Side effects may include Barry Manilow

Back to the barn after a week off, hurrah. I was one of only two students who showed up, so I smothered a flicker of guilt and picked Manny out of the line-up. He's been nasty this week, and probably due to his starveling history is very defensive about his food, so getting him out of his stall took two alfalfa cubes and a gentle poke with a spare longe whip to get his haunches pointing away from my various vital parts. Almost the literal carrot and stick there.

He made such horrible faces and threatening gestures while he was cross-tied that Pat came to help out, using her powerful horse-fu to get him to stand calmly, eyes half-closed, with his forehead firmly buried in her chest as she stroked his ears and told him what a handsome boy he is. That put the kibosh on his fussing; he bloated a bit for the girth, and he still takes a minute to relax about having his hind feet lifted, but he didn't try for mayhem.

And oh do I love riding him. We took advantage of the two-person class to do a lot of cantering, both in circles and around the entire ring, because both El Bandito and I need to get our legs under us better when things speed up. This morning my lower back is all hinked up from working hard at keeping my seat down in the saddle, doing lengths of sitting trot, and coping with Manny's intermittent attempts to yank his rider into the pommel groin-first; time for further abs work y/y? Y.

Manny is starting to figure out that his violent head-ducks are not acceptable, so when we did the stretchy trot, where you try to get the horse to reach down for the bit and stretch out its topline, he would do it for about two strides and then jerk his head up guiltily. Oh Manny. (See? SEE? Manilow everywhere. Ghastly. My boy's full name is Downtown Man, and as long as I can hum "Downtown Train" while thinking of the Tom Waits original, we're borderline okay. Barry M. is beyond the pale and into the infrablack.) You poor confused beautiful little creature. Stop trying to bite everyone and your life can be so much better.

There was one bit of Lear news that gave me an illicit frisson of glee. The newest student in our class, a German girl who puts me eeeever so slightly on edge with her attitude about the standard of riding in our class and in America overall, tried out the big galoot while I was off tucking into crab salad and caramel/chocolate decadence last week. Oh sweet angel of revenge: Although she's a strong rider, she found him difficult to handle. Ahem. Excuse me. Hee. Not to gank the quote from Elizabeth Bear or anything, but Philo of Alexandria put it well: "Be kind, for everyone you meet is engaged in a great struggle." And that goes double for anyone on Lear.

Culture without agarvation

One of the hardest things about visiting other cities is remembering that free admission is not the default at 99% of the world's museums. DC's got the Air and Space, the Hirschhorn, the Smithsonian castle, the Museum of National History, the Museum of Natural History (those two are right next to each other; speak clearly when making plans), the Museum of the American Indian, the National Botanical Gardens, and the National Gallery of Art, which is in fact twin museums connected by an underground tunnel. It's a feast of yummy free culture goodness within walking distance of my office.

I go maybe twice a year. Ridic!

Here we are, flirting with spring, temps in the 70s: perfect weather for going inside to peer at art. The current exhibit of Pompeiian artifacts is leaving at the end of the month, so when a friend suggested a get-together this weekend I shanghaied him into coming to the show. We took the long way around, starting in the west building and only eventually getting to the building where the exhibit per se was; this was less a plan than a result of my propensity to get lost and meander. Lots of good stuff before we got to the east gallery: Degas' equine bronzes (the legs are perfect; the bodies are squidged together like rough drafts), a bunch of Paul Manship sculptures (surely Europa shouldn't look so smug?), Herbert Adams' lovely Girl with Water Lilies fountain (water drips from the flowers in her hand into the pool below her feet), Leo Villareal's hypnotic lightwork Multiverse (we smirked a bit at first at its disco fabulosity...and five minutes later were still gawping at it), and a bunch of nautical paintings that inevitably brought Jack Aubrey to mind.

The Pompeii exhibit, which against all odds we eventually reached, was well curated, though a few of the bowls and kraters could've done with rotating stands. I was unreasonably tickled by Cato's criticism that senators were spending more time tending their mullets than their statecraft, and by the little kid who peered at a mosaic of sea beasties and proclaimed, "I see a eew." Oh tempora, oh morays! The great section about the Roman fad for Greek culture included a beautiful bust of Homer, paired with a Pliny the Elder quote about how we long for images of those whose faces have been lost to remembrance (I mangle), and the exhibit wrapped up with pieces showing modern reactions to the Vesuvian eruption. It'll be a cold day in hell when I pick up Bulwer-Lytton's Last Days in Pompeii, if the saccharine goop of The Blind Flower-Seller and Faithful Unto Death is any indication. And despite the museum's best efforts, I still can't name all nine muses ("Clio, Urania, Erato, Terpsichore, and, uh, Scary?") or all of Hercules' labors. Do not pick me as your Trivial Pursuit buddy.

