Display by Label: Hoshi

I've always heard it said that dogs are great chick magnets. Personally, I haven't found this to be the case. I think that's because "creepy unshaven smelly dude" outweighs "cute cuddly puppy" by a factor of three to one for women in the Jersey burbs. But I'll say this: Honey can turn a big, tough guy's heart to putty without even trying. And while this isn't usually a goal of mine, it can prove useful every now and then.

Last week, I had to make several trips to the Mazda dealership because Hoshi was having some issues with her breaks and suspension. Turns out she needed new rotors and there was a leak in one of her rear shocks. All the repairs were under warranty, which was nice, and while I was there I went ahead and had her oil and steering fluid changed. She seems much happier now, and the steering wheel no longer shakes dramatically when you break due to the warped rotors. And this all makes for a far less harrowing driving experience.

I like to expose Honey to new situations, so I brought her with me to the dealership each time I went. For me, bringing Honey places like this means bringing along a bag full of toys and treats to keep her entertained, as well as a blanket (God-forbid she lie on the cold, hard ground!) and a bottle of water and her "travel bowl" in case she gets thirsty.

Just to be clear, for any new readers: Honey is a dog.

So I enter the waiting room of the car dealership to pick up Hoshi and I'm carrying this arsenal of dog accoutrements with me in a SXSW festival bag which is slung over one shoulder, the blanket over the other, and Honey on her lead sniffing the floor next to me.

And maybe I should pause here to say that it might be that this looked a little ... what's the word ... "unmanly." You might even go so far as to call it "sissified." And believe me, I was conscious of this fact, especially since I was entering an auto shop, a place where masculinity seeps up through the cracks in the floor, where no matter who you are, your voice seems to want to drop a couple of octaves as soon as you set foot inside.

By the third trip there, the guys at the dealership knew Honey by name. And she was feeling more comfortable in this new environment and was eating up all the attention. A heavyset guy with a beard came out from behind the counter to pet her. He sat down in one of the chairs in the waiting room and called her over to him. I let her go play with him so I could sign the paperwork without her pulling and when I turned back, she was on her hind feet licking the guy all over his big bearded face which was now just one huge giddy smile.

And all at once, I no longer felt self-conscious about the blanket over my shoulder or the half-dozen toys in the bag I was carrying. Because this man who had the stature and appearance of somebody you might be intimidated by when you brought your car to him for repairs, had tears in his eyes. I'll say that again: there were tears of joy in his eyes. He was visibly choked up over my dog.

One of his workmates noticed this and asked him what was up.

"Sorry," he said "Dogs always do this to me. It's just ... she's so soft."

And the funny part was nobody laughed at him or ribbed him for being a pussy or anything like that. Because we all understood. And for a moment we all looked upon Honey in awe and acknowledged her sheer power over our hardened, man-hearts and we choked back our own tears and resisted the urge to hug one-another and start talking about our feelings.

And here's what I know: From now on, I'm always bringing a dog with me to car dealerships. Because I've finally figured out how to level the playing field.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Oogah  Hoshi  Honey  Grunt 

Saturday, we went into New York to see a show. Hoshi was wearing her brand-new Jersey plates, which we had finally gone and picked up earlier that morning at the DMV. It was strange seeing her in that sickly yellowish color grade instead of the strong DC blue and white and red. But ugly as the NJ plates are, they do manage to give us a sense of "belonging" here. Because now when people randomly honk at us for accelerating at a normal rate instead of immediately hitting 60 from a dead stop (we can't all be like some blondes), we understand that what they are saying to us is: "Hey, Brother. Fellow New-Jersian. Look, I'm sorry to seem rude, but it's out of the utmost respect that I must give you this little toot of my horn, and beg of you, kind sir, to let's please have a move on, shall we?" And not: "Get out of my way you ridiculous foreigner with your out-of-state plates or I will drive over your ass and you will hurt mightily." It's a subtle difference, but I hear it now, and I get it. And I feel the love.

