How to Make Holiday Fudge

Ingredients:

1 1/2 packages (12 oz. of each) semisweet chocolate chips (3 cups)
2 cups miniature marshmallows, or 16 large marshmallows, cut in half
1 can (14 oz.) sweetened condensed milk
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup chopped nuts
1/2 cup dried cherries or chopped dried apricots

Step 1: At the store, find out marshmallow fluff is actually gelatin-free and there's a recipe right on the jar, so decide in the moment to forget about the recipe you originally had in mind and go with this instead. This recipe calls for different things, like butter and chopped baker's chocolate and an insane amount of sugar (6 cups, it says).

Step 2: Fail to notice that it says chopped baker's chocolate instead of chocolate chips and buy chocolate chips. Fail to notice that it says evaporated milk instead of sweetened condensed milk. Fail to read the warning at the bottom that reminds people that evaporated milk and sweetened condensed milk are not the same thing.

Step 3: Forget the butter.

Step 4: Have your husband go out and buy butter.

Step 5: Day two. Cut the dried cherries in half with scissors. So, so sticky. Find a pit in one and tell yourself you are a genius for cutting the cherries.

Step 6: Combine butter, sugar (use much less because ick), and erroneous sweetened condensed milk in a large pot. Bring to a rolling boil under medium heat, stirring continuously. Boil for 4 minutes or until your candy thermometer registers 238 degrees.

Step 7: Fail to have a candy thermometer. Instead, try a meat thermometer you found in the kitchen basket after repeatedly stabbing yourself in the fingers with various poky things in the kitchen basket. The meat thermometer only goes up to 180 degrees.

Step 8: Remove from heat. Add chocolate and marshmallow fluff and mix until smooth. Add vanilla, walnuts and cherries.

Step 9: Pour into dish lined with parchment paper. Use paper towel to sop up the oil that pools on top. The fudge tastes nice and smooth and you're giving it to people who love you and they won't mind if it looks a little wonky, right? Find some purple sugar in the cabinet. Purple is a holiday color, right? Sprinkle purple sugar on top to make fudge look better. It melts instantly and disappears.

Step 10: Repeat steps 6 through 9 but with pecans this time. Maybe it'll look better in the second batch. Hold off on the purple sugar until you can give it time to cool and set. Purple sugar is festive. Purple sugar will save Christmas.

Step 11: Your husband comes home from work. He sees the fudge pre-purple-sugar and says it doesn't look good and you need to start over.

Step 12: Hate him.

Step 13: Your husband says use the recipe he finds on the package of chocolate chips, which doesn't need a candy thermometer.

Step 14: Go to the store at five o'clock on the day before Christmas Eve. Park way far away on the side. Slowly work your way through the soul-crushing pileup of shoppers and shopping carts churning through the aisles. Read the cans of evaporated milk three times to make sure.

Step 15: Where the hell is the parchment paper? You need more parchment paper. There are too many people moving around you. Decide to be agoraphobic and try not to scream as loud as that little kid who's wailing bloody murder in the next aisle over.

Step 16: Decide you're going to have to ask someone where to find the parchment paper. There's a guy crouched on the floor shelving something at the end of the aisle, but he's singing a very intricate rendition of Silent Night and you don't want to disturb him.

Step 17: Under the hanging sign that says Butter, you find cream cheese. There's another sign that says Butter down at the far side of the same aisle. Under it, you find hot dogs.

Step 18: Where the fuck is the fucking butter?!

Step 19: Buy a pizza.

Step 20: Stand in line for 45 goddamn fucking minutes.

Step 21: When you get home, your husband has taken the fudge out of the pans and it's piled up on two plates in the kitchen. He says, you know what, it does taste smooth, why don't we roll it into balls and cover them with crushed nuts and make them into truffles!

Step 22: Hate him.

Step 23: Let him crush the nuts in the food processor. Roll the truffles together. He makes a small chuckle in the back of his throat and says, "This is like that I Love Lucy episode." Put your hand up beside your mouth and call out, "Let 'er roll!"

