under a blanket to rise. This wasn't the fist time I'd made pizza, but it's been probably 20 years and I wasn't sure how it would come out.

I got a little help in the tossing and spreading phase from Michelle and Franny:




I think it worked OK, judging purely by the fact that Gina and Franny asked for seconds, which they never do around here. I made two pies -- sausage, scarfed mainly by me and Michelle, and kalamata olives and basil, the girls' favorite. Everybody said they liked it, and I thought it tasted pretty good, but the dough wasn't as thick as Mom's and so didn't match the perfect pizza of my youth.

I'm not sure exactly where I went wrong -- maybe it needed a little more kneading, maybe a little more rising -- but it was close enough for now, and I'm sure next time will be better.



For a slideshow with larger images go here.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I love the simplicity: getting together with family, a big delicious meal, maybe a football game on TV, and the fact that there seems to be no way of "commercializing" the day or otherwise screwing it up.

I also love the "thanking" part of Thanksgiving. It's good. I'm not a religious person, so I don't thank God (sorry Mom, sorry Ronelle), but I've always been a big appreciator. I'm well aware of all the many ways I've been lucky from right out of the gate in this life, and I'm also grateful for my many, many specific blessings.

It's funny though. Even as an appreciator who has happily recited all the things I'm thankful for every year, and meant it, I think it's true that you don't truly appreciate your good fortune until you have some bad. At least that's true in my case.

Last year we had a really nice Thanksgiving dinner at Mich's house down the street. I think I was too out of it, honestly, to fully take everything in, let alone appreciate it.

But I'm doing better now, and so before we jump into Michelle's cool new car to head down to Eugene, I want to pause a minute for a quick, partial Thanksgiving list.

• I'm thankful for this blog. A funny place to start, maybe, but it has brought together a wonderful group of people and kept us in almost constant contact, including some like my awesome cousin Ronelle whom I had fallen out of touch with and some I wouldn't really know otherwise (Hi Janice!). Plus it's fun and interesting and makes me laugh.
  
• I'm thankful that I'm here. Hyper-dramatic, maybe, but the farther I get from last year's "inciting incident" the more I realize what a close call the whole brain cancer deal was. You never know in this life, is what I always say. Another year in the books is a good year.
• I'm thankful for my wonderful kids, Gina and Franny. Thankful, first, that they're healthy and seem reasonably happy (exceptionally happy, probably, for 14- and 13-year-old girls). And also that after a difficult few years that included a divorce and living in different states, they appear to have adjusted pretty well and even don't mind spending time at Casa M&M. Franny has a huge heart and is full of love. Gina, god bless her, laughs at my jokes.
• Speaking of which, I'm thankful for their mother, my excellent ex-wife, Greta. She's a good mom, for one thing, and she's been incredibly warm and generous to me in this past year, offering to adjust our financial and visitation arrangements in ways that have made things much easier for me. She has a well of forgiveness rare in former spouses, from what I hear.
• I'm thankful for the rest of my immediate and extended family. Mom and Michele especially have managed to mask their worry about my health and somehow been there with whatever I need, while at the same time knowing when to back off and give me some room. They know me. Freda is a terrific almost-mother-in-law.
  
• I'm thankful for my friends, here in Seattle and scattered around the Google Map of M&M-ville. Kaye and Val are way cool friends, both cyber- and real-life.
• I'm thankful for our little house. It's kind of funky and it's a giant mess -- has anybody seen my camera battery charger? -- but it's ours and it's cool and it keeps the rain off our heads.
• I'm thankful, lastly and mostly, for Michelle, the world's awesomest girlfriend and partner. Even setting aside all the incalculable ways she has gotten me through this year of awful health, she's the ideal match, the total package: loving, smart, funny, independent, tough, challenging, pretty and fun. Plus she's not a bad poker player. And Facebook says we're movie soul mates. I love her.
  

I could go on. But we've got to hit the road. Thank you, everyone. You all rock.

They're creepy and they're kooky

Gina just sent me a picture of her friends' Halloween party last week, at which she was awarded best-costume prize for her Wednesday Addams getup. She dyed her pretty red hair black to complete the look.

Here's Christina Ricci in the film version of the role, from 1991's "The Addams Family."


Gina and Franny are coming over after school tomorrow to carve pumpkins. But on Halloween they'll hang at Greta's house, where Frank's throwing her own little party, and they'll probably all do some trick-or-treating from over there.

Looks like Michelle and I will be stuck alone here with these Butterfinger, Snickers and Nestle's Crunch bars.

Altogether spooky.

Marijuana is not a drug

Just ask Arnold Schwarzenegger.

This came up in an interview with British GQ, when Arnold said he'd never done drugs, despite being shown smoking a joint in the 1977 movie "Pumping Iron."

"That is not a drug. It's a leaf," Schwarzenegger told GQ. "My drug was pumping iron, trust me."

So we've lost one drug but gained another. I can picture the new just-say-no campaign. "Here's your arms. Here's your arms on iron."

The P-I has an AP version of the story. Here's the future governor not doing drugs, via YouTube: