Mr. Vedder (for some reason I don’t feel comfortable calling him Eddie like everyone else does) called his fans out at one point, saying he felt like @!$%& Justin Bieber because of all the camera flashes. He then told us we had 15 seconds to take pictures, that he’d make every facial expression he planned to make during the whole show in that 15 seconds, and then we could be done with it. I loved that he did that … a very humorous way of handling the whole thing.

The flashes of light calmed down a bit after that, which was nice. But there were plenty of other distractions: the random yelling and screaming (often in my ear) in the middle of songs or while Mr. Vedder was trying to tell us a story, the singing along during songs that drowned out the actual singing I had come to hear and the random conversations people were having midsong. Really, people? You paid $78 a piece, plus fees, to have a conversation?

Maybe this is part of the reason I don’t really enjoy live music as much as some people. I have a hard time ignoring all the distractions and just connecting with the artist on stage.

Rant aside, what a passionate and heartfelt performance. My favorite few minutes of the entire night were when Eddie Vedder and Glen Hansard did “Falling Slowly,” which is a Hansard song (he and Swell Season collaborator Markéta Irglová wrote it for and sang it on the movie “Once”).

I’m really glad I decided to go to this show, but I really wish that music fans would behave themselves. If you are really there to hear the music, just listen. It will make the entire experience more pleasant for every single one of us.

An abbreviated review of the last four months:
May was a super-busy month for my editing and writing. I worked 50-60 hours a week. I was glad when it was over, and even more glad when I got paid for all that hard work!

In June, my parents came to visit from New Mexico, by way of Utah. (They flew here from Salt Lake.) We hung out, cooked some food, took the train to Portland. It felt like a pretty short visit, but that’s kind of the way I like ‘em. No offense, Ma & Pa, but keeping it short keeps it sweet.

This is me after winning the poker tournament in Pendleton, Ore.

August was a busy but wonderful month that included a visit from our good friends Beth and Matt (whom we miss dearly), a trip up to Anacortes to go crabbing for the first time (thanks so much, Pat and Carol!), a trip to California for Man Candy’s older brother’s wedding and a weeklong visit from Man Candy’s younger brother and sister-in-law.

Among all the hustle and bustle of the last few months, I wrote several freelance stories for MSN Real Estate:

• When to call your landlord
• 17 (mostly) surprising ways you’re violating your lease
• When your landlord lives upstairs
• 19 nightmare roommates

And that should just about catch us up to the present moment. TTFN!

I have no idea who you are or what your life is like or what kind of situation you’re in, but I can’t imagine that any human being with any microscopic level of compassion could abandon a young dog the way you did today. You may have thought that leaving a ripped-open bag of food in the back of his rusted-out dog kennel would suffice, but he had no water and no place to relieve himself and today was a HOT DAY.

You’re lucky that a teenage girl happened to walk through the small neighborhood park where you left him. You’re lucky that she cared enough to rescue him from wallowing in his own feces. And you’re lucky that she ran into someone who had a car and could help find someplace to take a 5-month-old scared but loving puppy, so that he’ll actually have a decent shot at a happy life. We’re all lucky that someone at the vet’s office immediately stepped forward to say that she’d take him in. He’s going to be a very good dog and he’s going to have a wonderful life with a loving family and a canine companion. But all that is no thanks to you.

A part of me wishes someone would lock you in a small, dirty cage and leave you in the heat of the middle of day in a park that’s infrequently walked through. I would say that’s fair. But I also don’t wish those awful circumstances on any living creature. So, I suppose I hope that you have a roof over your head and food to eat and a decent life. But I also hope you never own a dog again. There was no reason you couldn’t have taken that dog somewhere else. An animal shelter. The Humane Society. A vet’s office.

Take care, of yourself and all living things,

Leah

First of all, it’s sad that so many tragedies have to happen in order for quality journalism to a) take place and b) be recognized (Hurricane Katrina coverage, for example). That said, the Times staff did an amazing job on this story. They followed every lead and every angle and reported the hell out of the story. I imagine that everyone in the newsroom and even outside of the newsroom contributed in some way. And that kind of collaboration and teamwork and kick-ass reporting is what I miss about working there.

Which brings me to the ellipses portion of my blog title. My first reaction to the Pulitzer news was pure delight. The Times deserves this. The staff hasn’t often been recognized for its breaking-news coverage, but this proves what the Times can do. But I can’t help but feel a little sad. I want to be there with my former colleagues. Not just today, as they bask in the well-deserved glory. Every day. I miss the excitement, the energy, the feeling that the work matters. I don’t need to be a part of this particular honor to know that the time I spent at the Times was meaningful and that the work I did helped make a difference. I am proud to have been a part of a family-owned, prize-winning newspaper. I believe I would still be there today if I had been given a choice.