Mojada at Portland Center Stage

Friday night, driving home from the theater, I asked Stephen, "What was your favorite part?"

"The very end," he said.

"Great. I can't talk about that on my blog."

Actually, if I knew everyone was familiar with the source material for Mojada, I probably could, but I just can't be sure of that. I'm a stickler for spoilers and generally don't want to read the back of the book or see the trailer of the film. Had I not already known the story of Medea, I probably would have avoided checking it out before seeing this play. In a way, though, I'm glad I knew Medea, because without that in mind, I may have been confused by Mojada's climax. For me, there are a couple elements in the play that make the story wonderfully compelling but that also make it difficult to fully believe what happens in the end. Part of it, too, is simply that I'm viewing this play through the eyes of the modern audience, which tends to be skeptical about classical high tragedy. However, that last moment is pulled off so skillfully, so chillingly, and themes are pulled together so deftly, that you're still left awestruck.

With Mojada, Portland Center Stage continues its tradition of exploring culture through and promoting diversity in theater. Luis Alfaro's play is a modern take on Medea, centered in Los Angeles and following the plight of a family of illegal immigrants from Mexico whose crossing was harrowing and whose past was even more so. For seamstress Medea, her husband Jason, son Acan, and their nurse Tita, one would think finally settling in America would put tragedy and hardship behind them, but one year into their new life, they find that ambition, assimilation, and the elusiveness of the American Dream can hold their own dangers.

I loved the set, with its chain-link-fenced yard and looming, crooked shack of a home. The house seemed some strange, magical combination of structure and painting, both three-dimensional and flat, both real and unreal. It seemed to underscore the fact that for so many, that American Dream is an illusion.

VIVIS (I believe she spells it with all caps) is great as Tita, the nurse who is also a one-woman Greek Chorus, telling the family's story, with plenty of her own commentary, often seeming to voice what the rest of the cast are afraid to say out loud.

My favorite performance was Nancy Rodriguez' Josefina, a quirky food cart merchant desperate to make good, to have a baby, to be American, even though she acknowledges that it's a country full of pain (she insists on being called by her Anglicized name, Josie). Quirky side characters in theater, film, and TV are often overdone to the point of annoyance, but Rodriguez plays her part with a lovely oddness that never goes too far and never becomes old hat. She's delightful. Rodriguez' performance, together with the writing of her character, also allow you to overlook a truth about Josefina so that you are (at least I was) utterly surprised by where her story arc lands.

I couldn't help but view Mojada through the lens of today's politics and today's troubled times. For me, America felt as much a character as all the people in the play - and that character was the bad guy. A bait and switch artist, a fickle lover who only wants you if you're willing to give up who you are. The depiction of the family's trek to America was disturbing and heartbreaking, but the continuation of their story in this country, though more comfortable, seemed to contain an underlying menace that was just as disturbing.

That's not to say that Mojada is nothing but tragedy-tragedy-tragedy. Though that's what the source material warrants, much of Mojada is funny and full of moments of joy. There's something about the backdrop of all that hardship that makes those moments of joy particularly sparkle. I can only hope it's that way in the real world.

Photos are courtesy of Jenny Graham of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival.

More info on the show is here. It runs through November 26th.

Book Cover: Burnside Field Lizard

Recently, I was hired by local author Theresa Griffin Kennedy to design the cover for her short story collection Burnside Field Lizard. (How's that for a title!) Theresa has her fingers in lots of different areas of the arts community - as a writer, a journalist, an activist and more. I first became aware of her when she interviewed Margaret Malone on Oregon Voter's Digest (Margaret has the clip on her website here).

When I'm working directly with authors, they often come with ideas or expectations or images they'd like to see incorporated. Theresa had a picture she wanted to use because of its randomness and its dynamic look.

It was taken by her daughter Amelia Kennedy. It's a very interesting picture with great lines, but unfortunately it's very small, and I'd need something quite a bit larger for print quality. Also, there isn't much space in the picture to add the elements you need for a book cover without blocking too much of the imagery. I needed more space around the central figures.