Since we were heading up-town, we took the Lincoln tunnel. Our other trips into the city had been via the Holland, so this was new territory for us. We had a Google Maps printout along with C's Blackbery Navigator. But all our modern navigational accoutrements couldn't anticipate a road closure on the other side. We were supposed to take this particular ramp that would take us to the West Side Highway via 42nd, but when we were delivered out of the depths of the tunnel into the city, we discovered it was tragically blocked off for no apparent reason. Just these menacing orange cones standing in our way between here and there. And the really frustrating part was that we could see clearly that if we had gone through the right-most tube of the tunnel, we would have come up exactly where we wanted to be and would have had no problem entering the ramp. But having gone through the left-most tube, we couldn't cut over. Or rather, we could. It was possible. It's just that these cones were in our way. Funny the influence that cones have over our driving, isn't it?

Okay. No problem. We'd just resort to our instinctual "city sense," you know, the kind that naturally develops after four years of driving around Washington DC, with its strange two-ways that become one-ways or that dead end altogether, only to resume a couple of blocks later, and the circles and diagonal state streets intersecting the letters and numbers at random places. With C navigating and me driving, we'd be good. If by "good" you meant taking a series of "gut-instinct" turns only to wind up on a one-way stretch of pavement that took us straight back into the Lincoln heading west into New Jersey. There was no passing "Go." No collecting $200.

I guess if you wanted to put a positive spin on all of this, you could say that we enjoyed our trip through the Lincoln so much, we were willing to pay another $8 to do it all over again. Back on the Jersey side, even though there were more orange cones indicating to me that I should not, under any circumstances, cut back over to the east-bound lanes, I had no more patience for their senseless warnings. And so I cut across anyway. Because I had no doubt that if we continued on our current trajectory we might wind up in Pennsylvania. And I was in no mood for a cheesesteak. I felt I might have a harder time getting away with a cone-crossing move now that I had local tags. Because one advantage of being a foreigner is that people are a little more forgiving of you, even if it's with an attitude of "you poor sod, go on, then." But nobody said anything. Not even a honk. I really don't think it matters what you do on the road here, as long as you do it quickly and decisively.

So we paid our $8 and went through the tunnel again, this time going through the right-most tube, and we finally made it to the Upper West, and even found street parking, which was a bonus. And while I'd love to tell you that all of this effort was for some Broadway show like Avenue Q, or Wicked, or Grease, that shit just ain't the truth. The truth is that we were heading to Symphony Space to see 5 Centimeters Per Second, which was showing as part of a "Children's Film Festival" there. C is on a mission to make me an anime fan. And I have to admit that this series of three short films went a long way toward that goal. It was definitely my kind of story, laced with just the right blend of tragic longing and melancholy. Makoto Shinkai is a master at making the viewer ache along with the characters. The final film in the trilogy was a little disappointing, but the first two were great. Here's a trailer, though the narration is kind of bad. One reason I liked it so much was that Shinkai loaded the film with all of these visual details of Japanese culture. Weird little things like the hand rings in the subway, or the water bottles, or the coffee machines. And it all really brought back our trip from last year.

After the show, we met up with Kelly and her friend, walked around central park a bit, and then stopped for dinner at a grill where I ordered Shepherd's Pie and Guinness in honor of St. Patty's Day. And while we did manage to do the Lincoln in only one trip on the way back, we couldn't help but experiment with an alternate route back to our house, which wound up taking us way out of our way and through Newark. Unfortunately, the best way to learn your way around a city is to get lost in it a lot, and we still have a lot of learning to do.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Hoshi  Ho_Hum  Japan  Movies  NY  Weekend 

In Texas, the truck is the most revered of all automobiles. They even get special license plates which identify them as a "Texas Truck." And I think that's how it should be. Because in the hierarchy of trucks, it's surprising, but size usually plays a secondary role to location. And that makes the Texas Truck the Lion King of bedded vehicles, brother. Believe. And so you know what that means? It means my old 1989 Nissan Pickup from the Lone Star, with its diminutive size and its two-wheel drive, would still trump that Ford F-250 from Delaware. And if it stepped out of line, well, there'd be a posse on call ready to ride his Yankee ass out of town. It's just how it is, son. Respect.

And so even though my new truck is a bit bigger than my old one. Even though he's all 4-wheel drive and big wheels and stands up tall with the big boys, even though his growl is an octave lower, even though on all counts this guy is much more truck than my old Nissan ever was ... (and I say that with all my love, Ol' Boy) it's still just a Jersey truck, with pale yellow plates. Out here, neurosis comes standard. It's not an "options package." And so these trucks are just a little more high-maintenance than their brothers to the southwest. They tend to be filled with a little more of the angst and self-loathing. They have "body issues." And that's fine. All it means is you have to feed their egos from time to time. And it's not that hard, really. Just throw them a few 'atta boys,' and smack 'em on the tailgate when they've done good. A little encouragement goes a long way.

