Sayonara Aught Five

Well y'all, this is the last posting for me for the year '05. I'm taking a couple days off and will not be using a computer. I wanted to write something semi-momentous, but nothing was forthcoming. So here are some New Year's resolutions that I plan to make:

To finally take that pile of clothes to the dry cleaners
To play Super Mario Brothers, Super Mario Brothers 2 and Super Mario Brothers 3 back to back while listening to Star Wars DVD commentaries
To have more phone calls where I use a voice much like Little Richard singing
To celebrate Coming of Age Day, a holiday in Japan (January 9th)
To "pogo" during an overwrought singer/songwriter's solo acoustic set
To attempt to shoot lasers out of my eyes
To learn to tie a Sheep's Shank
To cut down on the almond butter and up the pistachio pudding
To start using lip plumper lip gloss

Thanks everyone for helping make this an enjoyable year - y'all be safe out there. I worry.

Head Gear Blues

My friend Mike lived near me when I was a child, he had part of The Pond in his yard. He had this dog, whose name I don’t remember, but it looked like the dog from Down and Out in Beverly Hills.

When Mike’s family would go on vacation, or away for the weekend, I took care of the dog (and fed Mike’s chickens). The dog and I were tight, we were buds. She was a little moody, but comfortable with me.

Around this time I had braces. And not just braces, oh no, I also had head gear. Head gear involved this medieval contraption that looked like a bent wire hanger that got shoved in your mouth and was further yanked on by an elastic band around the neck and a harness over your head. Classy…

I once went to Mike’s house having to wear my head gear. This confused the holy hell out of the dog. The dog, much as I was, was frightened by this horror of wires and straps in and around my head. It was this crazy dazzle camouflage that kept doggy from seeing it was really me under all of that. The dog started growling at me and I was trying to calm it down with my best soothing voice.

Laura, Mike’s sister, thought this was hi-fucking-larious. Laughing, fit to pee, she cried out, “go get him!” To which the dog did…

This dog lunged and attached its jaws to the head gear sticking bare centimeters away from my face. I’d like to think that I handled this in style; that I laughed it off, chuckling smugly while a medium sized dog hung, snarling, from my face.

But I did not. I screamed like a person who has a dog attempting to eat their head.

The dog was removed, the head gear was removed, and all was made right again between the parties involved. Except for me and the sister, I slapped that bitch silly…

And as this year draws to a close, I am going to throw out an incredibly convoluted tangent:

Down and Out in Beverly Hills was based on a film called Boudu Saved From Drowning by Jean Renoir. Jean Renoir is a fantastic film maker whose credits include Grande Illusion, which many critics agree is one of the best films made. My personal recommendation for your foreign film evening is Rules of the Game by Mssr. Renoir, just excellent.


Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Back In Black by AC/DC

Three Five

The numbers keep getting larger, which is a good thing in that it means I'm still kicking, but it gets a little daunting.

It's getting difficult not to use these nice, big, monumental numbers as some sort of ruler to measure where I should be in my life.

Am I where I assumed I would be years ago? No, but I can say that about so many things that have happened in my time here; most of them positive, most of them surprises.

That's what makes life an adventure, an extended and wonderous Coltrane solo; you know the outcome, but you have no idea how the fuck your gonna get there.

Snow Day #4

There was an area near our house that was known as the pond. It was an expanse of grass with little islands of trees for part of the year, but slowly it would fill with water and become a full fledged pond. Frogs would hang out and we would find big sacks of frog eggs that would become tadpoles. And in the winter, if the water had hung out long enough, the pond would freeze over.

This was something that we always looked forward to, the ice on the pond. There would be apprehensive steps onto the gray ice at the edge in the beginning; testing its thickness, listening closely for the tell tale sounds of cracking. After that first brave soul (which was frankly rarely me) trekked their way across the pond, wintertime ice festivities began.

There were attempts at ice skating, but mostly the pond just became this large expanse to slide across after running down the snowy slope towards it.