Now, coincidentally, I just so happen to have two plastic dinosaurs, a blue one and a yellow one, that sit by my computer monitor at work. Actually I have a third dinosaur, and a little toy dog, and a little toy race car, but that doesn't matter. (I got the dinosaurs in a goodie bag along with some other fun stuff at a wonderful and weird Portland art shop called Boys' Fort - thanks, Boys' Fort!) I also happen to have orange counters in my kitchen. (Not our optimal color scheme and it will change some day, but, yay, who knew that orange would come in handy!)

So, I offered to recreate the picture.

That was fun. Water and ice in the glass gave me cloudy white rather than orange, so I poured some margarita mix in the water. Then I added some red wine. Then I drank it. Just kidding. In the original photograph, I like the straw a lot for composition, but for my purposes it would have gotten in the way, so I left that element off. I took a bunch of shots, moving the ice around to get different playing fields for my title and blurb. I played with photoshop to get the shade and vibrancy I wanted, and actually, I did a little cut and paste photoshopping on the blue dinosaur because its head was turned too much to one side.

It was fun, too, to figure out where the text would look good within the space of the picture, following the angles of the glass and the tip of the dinosaur tail. Here's the finished product.

With thanks to Amelia Kennedy for snapping the picture in the first place. I'm not sure how I'll word

it yet, but I'll give her a photo credit alongside my design credit on the back of the book. In the meantime, Theresa gave me a picture of Amelia to share with you.

And an excerpt from one of her stories. This is from "The Convalescent Home in the Doug Fir Wood."

We sat in the living room in the evenings, blankets and quilts covering our legs. The room stone cold, the fireplace empty, with long shadows meandering on the fine Morris wallpaper, but surrounded by all our ancient furniture and other fine objects Mother dusted religiously. The candles that had recently replaced the electric lamps gave faint light and added to the haunted atmosphere of two women alone.

Despite our seeming wealth, there was not enough food in the icebox to feed us. We lived on boiled eggs, fried potatoes and English tea cooked upon the wood stove that had sat unused for decades in a corner of the large kitchen but was now our only means of survival. Mother used it to cook our food, heat the kitchen, and boil our bath water.

As fuel Mother used some rotten pine and apple wood that had been placed in a woodshed behind the abandoned rose garden years before by the gardener. Mother's entire history was dissolving and she was unable to find a solution that could reserve our living room view of the city of Portland and the NW flats so far below our gaze.

On the day I met the lawyer, he was walking by the school dressed in a full suit and overcoat and heading south, to where the Gypsies used to live...

Burnside Field Lizard will be published by Oregon Greystone Press in May of 2018.

More info about Theresa Griffin Kennedy is here.

From my kid diaries: a recording of the first short story I ever submitted - with the spelling errors intact and my commentary in blue

The one change I made to the entry is to put the story itself in italics rather than all the quotation marks I have in my diary, because it gets a little confusing.

*

We got 2 Hitchcock magazines in the mail and I turned imediately to the “Mysterious Photograph.” It is a sort-of contest they have every month. They put a picture in the magazine. You take that picture and write a story (250 wds or less) about the picture. The winner gets $25 and the story apears in the next Hitchcock magazine.

Well, it was a picture of 4 people on a rocky island. One is fishing.

I took the magazine to the computer room, wrote up a story, and set it with the magazine in Mom’s room, where she was napping.

I wrote:

“Cast it over there, Starkey." I instructed, pointing to the left of the tip of a rock that jutted out of the water, "It’s in a little box."

I sat upon the rocks. The island was in the middle of a large bay, and it consisted soley of rocks and boulders. Starkey stood above me with a fishing poll, carefully casting and recasting the hook into the water; I sat below him, shouting directions; Manfred and Buffalo paced behind us.

Starkey lowered the hook, and it sank into the water, once again, with a quiet "ker-plop."

He dragged it around for a minute and then brought it out again, bare.

