Red and White

The lawn in front of Eliot Hall at Reed is covered with small flags. At first glance, it looks like a dusting of snow. On second look, you can discern scattered concentrations and dots of red.

Each of the 112,000 white flags represents six Iraqis who died in the Iraq war. Each of the 3,000 or so red flags stands for a dead American soldier.

At the edge of the lawn are bundles of additional flags; a sign invites you to plant some of your own.

Red and white make pink. My first camellia blossom is out. Spring is stirring in Portland, and that obscene war goes on.

Another thing I'm not going to do again ever

We're having the Three Cs on new year's eve -- crab, champagne, and crusty bread. This is the first time I've cooked the crabs myself. (If I've ever done it before, I've repressed the memory.) The process couldn't be easier, but I hated doing it. I was hoping to be able to buy the crabs already, um, red and folded, but live was all they had.

I think of myself as a fishi (a? e?) tarian, but then, I don't generally buy my seafood while it's still wiggling and waving around. A couple of hours ago, one of these guys was skittering on the floor of Om Seafood, trying to get away from us.

Don't give me the argument about pea-sized brains and primitive nervous systems, please. Maybe I'm cursed with an overactive imagination, but these critters displayed more personality, albeit rudimentary, than some humans I've met. If I were a truly moral person, I'd be one more giant step down the road toward vegetarianism this afternoon.