Now that it's finally warm enough that I don't die a little whenever I go out, I'm recommitting to trekking down to local exhibits. Next up: either the butterfly garden or "Written in Bone: Forensic Files of the 17th-Century Chesapeake," depending on how ghoulish I'm feeling. A certain anthro 201 prof took excessive glee in describing causes of death in early Colonial-era settlers in Maryland, and now I kind of want to see the bones.

Fortuitous accidents

The joys of geekly conversation include being able to mention a possible head injury to one friend and end up with the links to a couple of free iUniversity lectures by a fascinating scientist studying the relationship between chronic stress and disease. I've had mixed luck with iUniversity before: It's easy to fantasize that I'll spend the endless Metro delays learning about Russian novels or basic anatomy, but in too many cases the lectures don't live up to my hopes. Boring speakers, poor sound quality, material that's out of my league...for one reason or another, a lot of the lectures fall short. Robert Sapolsky's "Why Zebras Don't Get Ulcers" and "Stress and Coping: What Baboons Can Teach Us," however, are completely fascinating, like classes with that one professor who made you consider switching majors halfway through college. He's good at boiling down reams of data into clear descriptions of physiological reactions and consequences, then giving advice on how to be one of the "good" responders. Of course, there's a risk that you'll come away with a neurotic desire to check your various hormone levels multiple times each day to make sure that you're not so stressed that you're prone to disease, and that will both increase your baseline stress and probably cut down on your number of friends, further diminishing your coping mechanisms aiee. Caveat lector. Also, the nonendocrinologically educated among us will get the major wiggins about the Peter Pan story he tells, so if it's important to you to keep a sense of childlike sparkling wonder about the book, (a) you're beyond my help and (b) for pity's sake don't learn anything about J. M. Barrie's early life.

A break for brief seriousness

Dammit, here's a clue: Whenever a Bush appointee plays coy about expressing an opinion on a controversial issue, it means they're on the side of the bastards. First there was Gonzales' disingenuous demurral about the legality of hypothetical government surveillance, which it turned out he had already helped get going, and now we've got our probably-soon-to-be AG (the Dems on the Judiciary Committee can go to hell for this) just not quite sure if waterboarding is illegal. Here's a discussion of waterboarding from someone who knows what he's talking about, because he's both performed it and undergone it. It's an excellent article and very depressing, because it's going to do very little good under the current regime.

The only chance it's got is as a bit of circulating data. If you didn't think that voting in the last elections was important or you didn't bother to educate yourself about the candidates, it is time to wake up and take some responsibility. Read, listen, take a break if the sheer grimness gets to you, and then get back on the horse. Make the pilgrimage to the majdan knowing that you can make a difference by speaking up.

Not enough free time in the week

Lessons from the weekend:

• Live reggae in a coffeehouse offends the gods, who will soak the surrounding areas in icy rain. Which we need, but possibly could not so much of it have gone sideways?
• If you want to see the face of desperate addiction, the counter of the only coffee bar in the Ren Fest at 10:01, where the victims customers glare at staff who seem unable to keep track of orders, is a good place to look. Or a very very bad one.
• The Mediaeval Baebes' live show is oddly similar to that of the Pipettes: moderately decent singing, excellent backup musicians, and heavy emphasis on the "pretty women doing dance routines" aspect. Without the heavy engineering, they sounded a little thin, which might also have been due to the outdoor acoustics.
  
• There are still people who do not realize that you should know your drink order BEFORE you reach the bar and that thoughts of murder percolate in the heads of those behind you in line if you wait until you are facing the bartender to say, "Wait, what do all you guys want?"
  
• Michael Rosman does a phenomenal juggling routine with cigar boxes, a thing I haven't seen since the Moscow Circus came to town. (Speaking of which, hurray! The feds are keeping us safe from the dangers of international performers! Jesus Christ.)
• If you want to make a new mother very happy, sign her up for a massage appointment and don't let her say no.
  
• My aggro levels go up when I have to listen to an acupuncturist tell a roomful of people that proper chi maintenance prevents cancer, heart disease, and immune disorders. No wonder we are overrun with 900-year-old kung fu masters. Oh wait.
  