“I can’t Whitey." Starkey groaned. (He always told me that he called me Whitey because of my perfectly straight, white set of choppers.)

Sure, stealing all those jewels was simple, but when Manfred rowed us to the little island in his little rowboat, we lost the box over the side as we docked. Now, I could not leave until we found that box. Our Pal, Nicky, would be here to pick us up and take us down to Mexico tonight; I had to find that box before then.

“You have to." I retorted, "We’re not leaving until you do."

God knows, I couldn’t leave without my toothbrush.

Mom loved it. I was so glad. As soon as I revise it as much as I can, and give it a title, I’m going to send it to the magazine.

*

I like how I was so proud and sure of this story that I printed it out and took it into my mom's room while she was sleeping. I'm sure she proofread it and made me change all the spelling errors before I sent it out. I honestly don't remember what kind of a response, if any, I got from Hitchcock Magazine. 

On her birthday, early journal entries about my mom with the spelling errors intact and my commentary in blue

1978

January 14—I woke up. I ate breakfast. got the mail. It said: it is a chain letter. Mom helped me do what it said. We checked my rocks and put them in a thing with silver stuff and prackticed magic. Then watched T. V. This might be my first diary entry ever. 

1979

May 6—I went to the beach and home. Showed Mom Jackie Weaples. I think this was a game I made up that was like jacks but using weaples. Do you remember weaples? They were pompoms with eyes and feet.

1980

May 1—I did a tape some time ago of me singing Tomorrow.  Today I listened and Mom did too.  She said it sounded like me.  I listened.  I sound like Annie—a 10 year old singing star who is in a play!

1981

May 27—Jamie Reding got her period.  I'm jealous.  Mom says she'll get me some things just incase I do.  She might get me a bra soon too!

June 1—Dear Diary, I'm getting more and more anxious to grow up. Mom says that I'm growing faster every day I sure hope that I can change my personality.

July 6—I predicted a song on the radio. I got to bring food to customers at Mom's resturant the Friench Pantry.

1982

May 16—I got a Panda Plant. Mom got me an entry blank for the astrosmash shoot off. Astosmash was a video game I was very good at. 

August 16—I got up on the slalom for the 1st time this year. I did it on my 4th try, Coco honked the horn. Mom skied 1st time this year they honked the horn for her too. 

October 31—Halloween. Lucy (Mom's) birthday. I came home. We finished sound effects. I taped over something on one side and both taped what I taped & what I taped over. We decorated. We bobed for apples. We didn't make pop corn balls. We split up the E.T. cards (treats) Today marked an evolution in Halloween as we know it. Almost no one trick or treated. I think the sound effects were something having to do with decorating the house for Halloween, like we kids taped ourselves making ghost sounds or something.

1983

March 7—After school I had a long talk with Mom about life. I got special on "Ladybug". (Another video game.) We got a new girl in our class (Shelby). Gayle called her a slut! (I don't think she likes her)

March 19-—Mom got mad at us for not being responsible. We cleaned the house & made a card (a leaf) saying "We're turning over a new leaf" & put it out with flowers.

April 21—I was so mad. Gayle & Julie & her group were making fun of me. I got mad & I should get mad. Gayle gets mad because I'm mad because of what she says & does. I told mom & she showed me a form of self-hypnosis! She says we have different parts of our personalities. She said give your strong, brave, happy part a name. She had "Susan" & I chose "Jenni". You imagine the sad or mad or shy part (with a name or without) knocking on a door & don't let them in. Say and see the name of your best part (Jenni) over & over in your mind. Make the other names disappear or go back in your head, lay or sit with your legs not touching & hands not touching. When Mom was trying it at home for the 1st time, Frankie who was 3 yrs. old at the time came in and said "Who's that woman? Who's the woman knocking at the door? Don't let her in!" he closed all of moms doors & shutters & looked at mom & said "But it's you Mommy, the woman is you."

P.S. My tooth came out. 