One winter we were shoe skating out there, just running and then sliding across the ice. I was about thirty yards away from the edge when I had come to a stop and began to hear that faint sound, like branches snapping. I realized a little too late what was happening, and as that now horrifying snapping sound grew louder I started to charge for the shore. I got about a foot and a half before everything gave out from underneath me and I went into the water.

Luckily, the water had gone down before it froze over, so I was only in it up to my chest, and not fully submerged and doing some sort of claustrophobic freak out under the ice.

You don't feel that water at first, like your body simply doesn't believe what has happened - and so it doesn't exist. But that ice covered water is stronger than that sort of stupid parlor trick and quickly punches into you with knives. You cannot breathe, it's as if the cold has completely seized up your body, and even as you start to panic and attempt to thrash your way out of the situation, you are still simply not breathing.

I started clawing at the ice, trying to climb back up onto it and out of the water, which seemed to have developed black, gripping hands, but the ice just kept breaking wherever I would place my weight. The whole thing became like a bad Scooby Doo routine. I thrashed all the way back to shore, breaking ice in front of me until I was finally out.

The other kids, my brother included, were laughing at me now knowing that I was going to live. And I would have laughed out of relief along with them except for the fact that it was still hard to breath. And being out of the icy water was even colder than being inside it. I began to shake uncontrollably, but luckily I was close to home. I borrowed Tony's coat and shambled home for a hot shower, some hot chocolate and a surreptitious pull from mom and dad's Peppermint Schnapps bottle.

That was the end of that year's winter pond festivities, but I was back out there next year, only listening REALLY hard this go round and keeping an eye on the quickest way back to shore.

Repent! Repent!

Okay, little background, The Pixies are about my favorite band ever. From the first time I heard them, they stuck those jagged teeth into me and I've never let them release.

I did get to see them live 3 times before the breakup, but I have friends who became rabid fans after the end and never got to see them. One of the reasons (a minor one in retrospect, but what the fuck) that Greta and I collided so hard in the beginning was over a mutual love of the band.

When the shadowy news of the reformation of the band began to solidify into something actual and real, something that you could purchase tickets for, there was no question that we were gonna get us some tickets to Coachella and witness the second coming together, as it should be...

Over beers a few weeks before the show, I asked Chris, Greta and Beth if there was a particular song that they hoped the Pixies played when we went to see them. We all had one, but I remember Chris saying "Caribou", it was the song that got him into the band and was one that still held a special place for him.

Well we went. We braved the 112 degree heat and inability to bring in your own water. And witnessed an event that, I know meant so much to so many of the thousands of others there, but seemed like one of the MAJOR events of our four lives together. We were blissed out, we were rocked out, we were where we were supposed to be.

A moment that I hope to hold onto for the rest of my days: The band started the first notes to "Caribou" and Chris turned to me with a huge smile and said, "catch me".

Well, I was given a DVD for Christmas of the Pixies doing one of their reunion gigs. As a bonus there are extra tracks of them performing various songs at other venues, including a couple from that seminal Coachella show.

One of the three from Coachella? Yup, "Caribou".

I was going to wait to watch the show until Beth came back from California, but I couldn't resist me a little "Caribou" action. I realized about halfway through the song that I was holding my breath and my heart was beating really fast. It was a little overwhelming.

I hope you all had a good Christmas.

Sometimes You Have To Work On Christmas (Eve), Sometimes

Yeah, I’m here at work on Christmas Eve, gotta keep the customer satisfied, as Simon and/or Garfunkel said. It could be worse, I could be one of the poor saps who have to work on the big Christmas Day, but Christmas Eve has traditionally been a big day in my family.

Since I was born (except for the years that I spent Christmas in California), we have gone to my grandmother’s house for the afternoon/evening. It started out with everyone from my grandmother’s side of the family, cousins removed 4 or 5 times that I could never remember the names of. As my grandparents got older, and it got more difficult to have that many people in their house, the celebration got trimmed down to the immediate family – which is still a healthy 25-30 people (depending on who shows).

We are a family without many traditions, but this was one of them, and it was a day that I looked forward to almost as much as Christmas itself. There was always a lot of love and laughter in that little house; good times with cousins that are closer than siblings are in some families.

