Sensory Details

Sight:
I'm inspired by Ken Burns' 2009 documentary "National Parks: America's Best Idea." Truly, I am never more proud to be an American than when hearing stories of the early conservationists, idealistic and rugged, that decided to set aside some land (and later, animals) from the wanton destruction of the Industrial Age. It's a beautiful story, told with beautiful images. While it's impossible to capture the magnificence of many of these places with a television screen, Burns makes a good attempt. See the sweeping panoramas of granite and sky in the Yosemite Valley. Behold the early morning stillness at Yellowstone, where the geyser steam melts into the ragged breath of huge bison and it all mixes with morning sunlight. Watch the yellow light gather on faraway pinnacles of the Grand Canyon. I'm seven months away from summer vacation and work has crept into more corners of my life. These heavenly documentary images are good reminders of what's ahead.

Sound:
I've got two CD's in regular rotation in my car each morning: Lil Wayne's "I Am Not a Human Being" and "The Very Best of Violent Femmes." Ostensibly, these two discs span several eras and musical genres. The reality is that Lil Wayne and the Femmes' lead singer and songwriter, Gordon Gano, have a lot in common. Both vocalists are loud, surprising, salacious, and angry. Both experiment with tempo in their songs, either slowing the beat to a crawl or speeding it up at unexpected points. Both slur and holler and spit and cuss. They both waver between honesty and pretense. Importantly, both artists absolutely rock. Every morning, sucking down coffee and blinking through the fogged windshield, I nod my head to violent little beats. After listening to these two, I'm ready for a roomful of teenagers.

Smell:
My sinuses have been screwed up ever since an elbow to the face in a game of water basketball. I can't smell that much. This is good, and bad.

Touch:
Last Saturday I sat under a wet poncho, feeling cold streams of rain slide off my back. If I stood up, the water that had collected in my lap would soak my jeans and boots. I didn't stand up. The team I was watching, the OSU Beaver football team, was losing to the worst team in our conference. There was no reason to explode to my feet and high-five the people behind me, to yell and throw my arms up. Saturday was a symptom of a larger malaise--the horrible reality that 2010 is turning into the worst season in college football history. My Beavers are bad. The hated Ducks are really, really good. Their girlfriend-beating running back might win the Heisman Trophy. They're undefeated. Unless something drastic happens (their coach resigns; Jesus comes back), they'll play for a National Championship. And so, last weekend, I sat in the cold and wet, watching with numb acceptance the sporting world collapse all around me.

Taste:
On Thursdays, La Roca, a taco place on Ninth Street, has "enchiladas verdes" as their daily special. Enchiladas verdes from La Roca are unbelievably good. It's as though Huitzilopochtili, the Aztec sun god, gathered the finest spices and bits of chicken from across the New World, wrapped them in a warm tortilla, and smothered them in cheese and green sauce. The sauce itself is a divine nectar, a rich potion from some ethereal dimension superior to our own. When I eat some enchiladas verdes, especially on a cold afternoon in Corvallis, I give thanks. It doesn't make sense, this ambrosia. We shouldn't be allowed to enter the Garden of Eden, not just by turning down Buchanan and hanging a left on Ninth. To eat enchiladas verdes from La Roca is to know more earthly delights than a man could hope for.