1984

It's April 1, April Fools day. I had an enormous weekend. Thats all I could say for it—enormous. I'll start with Friday. Well, Mom finaly sold the French Pantry. Its no longer ours—now its 'MJC's salad & wine bar.' We had a party for the old restaurant. All (well most) of the people who ever worked there, came and had a great time. Colleen brought Sean over & I took most of the night babysitting him.

9/14/84 (5:52 AM) I woke up at 5:47 as always but as I passed Mom & Dads room, they were not still asleap in it. Their beds were made, the room was clean, and they weren't in it. So, I started down stairs. Something's happened, I told myself with dread, someone died. Because, why would they be up like this? They usually get up at 6:10. I found dad in the computer room. Mom isn't at home. When I asked what happened, he informed me that Mom has gone to the hospital with Carmen who's going to have her baby.

1985

3-25-85 9:16 PM

....What makes a person, I think, is not looks or talent or brains, but morals and personality. After all, when the body is gone, the real you still lives on. And that is your soul—you.

I have been described as “nice” by many people. But, what am I really like—the real me—? I guess I have many different personalities. To different people, I am different. I’m still a kid. Heck, no matter how old I get, I will still not understand myself fully.

I have been known to be grumpy, at times, but I don’t think I am any more grumpy than anyone else. If anything, I have been known to be a cheerful person. Tonya was surprised when I got flared up about Tricia saying my clothes are weird, always. She said it was the first time she had seen me angry. I think many people this year don’t picture me getting upset. Some of that is because I am so much happier with life this year than I was last year.

Mom always acuses me of being pessimistic. And, that is probably true. If something good could happen, I say it won’t. And part of that is because of my pride, which is alittle too high. If it doesn’t happen, I don’t want to have thought that it would. I’m working on that.

But, basically, I think I’m a pretty mature person. Sure, I have my faults, as does everybody (does Julian Lennon?) but I’m working on all of them.

April 7

I went down stairs, got out a couple of disks, switched on the computer, and made a couple changes on the old man story. I still have to give this story a name. I want the name to be as equally symbolic as the story. I thought of using the idea of the falling star in the title, because the stars shooting across the sky are a very big part of the symbolism in the story. But, every ‘star’ry title I come up with sounded wrong because the word star also means a celebrity, and if I named it something like “Fallen Star” or “When a star falls”, it also sounds like a fall of a great celebrity, which my old man was not.

I printed out a copy of it, when I finished revising, and gave it, once again, to Mom for proofreading. She said it was better, but there are still brown spots in the banana. I am begining to wonder if I will ever finish this story. Oh, but, I am so glad she is doing all this reading and telling me what she thinks is wrong with it. God, I am grateful to her for doing this. I mean, it must get boring once and a while. Now and then, she must look at that story and think to herself, oh, God, not again. So much credit goes to her for telling me what to change. I think, if I could dedicate a short-story to someone, I’d write in the dedication space for this one:

To my mother, Lucy Little, who’s practically done half of the work.

Saturday, 4/13/85 Morning.

....which reminds me of the conversation we had while eating blueberries this morning. Mom kept talking about me being such a good person, for a teenager. It may have embarrassed me when she said it, but I sure hope it’s true, and not just mother-talk.

some random facts about our house

There is a home-made straw bale building of some sort in our neighbors' yard, just over the fence from our side yard. It was one of the first things I noticed when we first checked out the place while house hunting. I was fascinated with the building and liked the idea of living next to it. On inspection day, after the home inspector had told us all the myriad things that were wrong with the house, I went in the yard and took a picture of that straw bale building because I figured I'd never see it again.

When we got the house, the dryer vent was on upside down, the hot and cold water was backwards in the bathroom faucet, none of the doors closed all the way, the plumbing was DIY in the worst possible way, and there was a plaque reading "World's Best Fisherman" mounted by the front door.

The fix-it guy who took out the old pre-fab fireplace in our bedroom and sheetrocked the walls back up and fixed our windows and put in our new lights was a whistler. Whistled pretty much the whole time he worked. On his last full day of work, I asked him what the tune was that he was whistling just then. He stopped, ticked his eyes upward to think, whistled a little more of it and then said, "Oh, that's a Confederate marching song."