But I'm being rude. Formal introductions are in order, here. So Internets, meet Remington. Remington, Internets. You can call him Remy for short. He's a 1999 Toyota Tacoma 4x4. Green. And like a Remington rifle, he's cool and smooth to the touch, but he'll fire smoking hot, when necessary. He stands tall in his wheels and runs great, but like all 9-year-old trucks, he has a few neurological issues. Most people don't realize it, but Tacomas are sort of known for their enthusiastic experimentation with psychedelic drugs. And it tends to lead to some brain misfirings in their latter years. Like when I first picked him up, Remy's horn didn't work. I mean, he'd open his mouth, but nothing would come out. It was kind of funny and sad at the same time. He just sort of forgot how to talk. But now it's fixed. Mike the mechanic rewired him. Which is good, I guess, except that now he won't shut up. He's your typical New York driver and enjoys cursing and flicking off the other trucks if they get too close. Sometimes he'll purposely annoy the sports cars on the road by going slow, then he'll push his weight over the lane line and make it difficult for them to pass. Cracks me up. And look, don't tell him because he's apt to get a big head and all, but I kind of think he's the shit. He sleeps outside because Hoshi has dibs on the garage. But he's fine with that, and really wouldn't have it any other way. Because despite his rough exterior, he's a gentleman at heart, and he knows Hoshi has delicate sensibilities. Also, it's kind of obvious that he crushes on her.

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Remington  Hoshi 

Hoshi has gotten the royal treatment this week. And she really deserves it. Because for weeks now, C and I have kind of taken her for granted. Driving her up and down the I-95. Asking her to take us here and there and back again, sometimes without the proper attire. And so last week, I wasn't surprised when during a white-knuckle ride in a New Jersey snowstorm, she decided she'd had enough and nearly slid off an I-287 on-ramp.

But she didn't. She held on. And I'm proud of her. For making up for my lack of preparation. Because I knew better. And if I had been paying better attention to the news, I would have realized that this was about to happen and I would have either stayed in Baltimore or left for Jersey the night before.

It's already been well established that Hoshi doesn't do snow. Or ice. Or slush. It's not her fault. She just needs a set of tires that are rated for something besides "racing on hot summer pavement." So, this year I had fully intended to get her a nice set of Winter tires. In fact, just one day before the sleigh ride through New Jersey, I had actually purchased a lovely wheel/tire ensemble from this extremely helpful Quebecois at The Tire Rack. (I love the Quebecois, which is a good thing since I married into a whole family of them.) And just for the record, I'm never buying tires any other way than through Tire Rack. They are great. The guys that work there are really knowledgeable. And once you've made a decision, you can have the tires shipped to any tire store or auto shop near you for mounting and/or installation.

Anyway, after researching all the different options, I finally decided on a set of 18-in Pirelli 240 Sottozero's. The other option was to drop down a wheel size to the 17-in Blizzaks. I think the Sottozero was the right choice for us. The Blizzak is kind of the "standard" in Winter tire, but I figured I was going to be living in New Jersey, not Alaska. A tire like that might be a little overkill when C and I are mostly going to be driving on cold, dry pavement with a few days of slush, ice, and snow. The Sottozero, while not quite the Winter workhorse that is the Blizzak, had received some excellent reviews for ice and snow performance, so we would still be getting peace of mind.

The next morning I set off for New Jersey, still riding on Hoshi's "summer performance" ice-skates, one of which now had a plug in it because, coincidentally, I had wound up with a nail in my front driver's-side tire while in DC for a holiday party the night before. Ironic, yes? It rained all the way to NYC, at which point the rain became ice. Soon, it was everywhere. Snow. Ice. Whiteness. I was caught smack-dab in the middle of the one thing I had hoped to avoid this winter at all costs. Unbelievable. So I kept Hoshi at a brisk 15-30 miles per hour over in the right lane of the yet-to-be-salted-or-plowed turnpike, 24, and 287. At some point I realized that I was heading for the above-mentioned 360-degree-turn on-ramp from hell. A slight panic took hold. Cold sweating, muscle tensing, slow motioning. It's never good when you turn your wheel and your car continues straight. Which is what happened at first. But then somehow the wheels caught just enough pavement to keep us arching to the right. And luckily, the on-ramp was down-hill. I coasted/slid my way through the curve, heart-pounding, the line of cars behind me impatiently riding my ass with their happy, happy Winters and All-seasons. Their fancy all-wheel drive. Fuck them. Hoshi, you're doing fine. Don't mind them.

