So sorry. Art Scatter has been experiencing technical difficulties. Mr. Scatter was in the far-flung parts of the state hanging with people who raise peacocks and donkeys. His absence meant he couldn’t run interference with the Large Smelly Boys, who at times can be chihuahuas for attention.

Then Mr. Scatter got back and wrote about mules (note a trend?) and other thinky things like the League of Tough-Guy Arts Observers. There’s just no way I’m going to get in the middle of that, especially when I have upper respiratory yuck and I’m busy hamstering to get out front of my new job.

Oh, did I tell you I got a new job? How did I get it, you wonder? Let’s see … the story so far, posted way last week:

• Blissful summer.
• No job and no plans for a job.
• Alvin and the Chipmunks.
• A mysterious Jane nominates me for president.
• White House hopes dashed.
• Two Large Smelly Liabilities.

At this point in the story, the mysterious Jane didn’t know this (and I didn’t know her), but I now considered her my new best friend.

In the meantime … on Aug. 13, Mr. Scatter posted something brainy about the National Endowment for the Arts and its new leader, Rocco Landesman. The post got a lot of thoughtful comments and then the mysterious Jane popped up again.

She said, “I think we should invite Chairman Landesman out to the provinces for a look-see. I’d be delighted to have him hear a Third Angle concert.”

I immediately put on my Sherlock Holmes hat, went to the website for Third Angle New Music Ensemble and checked out its list of board members. Sure enough, there was a Jane.

This is the point of the story where I should divulge Jane’s last name, but I think I’ve dropped enough clues that you can put on your own fancy earflaps and find out for yourself. You don’t even have to light your pipe, because I’ll make it easy for you. Here’s a link.

When I spied Third Angle in mysterious Jane’s comments, my ears pricked up. Or at least they would have if I hadn’t been wearing the fancy earflaps. I love Third Angle. And I love Ron Blessinger, the company’s artistic director, who happens to be an old friend. We used to live a few houses apart. Our kids used to swing around in trees together.

Ron once wandered down to our house to check on his two kids and they were lined up with my two in the side yard. As I aimed a plastic hose, the four of them were taking turns jumping on an air pad that would send a plastic rocket sailing down the end of our driveway where I had parked the van sideways and opened the door. Ron looked at us and his eyes followed another flying rocket down to the van. He asked if we were trying to hit it through the door. We all nodded and grinned as another kid jumped on the air pad with both feet.

Our kids went swimming together, played on the beach together, watched parades together, had killer water fights together. Ron and I have trailed behind our trick-or-treating kids on Halloween drinking bad red wine. When he and his family were out of town, I occasionally watched their dog. She once urinated in our basement. So Ron and I were like that.

In fact, we were so close we recently became FaceBook friends.

A few days after the now-not-so-mysterious Jane weighed in on the NEA post on Art Scatter, Ron posted a status update on FaceBook that he was “wrapping up a grant while on vacation … how stupid.”

I almost posted a comment saying that he needed me. And I meant it.

Jobless as I was, I thought of Ron. For years we just knew each other as neighbors who drank wine together on the patio. I knew he played the violin and he knew I did some nondescript job at The Oregonian. But then he and I coordinated an arts project together. It was just a wee bit of a thing in the arts project world-view, but it might as well have been as complicated as launching a spaceship. It was all going according to plan for about 10 months when a key person had to drop out and it all nearly collapsed, which would have wasted all that hard work and a grant worth a good chunk of change. I had to go into overdrive to save it.

While we were in the middle of trying to save this project, both of us attended a public art event at the Ira Keller Fountain across from Keller Auditorium. Ron had told me all about the Frozen Music – City Dance project he was in the middle of planning. It was more than a year down the road, but I asked him to take me on a tour of the four Halprin fountains that would be part of the event. I didn’t tell him, but I was considering volunteering to help organize it.

I would have except that at that point it would have been a suicide mission for me to take it on. I reluctantly didn’t say anything.

The arts project we were organizing together miraculously turned out well. In no small part because Ron and I zinged back and forth really easily.

A few weeks after the event, Ron sent me a note asking for a blurb to satisfy the grant requirements. I quickly batted out something, and as I hit SEND I thought about how this was the very last thing I had to do for this project that unexpectedly turned monstrous and how odd it was that Ron, who had previously only known me as a friend and neighbor, now knew more about my writing and organizational abilities than anybody I worked with professionally – even people I had worked with for more than a dozen years. And I thought, “You know, this is really what I should be doing.”