After he took out the pipe that went from the fireplace, through the roof to the chimney, he stuck a plastic bag over the hole in the ceiling for a few days. The plastic bag hanging from the ceiling would gently rise and fall as air currents from the chimney filled and left the bag. It looked like it was breathing.

We were pretty scared of the kitchen for a long time. Its filthy stove and cabinets and old refrigerator. During the period we were fixing up the house, pre-move, while we were spending lots of hours working on the woodwork and painting, we fortified ourselves with daily trips to the Bipartisan Cafe, where we bought mochas and sandwiches. We ate sandwiches from Bipartisan every day for two weeks straight, Stephen also went to the store and got us what he called "ironic snacks." These were string cheese for me and a bag of mini pepperoni pieces for him.

On our first complete day working at the house, as we sanded the woodwork and scraped off the drips and cakes of old paint, the neighbors may have heard us singing along with the film soundtrack to Oklahoma. The most-often-played artist was Patsy Cline.

The professional cleaning woman whom we hired to clean the scary stuff periodically used our CD player when we weren't around and listened to country-western-style Christian music. Our fix-it guy, the whistler, held onto a tune, whistling that and only that for hours as he worked. The guy who put in the baseboards talked to himself [I wrote about that here]. Our plumber listened to the news and podcasts in the basement.

Some of the names of the paints we used are: Belladonna's Leaf, Coffee Shop, Bright Idea, Lickety-Split Dip, Mom's Love, Footy Pajamas.

We finally had the cleaning woman clean out the scary fridge. Most of the shelves were missing and one was broken. The cleaning woman took the broken shelf home and duct taped it back together. The duct tape she used had pictures of bacon and mustaches on it.

Then two days after we officially moved in, the fridge died.

In the basement is a small room whose walls are a strange reflective silver material. When we first saw the house, the man who lived in it and was giving us the tour told us that he used to have someone living in that little room and the weird reflective walls were to help keep the room warm for him. Later, during the house inspection, the inspector took a look at the place, leaned in to us, and said, "That's a grow room."

When we first checked out the house, the guy who lived in it and was giving us the tour showed us the very mismatched backyard fence and instructed us that if pieces of wood ever fell off of it, we should get a staple gun and staple the piece back in place and we'd be good to go.

During our move, while we packed up the last of our boxes and bags of stuff and the movers came to the old apartment to cart everything away and we cleaned the apartment, Nicholas was in doggy boarding. The place had a closed-circuit camera so I could watch him. Sad about leaving the apartment, stressed about the move, I'd periodically lie on a pile of folded-up bedding on the floor and stare at my open laptop computer where I could see a tiny image of Nicholas all alone in a room drinking from his water dish.

Spraying peroxide actually can lift some of the staining that your floor guy claims to be the worst animal urine damage he's seen in all his 27 years of working on floors.

The beautiful wooden columns and windows in the living room and dining room at one time had paint on them, but far before we looked at the house that paint had been removed by the then owner of the house, luckily for us. That woman now lives across the street from us.

House-hunting tip: If your realtor shows you a house listing that highlights the ugly chain link fence and the ugly red couch in the living room and the place where the bathroom door was taken out and the wall only partly patched but doesn't highlight the lovely columns and woodwork, don't overlook this house. Everyone else will be overlooking this house, and you will get a good deal and can do a little work and make it beautiful.

Our realtor was a dream who not only helped us hunt down the right house and endured all our pickiness and obsessiveness along the way but made us feel comfortable and taken care of in the process, which, in this stressful market, was so helpful. She also hooked us up with all the professionals who took that neglected house and whipped it into something beautiful. If you're ever in the market and want a good realtor, check Molly Starr out. While we were fixing up the house we went one night to a wine bar to hear her sing with a jazz combo. She sang God Bless the Child.