On a related note, I wrote a silly little spring home maintenance article for MSN Real Estate, and so far nearly a quarter-million people have at least clicked on it. Not bad.

I got my business licenses in the mail this past week (one for the state and one for the city). Oh and I’m doing business as Culler Copy. Culler is me and copy (writing and editing of it) is what I do.

So if any of you need some work done, or know anyone who does, send ‘em my way. Please. I hope to have a website up soon.

Flash-forward to this week. I pulled out my license for something and noticed that it was set to expire on my birthday. And that my address is still the first address I ever lived at in Washington. (I have moved at least 8 times since then) And, yes, my eye color was still BRN. Good intentions can only get you so far.

So, today, I took an afternoon break and hopped on light rail to go to the licensing department. I can’t renew online because my address is wrong. And I can’t prove what color my eyes REALLY are unless I go in person. I could renew my license, update my address and get my eye color right, all in one visit. I worked all morning, took a quick shower and headed out.

The wait wasn’t bad. My number was called within 20 minutes or so. But wait, they don’t take VISA for payment? Whew, I have another credit card buried in the back of my wallet, just in case. Then the guy says, “Just wait a minute or two and we’ll take your picture.” PICTURE? If you recall, I “took a quick shower and headed out.” That didn’t involve preparing myself to be photographed. That didn’t even involve LOOKING IN A MIRROR. Ack. Oh well, license photos are supposed to be terrible. And it was. Oh it was.

So I’m done. Temporary license in hand. Hike back up the hill to catch light rail home. Glance down at the license to check out that awesome photo again. Wait, what does that say? Eye color: BRN. Well, phoooey. Luckily, I noticed it within a block or two, was able to go back and have the guy redo it. He said it was his only void today, unless you count the one between his ears. HA! He had to take another picture, this one even worse than the first. As I head out the door, he says, “Have a nice day, blue-eyed Leah.”

Tee hee.

I’ve spent the last week hearing people talk about Girl Scout cookies. Thin Mint this and Samoa that. And I LOVE Thin Mints. I’ve stopped at various grocery stores over the last few days hoping to run into some of you and give you some of my hard-earned money in exchange for crack in cookie form. No luck. Early this evening, I had a couple of hours to kill and decided I would not rest until I had Thin Mints in hand. Google helped me find a Girl Scout cookie locator, and a quick input of my ZIP code confirmed that the Safeway down the road should have what I was looking for. Perfect. I figured the dog and I would walk there, and that the three-mile round-trip trek would make those cookies practically calorie-free. And off we went. I could almost taste those Thin Mints.

Upon arrival, we walked past the entrance and didn’t see a table set up for cookie sales. But I wasn’t going to give up hope. Perhaps you Girl Scouts are selling your wares somewhere other than the entrance. In the produce department? Over the pharmacy counter? Since I couldn’t take the mutt inside, I plopped down on a bench, Wheezy hopped up in my lap, and I made a quick phone call to the Safeway. I learned that you Girl Scouts hadn’t been there today to sell cookies. Were you there yesterday? Yup, two separate groups of ya. And last week? Of course. But on the day I want cookies, you’re nowhere to be found. That’s just great.

So we turned around and headed back. As a consolation prize, I got an ice-cream cone at the neighborhood ice-cream parlor — but not before nearly being hit by a car! (Hey driver of red car pulling out of parking lot next to the library, pay attention!!!) My ice-cream cone — chocolate ginger — was divine. Almost worth three miles, near death and a big ol’ blister.

I’ll find you, Girl Scouts. I will get my Thin Mints. Be prepared. (Isn’t that your motto, anyway?)

See you soon,
Leah

You had no way of knowing that the latte you made for me on Friday afternoon was a rare treat for me. That I usually just drink normal ol’ cheap (and often free) black coffee. That I used to be a two-espresso-beverage-a-day girl, but these days I rarely partake of such indulgences. You didn’t know that I’ve become more frugal (and sensible, really). But shouldn’t every latte you make be a treat? Isn’t that the point of fancy coffee from the fancy neighborhood bakery? (On a side note, every other coffee beverage I have ever had from this establishment has been phenomenal.)

I tried to drink that latte. I was several blocks away when I took my first sip. It was the most bitter, disgusting latte I have ever tasted, and I’ve had a few bad ones in my day. I took a few deep breaths, talked myself into having another taste. Even worse. As soon as I got to the light-rail station, that full latte went into the trash. Three dollars I will never get back. And yeah, it sucks to waste a few bucks. But I had been looking forward to sipping that latte on the light rail ALL DAY LONG. You broke my heart.

I hope this was an anomaly.

Better luck next time,
Leah