Not long after that, I was chatting with Ron and his wife in their kitchen, and Ron said in a sort of off-hand, apologetic way, “Do you think … you might … you know … be interested in managing Third Angle?”

I laughed. I said something like, “What? For nothing?”

He said, “No, we’d pay you.” And he quoted me something.

I laughed again. Let me think. Leave my job that has health, dental, vision, pension, life insurance and a matching 401K contribution for something with no benefits that pays less than half what I make and part of my job would be to scrap for my salary? Ha!

But I had always kept it in mind.

Months went by. My personal life turned inside out. My professional life swirled in crazy ways. I knew I was going to have to change careers at some point.

Then I took my son to Frozen Music – City Dance last September. I was mesmerized. I said to myself, “If there’s one job I would want beyond newspapering, this would be it. I want to make things like this happen.”

OK, have I rabbit-holed you to death?

So, this part of the story so far:

• Love Jane.
• Love Third Angle.
• Love Ron.
• Earflap hats.
• Flying rockets.
• Killer water fights.
• Trick-or-treat.
• Urinating dog.
• FaceBook.
• Frozen Music – City Dance.

Got it?

Back to FaceBook. Ron posted another innocuous status update about a date night with his wife. The now-not-so-mysterious Jane posted a comment.

My opening! I couldn’t resist, because she was now my best friend, though she didn’t know it. She didn’t know about the earflap hat.

I posted a comment telling Ron to say hi to his wife and then I sent a note to Jane. I said, “Do I know you?”

She sent me a private note on FaceBook. I was at the beach – a glorious week of sunshine and sand. Jane and I messaged back and forth a bit. I spent hours leaning against a log on the beach, reading and intermittently typing notes to Jane into my phone. She mentioned in a by-the-way-sort-of-way that Third Angle was looking for a managing director … if I knew anyone who might be interested.

Third Angle was looking for a managing director? Jane couldn’t possibly have known about my past job envy. She couldn’t possibly have known about hanging out with Ron at the Junior Rose Parade and how I knocked on his door one day every late summer to ask to snip grape leaves from his back porch so I could put them in dill pickle jars. How was it possible that a quirky comment on a post about Alvin and the Chipmunks could spiral to this?

It was too crazy perfect to ignore. And yet, I had to think hard whether to take it seriously. For all my silly blustering, I really did have a plan for fall. I had already begun research to shop for a literary agent. I had projects in the wind. I knew the Third Angle job was scant pay compared to what I was used to.

And there was another thing. They were closing the window fast and I had to make up my mind in a hurry.

For the next three weeks of summer, I was going to be in and out of town, but mostly out. Those weeks were booked solid and had been for months. They were the one part of summer that wasn’t flexible and came with expensive reservations. Did I really want to be spending low tide writing a resume and cover letter for a small organization? What did a resume look like, anyway? I hadn’t done one in, like, 25 years. Back then my resume included being a clerk at an auto parts store.

I got back to town and left a message for Ron. We both had one day when we could talk and, get this, it was the one day all year that I needed to snip grape leaves from his back porch.

So if you missed the bouncing ball … let me help you …

• Blissful summer.
• No job and no plans for a job.
• Alvin and the Chipmunks.
• A mysterious Jane nominates me for president.
• White House hopes dashed.
• Two Large Smelly Liabilities.
• Love Jane.
• Love Third Angle.
• Love Ron.
• Earflap hats.
• Flying rockets.
• Killer water fights.
• Trick-or-treat.
• Urinating dog.
• FaceBook.
• Frozen Music – City Dance.
• Date night.
• Sunny beach.
• Typing into phone.
• Junior Rose Parade.
• Auto parts store.
• Pickles!

The gods had spoken. There was no way I could get in the way of that.

I packed up my computer and some bizarre book about how to find a great job and type a resume (but don’t tell Jane I told you that), and I headed north. I would formally apply. I would be in touch.

And, oh, by the way, in a week I would be home for 36 hours and no more, was it possible to squeeze in an interview?

They could. And did. Toward the end of the interview, one of the board presidents let slip a little piece of information: I had won her over with my pickle post.

From Alvin and the Chipmunks to pickles. As I said, the gods have spoken. You just don’t say no to circumstances like that.

————————-

NEXT TIME: I drove back to town just in time to perform my first official job duty … to near-disastrous effect.
— Laura Grimes