During the whole process of finding and buying the house, I mourned the loss of our ten year apartment, and among the things I grieved losing were the sounds of the streetcar going by on the street below the apartment, the sounds of train whistles from the nearby train station, and the beautiful, little touches of our old neighborhood, including the old apartment buildings and the lovely horse rings all along the curbs. While going back and forth between homes, fixing up the house, I used to stare out the car window all along Burnside, looking for horse rings and seeing only naked curbs. It wasn't until we were moved in that I saw, here and there along our new street:

On its birthday: City of Weird, a random photoplay

October 11, 2017, is the official first birthday of City of Weird. And October 12th is the first anniversary of our book launch at Powell's.

I kind of can't believe it. A whole year.

Bear with me. I'm feeling very nostalgic.

I thought I'd pull together a bit of a photoplay on the life of the book. I have far too many pictures and don't want to go on and on, so I'll just choose a smattering, mostly from the many lovely events we did. A couple writers who lived out of state didn't make it to events, so I don't have pictures of everyone, but I'll try to get as many in here as I can.

^When books arrived for the first time.

^Powell's put us up on the marquee!

^Karen Munro talks with Ken Jones, host of KBOO's Between the Covers

^Suzy Vitello on Between the Covers.

^Octopus cupcakes for our book launch at Powell's City of Books, October 12th, 2016.

^Octopus swag on all the chairs.

^A nice, big crowd for the Powell's launch. This is when we had contributors in the audience stand for applause.

^Powell's readers answering questions during the Q&A, left to right: Dan DeWeese, Brigitte Winter, Mark Russell, and Rene Denfeld.

^In the signing line. Left to right, contributors Brian Reid, Brigitte Winter, Mark Russell, Rene Denfeld, Doug Chase, Kirsten Larson, Adam Strong, and Brad Rosen.

^Jonah Barrett and Jonathan Hill.

^On the right, our primary copy editor, Sharon Eldridge.

October 26th was our event at Broadway Books. We encouraged people to come in costume and there was more octopus swag and a City of Weird doughnut cake donated by VooDoo Doughnut.

^With Broadway Books co-owner Sally McPherson.

^My costume was this big hat that I had to take off halfway through because it kept falling off.

^Leslie What in a fabulous giant squid costume.

^Stevan Allred, in the costume of a well-dressed man, reads from "Notes from the Underground City."

^And my favorite costume of the night, contributor / reader Kevin Meyer dressed as a Carebear, along with audience members Colin and Aubrey.

On November 4th, we were part of Wordstock's Lit Crawl®, reading alongside Lauren Kessler at the Oregon Ballet School.

^Jonah Barrett reads from his story "Alder Underground."

^Leni Zumas reads from "Tunnels."

^Sean Davis congratulates fellow contributor Susan DeFreitas on the upcoming publication of her novel Hot Season.

^Kevin Sampsell brought the house down with a hilarious and moving performance of his story "In Transit."

The next day was Wordstock. City of Weird contributors Jonathan Hill, Stevan Allred, and Karen Munro read at a pop-up event but sadly, I didn't get any pictures as I was moderating.

Our event at Annie Bloom's was on November 16th.

^Look at this fabulous window display they put up!

^Doug Chase reads from his story "Squatty and Weasel Boy" as Art Edwards and Suzy Vitello look on.

^Justin Hocking had everyone laughing.

^With Linda Rand and Justin Hocking in the signing line.

^Readers and contributors posed outside in front of the window display. Left to right, Justin Hocking, publisher Laura Stanfill, me, Suzy Vitello in jaunty hat, Doug Chase, Brad Rosen, Linda Rand, and Art Edwards.

On December 6th, we were invited to read on KBOO's Bread and Roses, the country's longest-standing feminist radio show.

^Susan DeFreitas reads from her story "The Mind Body Problem." Behind her head: Don't take equipment! Don't take equipment!

^Goofing off with the microphone. Susan DeFreitas, Leigh Anne Kranz, B. Frayn Masters and me.