When we arrived at the hotel, I was mentally and physically exhausted. My muscles had that weak, post workout feeling. And poor Hoshi was cold, wet, and dirty. And kind of pissed off at me. So I vowed to take care of her this week. And I have. Tuesday, I took her for an oil change and a full-service car wash. Then yesterday I took her to get her new Winters put on. So she's happy now. And looking all sexy and shit. And she can't wait to drive up to Montréal this weekend. And neither can I.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Hoshi 

It's been a while since I've mentioned Hoshi. In part, this is because thoughts, of late, have been consumed with other things, such as trips to Japan, bathroom renovations, condo leasing, and trying to find a place to live in B-More. Even without those things, Hoshi doesn't really factor into my daily thoughts all too often. I don't have the same history with her as I did with Carmen. I only drive her about once or twice a week, usually on the weekends. C and Hoshi have a much more intimate relationship, making their daily hour-and-a-half round-trip commute to the office campus and back together. More and more, people in their 20s and 30s seem to be making this awful reverse commute - not to, but away from - the city. Large companies love cheap land. So they build their campuses far away from anything right and proper. C's office complex is located on a lonely stretch of a nowhere suburban landscape somewhere between DC and Baltimore. It has a name, this area, but we've come to know it, affectionately, as 'The Vortex.' Every morning, C bravely maneuvers Hoshi into this world of clean, right angles and strip centers. And back out in the evening. Sometimes I worry she will be lost inside the swirl of it. But to my relief, she manages to make it back. But a good part of her day is sucked away out there, in the vortex. Lately, she's been working quite hard, and has had to leave before the "no rush hour street parking" begins on Mass Ave. Then she arrives home well after the sun goes down. But she's never lonely on her travels. First of all, she's always equipped with at least two cell phones, and she's not afraid to use them (with headset, of course). Second of all, she's got Hoshi to keep her company. And driving Hoshi on the highway is sometimes all the company you need.

C has gotten used to driving alone. That is, with no other sentient being in the car with her. And this is a good thing. Because anything with a bladder and/or bowels and even the slightest instinct for self-preservation should take great caution when sitting in the passenger seat of a car C is driving, especially Hoshi. Small children and the elderly are probably better off engaging in activities that are slightly less . . . stimulating. Like a helicopter ride over the Grand Canyon, or a roller coaster ride on top of New York, New York in Las Vegas.

But I'm probably not the one to be throwing stones here. I'm pretty aggressive myself. It's hard not to be when you're driving Hoshi. That growl works its way through your ass down your leg and into your foot and results in a significant increase in weight in that particular appendage. You get used to the way your stomach always feels like it's a passenger in the back seat. And you like it. The thing about driving alone most of the time is you get used to the fact that nobody is with you. And you can do what you want. I understand it. I got this way in Dallas. You know your route, you take it every day. You know where the pot holes are. You can anticipate every turn, every bump, and - to yourself - you're just driving normally. But when others don't know the route, when others aren't privy to all your knowledge of the road. It leads to a bit of the white-knuckleness.

Anyway, the point is, we're both a little on the aggressive side. But, that said, we do have very different driving 'techniques,' and the fact that the other doesn't share a particular habit has lead to more than a couple heated arguments over the 'correct' way to drive, and even once resulted in the cancellation of our dinner plans. The logic being this: how can I possibly share the same dinner table - let alone the same bed - with this person, who is such an obvious idiot when it comes to maneuvering in heavy traffic? Sometimes our passions get the best of us.

But one aspect of our driving that we both have in common is we like a clean windshield. This is an absolute must. I know there are people out there who drive their cars around with all kinds of shit on the windshield, where the only clear spot is a small area near the rear-view mirror and you have to drive with your head slightly tilted to the right to see anything. And you want to say to them, What is wrong with you, man? Clean that shit off already! And so you nag them into turning on their wipers, but they don't even work properly and all they do is smear the shit around so that now there is a general film o' shit over the entire glass, along with semi-circles of water where the wipers had something stuck to them and left a mark. This drives both C and I equally crazy. And it's one area where we can reach a common ground, bringing us back to speaking terms, where we can again contemplate the prospect of dinner and, thankfully, bed.