• Wong People's lion dance kicks ass. Not only do the young drummers have a "Do not fear, WONG PEOPLE ARE HERE" banner, their lion does cartwheels. Cartwheels! And also, at one point, he appears to lick his harbls, which I have never seen a dancing lion do and find greatly amusant.
• Dumbledore was, unbeknownst to all save the slashers, teh ghey. Hilariously, actor Michael Gambon, who plays the headmaster in the movies and is apparently known for taking the piss out of interviewers, once told a reporter that he has no problem playing gay characters because he himself used to be homosexual but was forced to give it up "because it made my eyes water." Dear Lord how I do love the British.

The novelist's lament

Somewhere amid the swampy mangroves, Carl Hiaasen is shaking a copy of the newspaper and screaming, "See? SEE? I don't just make these things up!" John Scalzi has a lovely write-up of Florida legislator Bob Allen's latest out-of-left-field excuse for soliciting an undercover cop in a park restroom. I've heard of facing your fears, but walking into their bathroom stall to offer them a twenty and a real good time is new.

In news that won't cause a shudder of amused revulsion, however, "Stardust" comes out this weekend. If it doesn't make a huge splash, it certainly won't be for lack of Neil Gaiman's efforts, as he's been writing it up ceaselessly on his journal, doing the press junket slogging, and being smooched by Jonathan Ross promoting it at Comic Con. I like the Russian posters better than the American ones; mine Slavic brethren got genuine jokes, rather than a generic tagline. Witness Michelle Pfeiffer smirking beneath the words "Absolute Hag"; Tristan [sic--oh noes, they shot off his r!], Yvaine, and Captain Shakespeare, respectively, get "Star Warrior," "Superstar," and, for reasons made clear in the film, "Genuine Manly Man." I may come to like De Niro yet.

All the news, eventually

Hey! The Post has written up the Buffy Singalong! They don't mention that tickets are already sold out, but maybe they're betting on a thriving scalpers' market to satisfy anyone who shows up on their recommendation. For those who missed the window this time around, the Avalon is promising to bring the musical back in November.

Riding classes resumed this week, at least for dressage, and an evening of trying to bring my leg to bear on a contrary Morgan has left me limping again. We eventually ironed out most of our differences, although I'm convinced that Cappi belongs in Western tack, and the hip should be fine after a bit of stretching and wiggling.

Should said contortions not do the trick, it's back to the folks at Healthy Self Massage. A bit of backstory: When I was first looking for a place to get a massage, I hit up Google (as you do) and tried to come up with the search string least likely to land me at links for Black Orchid Flowers Happiness Relief Massage to Gentlemen--All Discreets, Lovely Woman, Discounts for Legislators. Fortunately, Gene Weingarten, investigative reporter par excellence, was there to reassure me that even the sketchiest-looking parlors are in full compliance with the law. Phew! Healthy Self sounds positively puritan by comparison; I can't remember the last time one of the Bulgarian guys showed up in a sequined dress.

Another Fourth

Assuming that the evening's thunderstorms hold off, there'll be the usual massive fireworks display down on the Mall. In the days before getting to a good viewing spot involved going through a metal detector, bag check, and optional cavity search, my friends and I used to go down to the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and set up for an afternoon picnic so that we could get seats for the big show. We would pack huge amounts of fruit and drinks, the better to avoid the Park Service's outrageous vending prices, then blow our money anyway on Rocket Pops and frozen lemonade. If there was a large enough group, some of us would stay to guard the turf while others visited the nearby memorials (and the Lincoln's incredibly handy restrooms). After an endless wait, the sun would finally sink and the fireworks would glitter off the Reflecting Pool. The Metro back was always a mosh pit spiked with strollers, but if you were willing to stroll along the Potomac or just sit in the grass at Arlington Cemetery for a while, the crowds would shrink to a bearable point. Staying hydrated and sunscreened helped a lot. So did not having an overwhelmingly dictatorial administration, or does that sound bitter?

Enjoy the day. Grill something. Put up the flag, turn up the 1812 (but try not to laugh if it's one of the arrangements that uses a choir, who are--fun fact! not making this up at all!--singing "God save the czar" as the cannons roar), and cheer for the fireworks. Then tomorrow, remember that independence only lasts when you work for it.