On December 7th we were part of the Plonk Reading Series at Corkscrew Wine Bar, with a winter/Christmas themed show. Apologies for the less-than-clear pictures. I took these, and my phone does not take good pictures.

^Nicole Rosevear reads from her story "This Many Lost Things," set in Portland in wintertime.

^Brian Reid, whose story is about a SantaCon gone bad.

^Brad Rosen dressed up as his narrator from the story "Yay" and played the waldteufel, an instrument that has the power to ward off the Krampus.

December 13th we went to Longview, Washington, for Wordfest. As host, I sat behind the authors, and I took a few discrete pictures, but, yeah, they were all from behind. Still, at least I got something.

^Brian Reid.

^Kirsten Larson reads as host Alan Rose looks on.

^B. Frayn Masters, who read and also favored us with a very skilled rooster impersonation.

^Jason Squamata.

^Special guest Stephen O'Donnell read Justin Hocking's story "Vampire."

Our event at Another Read Through was March 11th, 2017. Every reader read from their own story PLUS another favorite story from the collection.

^The whole crew. Left to right: me, Leni Zumas, Art Edwards, Doug Chase, Suzy Vitello, and our host Elise Saphier, owner of Another Read Through.

^Brad Rosen listens to Doug Chase read from his (Brad's) story.

^Portland writers Steve Arndt and Dan Berne.

^Art Edwards, Doug Chase and Suzy Vitello. That little drum-and-stick thing on the table is a waldteufel, which I mentioned before is an instrument that wards off the Krampus and other evil things. The drum is on a string connected to the stick, and you twirl it around to make a sound that, according to Brad's story "Yay," sounds like a thousand and one wet frogs singing.

^I did a demonstration.

^Another Read Through has a cool reading tree, which we gathered around after the reading. That's publisher Laura Stanfill tucked into the hole in the tree.

On March 7th, Mark Russell and I were invited to speak to Willamette Writers.

Our final reading event of the book launch was April 17th at American Legion Post 134, which was the setting for part of Sean Davis' City of Weird story "The Fixer."

^Sean Davis reads from "The Fixer."

^Susan DeFreitas.

^Linda Rand.

^Karen Munro.

^Leigh Anne Kranz.

This event was supposed to be a winter event the year before, but big snows postponed it. I'm glad we ended our readings here, a favorite event space because of its warmth and its connection to the book. But more than that, I'm glad we ended here because our last reader was Adam Strong, whose story is the last story in the book.

^Adam Strong reads from "Always."

^Readers and contributors on hand: Sean Davis, publisher Laura Stanfill, Doug Chase, Linda Rand, Nicole Rosevear, Adam Strong, me, Susan DeFreitas, Leigh Anne Kranz, Karen Munro.

But then the Willamette Radio Workshop took four City of Weird stories and adapted them into radioplays, which they performed on stage!

The first was at the Kiggins Theater in Vancouver, Washington.

^The stories they adapted were "The Fixer" by Sean Davis, "Transformation" by Dan DeWeese, "Letters to the Oregonian in the Year 30,000 BC" by Mark Russell, and "A Code for Everything" by Andrew Stark. The above image is from their performance of "A Code for Everything." I was extra excited that they adapted this story, as Andrew lives out of state and was unable to attend any reading events.

^Another thing I was excited about: they also showed and provided sound effects for "How Do You Say Gentrification in Martian," by Jonathan Hill, our one graphic novelist contributor.

^And lastly, they performed at UFO Fest in McMinnville, at McMenamins Hotel Oregon. What a blast.

^A UFO Fest makes book signing extra fun.

Gosh, that was a lot of pictures even though I really held back. I'm sorry we don't have pics of authors Jeff Johnson, Stefanie Freele, and Andrew Stark. Their contributions to the book are wonderful, but they just happened to be out of state / unavailable during event time.

Anyway, I want to say happy birthday to our little book. I've been thankful for every minute of this year in the life of this collection.

And with all the excitement of readings and performances, one of the sweetest things is just seeing it live in the world.