With pollen season firmly upon us, having adequate cleaning fluids in the windshield-wiper fluid reservoir is imperative. It's possible that, on a heavy pollen day, we might, in fact, use several cups of the stuff. We usually have a liter bottle of the bright blue liquid in the back, you know, for emergencies. Like the one that happened recently: Much to C's horror, she pulled on the lever one day only to witness a pathetic dribbling of windshield wiper fluid onto the very lowest portion of the glass, an area untouched by the wipers. She pulled into the next gas station, bought a bottle of fluid, and topped off the reservoir. Problem solved.

Or not. A quick test resulted in the same sad display of dribble. This would not do. Was there a problem with the pump? Hoshi was only six months old. Could she be developing these sorts of problems already? This is why we'd moved away from VW's, so we wouldn't have to deal with this kind of slow self-destruction. C told me about the problem and we agreed that something needed to be done about this situation, pronto. So we made an early Saturday appointment at the Mazda dealership, which we both entirely forgot about and slept through the first week. So we re-scheduled for the following Saturday (last Saturday).

Let me pause here to remind people that C defies most gender stereotypes. She is downright intuitive with a map, she cheers louder than me when the Broncos play, and her savvy with a remote control instills in me great fear and awe. So she can hold her own around a car. She's not afraid to lift the hood, kick the tires, or stick her hand in greasy crevices. She certainly knows how to top off windshield wiper fluid.

Unfortunately, the mechanics at the Mazda dealership don't know the C that I have come to know. They don't know the girl who helped me change a car battery in our VW Jetta - a five-hour affair involving lots of cursing and threats to said Jetta of an imminent demise with a large wrecking ball - or replace a halogen headlight. They don't know the girl who gets excited by football stats. Instead, they caught a glimpse of a different sort of C. They bore witness to a C who delightfully re-affirmed all their pre-conceived female stereotypes.

I wasn't there when C got the car, but the exchange seemed to go something like this:

"Well, we topped off your fluids and you're good to go."

"Oh no you don't. You're not going to pull that one over on me. You don't think I tried that already? I topped off the fluid long before I made this appointment and it didn't do anything."

"Really?"

"Yes! So don't try and tell me that's all that's wrong here, because I know . . ."

"Come show me where you put the fluid."

The mechanic lead the way outside. Like Hoshi's freshly cleaned windshield, a similar clearing began to occur in C's mind. And it's generally recognized that a clearing of this sort - in the area of the brain - can often lead to a sinking of the stomach. Suddenly, she didn't want to show the mechanic where she had put the fluid. She didn't want to show herself where she had put the fluid. She didn't want to know.

She pointed to a plastic container that contained a bluish-green liquid. And looked at the mechanic, a bit sheepishly.

He shook his head. "Anti-freeze," he said. Then he pointed to another container. "That's the windshield wiper fluid." The container he pointed to had a cap with the universal sign of squirting arcs of water emblazoned on it.

When she got home, the exchange between us went something like this:

"We need to take the car back at three."

"We do?" I said. "Why? Did they have to order a part?"

"You're going to be mad."

"What?"

"Don't be mad."

"I'm going to be mad if you don't tell me!"

"Well, let's just say they need to flush the coolant . . ."

It turns out putting a little windshield wiper fluid in the anti-freeze isn't actually the worst thing you can do to a car. And they might not have even flushed the cooling system if Hoshi wasn't so gloriously turbo-charged.

It also turns out I wasn't really that upset, considering we'd been driving Hoshi for the last two weeks with her special brand of anti-freeze and it hadn't caused any noticeable problems.

In the end, no eating plans were canceled. And I even resisted the urge to joke (until now.)

In the past, I've made posts about how C defies the natural laws of gender stereotypes. But this post is different. It's a 'Gender Stereotype Affirmation' post. And I'm proud to report that my baby can honestly be a real, live . . . girl! Oh, I've actually known this for some time and there are many other examples I could give to its veracity. But in general, I try to help C maintain her tough-girl image. But every once in a while it's kind of fun to expose the truth.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Cath  GSD  Hoshi 

We've discovered something these last couple of days: Hoshi doesn't do snow. Or ice. She is firmly 'anti' both of these things and refuses to budge. Literally. You can try to argue with her. But you're just going to be spinning your wheels. Again . . . literally. The problem is mostly due to her tires. They're 'high performance,' and when you're talking about snow or ice, this means: really awesome at spinning wildly out of control.