The wages of sin

After a long lazy hiatus, I decided that it was time to revisit the gym, on account of I'm getting way out of shape and can't blame hip issues if I'm not doing any PT. Sadly for me, the gym branch closest to the office has been closed. Sure, it was tiny and cramped and had lockers a shade of red nobody's used since those UNITS stores in the '80s, but it didn't get big crowds or much of the singles scene that shows up at other branches. I liked taking classes in the undersized studio, getting my ass kicked by the crazy Polish yoga teacher ("I am fifty-et yirs voman, and all time doink yoga. This poz make you blaht move circle, like diamont") and a Pilates trainer who knew enough variants on the plank position to make Torquemada hang it up. Good times.

But no, now it's a choice between a multistory pickup bar with treadmills and the unofficial gym of Wolfram and Hart. The former is marginally closer; the latter is less likely to involve subtle jockeying for a turn at the elliptical trainers, plus the studio is bigger and doesn't have the threat of disco gels as a lighting option. I lasciated ogni speranza and headed for the haunt of the lobbyists.

I knew that reentry to a weights class was going to suck. But did I suspect what was in store? Did I have any inkling that they'd have a teacher with a dance background filling in for the regular teacher? No. No I did not. If I had, I think I would've done a kick turn back to the cheatable cardio machines, because dancers are evil and highly conversant with ways to make the body feel an astonishing amount of pain. Without going into too much detail, like the part about how a heavily pregnant woman kept up better than I did, I will just admit that I got to that exciting point where you actually cannot stand still without shaking slightly because your muscles are arguing over whether to go to Nebraska or Rhode Island when they flee your sudden insanity, and you are certain, 100% without a doubt, that the next two days are going to be a dark wilderness of pain. (In other words, everyone sharing a car with me on the drive to Newark should probably bring something to cancel the high frequency of my whining tone.)

I should do that more often.

So much for that plan!

Despite the fact that San Martin and Junin de los Andes both have God's own plenty of locutorios, small businesses that offer both phone and slamming Internet connections, I didn't do any blog work while I was in Argentina. I'll update some of that in the weeks to come (or I will intend to) but for now, I'll settle for a list of things I would and would not do differently next time around.
Things I would do again

• Go back to Huechahue. The horses were amazing, the food was great, the accommodations were comfortable, and the hostess and staff went out of their way to make everyone happy. Full marks.
  
• Ride every day, even when I was feeling lazy. All the slacker fumes were blown away whenever we stretched into a gallop across the sun-blasted fields.
• Do the scary bits, including the belly crawl into a basalt cave and the vertiginous horseback descents. They remain terrifying in my memory, so I didn't exactly prove anything by doing them except that doing frightening things won't kill me. Possibly a philosophy not to be taken to extremes.
• Have hot chocolate and churros. My pancreas begged for mercy and I would not heed, because the sugar was so good.
• Eat steak with fried eggs. First of all, Maciej was right about the meat, and second of all, the eggs are fried in the salted lard from the steaks. Greasy delight. Add a pomelo soda and you've got the kind of meal that will make me happy to be alive with a fork to hand.
• Get a manicure on the eve of setting out. The silliness of neatly painted hussy-red nails on a vacation that involved scrabbling on rocks, yanking on rawhide cinches, and scratching canine tummies was offset by the happiness of having someone pamper me for an hour.
  

Things I would not do again

• Take Aerolineas Argentinas. The airline appears to operate on the razor edge of chaos, stories about hair-raising delays were common, and booking tickets involves a ridiculous byzantine dance that seems designed to funnel work to travel agents. In a country with buses that (a) have beds in them and (b) run every day like clockwork, it's madness to fly if you're not in a tearing hurry.
• Camp in the mountains using borrowed gear. It's possible to camp comfortably, but it's a lot easier with your own stuff, and a Thinsulate mat is much more comfortable than lumpy horse blankets.
  
• Stick my digicam in my pocket without its case. Alas, poor Exilim, the dust finished it off.
• Go to a tango show. They're full of tourists, and unless you actually know anything about tango, one show is much like another. (To be fair, the price of my ticket covered a fantastic insalata capprese and the largest glass of wine I've ever seen poured, possibly because the waiter felt bad that I was there on my own.)
• Buy so much chocolate. I tread on the edge of heresy as far as received wisdom goes, but the Argentine chocolate just didn't do it for me. The ice cream is a different story, and if someone can ship me a gallon or two of Freddo's malbec con frutas rojas sorbet, I will be greatly in their debt.
• Bother bringing contacts. I went through the full song and dance to get a new set, and then it was far too dusty to ever make them worth the hassle.