We had a modest dumping of snow on Tuesday night and Wednesday morning, which was kind of a fun event for Valentine's day. DC did a great job of plowing the snow to the side, leaving little embankments for cars to push their way out of. This wasn't so bad Wednesday morning, because the snow was still soft and we could easily kick and shovel a little path for the tires. But with ongoing temperatures in the teens overnight Wednesday, the snow quickly became rock hard ice. And I'm telling you, unless you have a blowtorch and a pick-ax handy, that shit doesn't budge. Unfortunately, CVS doesn't sell blowtorches, and the only shovels they sell are made of plastic, which are only handy if you happen to be shoveling cotton balls. Luckily, we prepared for Thursday morning by shoveling snow before things froze overnight. So we were good to go.

Thursday, I had a meeting in Baltimore, and that's where my judgement failed me. The thing is you look at a spot and your common sense says, I can make that. So you start pulling in and by the time you realize you grossly underestimated the condition of the spot (or rather, overestimated your car) it's too late. Yesterday I got stuck for about 30 minutes in a pretty benign looking spot on a Baltimore side-street. My new boots helped. (I bought them for the annual 'man trip' last year, but never got a chance to wear them as I had to cancel. And this year is out due to a trip to Japan. Next year, guys - you'll get to be in awe of my new boots.) Anyway, I was able to break up enough of the ice with the hard toe of my boots to get Hoshi some road to touch. But it was close. And just to let me know how pissed off she was for even putting her in that situation, Hoshi nearly ran out of gas as we sat there spinning. I guess that'll learn me.

link to this | comments (5) | File:  Hoshi 

We brought her home from the dealer on Friday. She's a sinewy 3180 lbs and, while she may look dainty on the outside, she's all brawn on the inside. You know it at soon as she opens her mouth. She lets out a pretty ferocious roar at the slightest touch of the gas, and even growls impatiently when she's idling at red lights. If you give her the right love, her 263 horses will do 0-60 in just under 6 seconds. And she's obedient around turns.

She's a Mazda, of the 'Speed 3' variety, and needless to say, C and I are in love. We're star-struck, even. And because we're star-struck, and because she brought with her a couple of beautiful clear nights and a full-moon weekend, we've given her the name of Hoshi, which means Star.

Hoshi seems a lot like Carmen at first blush. They share a lot of the same physical characteristics. Both are hatchbacks. Both have a red finish. Both have nice rims and low profile.

But Hoshi comes from a different land, and has a very different personality - one that's more no-nonsense and less high-maintenance. But she's not without her pet peeves, and we're quickly finding those out. For one thing, Hoshi doesn't seem to appreciate any conversation when she's accelerating. If you try to speak, you'll suddenly find yourself without oxygen, the words you were about to utter trailing off somewhere behind you. It's alarming and a bit embarrasing. You'll also be startled to find that your lungs and stomach have somehow flattened against the wall of your back. We've learned it's best to just brace yourself during launch, remain quiet, and let her do the talking.

This isn't to say she's rude. Quite the opposite: once you're at a comfortable cruising speed, all passengers are free to talk amongst themselves. Basically, she won't interrupt you if you don't interrupt her. She even sports a few extra rear doors - something Carmen could have desperately needed - which make three and four passengers feel much more welcome.

Another difference between Carmen and Hoshi is in their street-fighting skills. While Carmen looked like she may have been able to hold her own in a fight, she was no martial arts master. I mean, come on, she hailed from Germany. The only hand-to-hand combat training she'd ever had came from a day-long beginning Kung Fu seminar - and I remember she spent most of the class flirting with the instructor. Hoshi brings from her homeland skills in the ancient martial arts. She was taught by a team of ninja warriors in a remote mountain region of Japan. I shouldn't really discuss any of it with you in much detail, though. I'm sort of afraid she might kill me. But I've seen a few moves, and let me just say that if somebody chooses to pick a fight with her, she can hold her own - and that somebody will probably wind up with his face against the concrete.

I think you'll probably be hearing a lot more about Hoshi as we introduce her to DC and its environs. And I'm sure a few of you will be meeting her in person.

link to this | comments (5) | File:  Hoshi