This is the first Christmas since grandpa passed away, and it’s the first year that Christmas Eve will be celebrated outside of that house that my mother grew up in, a house that still stands and has since been passed to my cousin.

So I feel a little melancholy sitting in my cube today, knowing there will be a hole which cannot be filled in all of family’s souls where once stood a giant, drinking Rainier beer from a can, smiling and laughing.

I’ve decided I’m gonna stop at a gas station on my way outta here, pick me up some Rainier and have a drink in the big guy’s honor. I know somewhere he’s having one himself.

Stirrin' It Up At The Sex Shop

Sometimes I just like disturbing people. I don’t want to be malicious… No, I do want to be a little malicious. I like to test boundaries a little bit, it’s been an issue in the past.

It occurred to me today that I might want to try something. I might want to walk into an adult bookstore and begin perusing the glossy magazines and the tantalizing DVD covers, picking up a variety of “toys” and hefting them as if gauging their girth.

If I were to then get on my cell phone and sing “happy birthday” to someone, and make it sound like I was doing so to a young kid… Would people up and leave? Would there be a mad riot? Would there be a risk of being torn apart, limb from limb?

Well, I’ll find out tonight. I still need to do a little Christmas shopping for Mom.

Still Laughs At Fart Jokes

I have the mind of a five year old sometimes. Really asinine and immature jokes still make me nearly pee myself.

Example one, a headline today that reads: Scientists Find More Rings Around Uranus. That joke never gets old.

Up here in rain city, we have a burger place called Dick’s, it was immortalized in a Sir Mix-A-Lot song. We live right around the corner from said Dick’s. They are not good hamburgers, but they’re in an old fashioned walk up stand and they're open till like 2am for the drunkards needing bad fast food.

But, example two of why my mind is like that of a pre-pubescent: 2 guys were talking about their fast food habit, and this is how the story went (without a hint of irony):

“I love me some Dick’s”

“I used to eat Dick’s every night.”

“I could definitely do that.”

“Now I only eat Dick’s about once a week.”

I did shoot coffee out of my nose when I heard this. Nobody else seemed to notice why this was so effing hilarious though. I guess they mentally aged past 7th grade.

Shoulda' Picked Me Up A CD...

So Greta called a couple of weeks ago, practically shrieking that she and Chris had seen The Wrens play at Bottom of the Hill in San Francisco (I heart Bottom of the Hill by the way) and that they were coming to Seattle and we needed to see them. Needed to!

The radio station that I listen to here in Seattle, KEXP (I also heart KEXP by the way), was doing their Christmas concert thing and The Wrens were playing along with Okkerville River, Harvey Danger and a couple of other bands. I didn't know anything about any of these bands, I was going in blind, so my expectations were not high.

I do want to say though that I have found some of my favorite bands without knowing a damn thing about them. I first came across Califone as an opening band, same with Dieselhed (a San Francisco band that hands down put on some of the funnest shows I've ever seen). I first saw the Mountain Goats (at Bottom of the Hill, by the by), a band that would go on to beautifully break my heart again and again, without having heard song one.

So I had heard that "Flagpole" song by Harvey Danger a few years back. It's a fun song, but it had relegated the band to one hit wonder status in my mind. I was surprised by the band, by the lead singer, by how much I enjoyed what they did. Okkerville River came out and blew the doors off. Even with the lead singer being sick, these guys rocked it. Turns out I had heard one of their songs before without knowing it, but it didn't come till towards the end of the set and I was already sold.

But The Wrens... Holy Fuck! Those were the only words that would come to me for days to describe my experience with The Wrens. These guys came out and finished me off like a violent, talented hooker. Man, oh man!

I knew a little bit about some label woes with these guys, how they were forced to be out of circulation for some years, and when the two guitarists came out to start the show they were a little older than the rest of the bands on the stage that night. The song started with some echo heavy guitar and light, almost wispy singing, but I was completely unprepared for what would happen when the rhythm section came out.

The Wrens are rock stars, pure and simple! This will be one of those shows that I measure all other shows by (and they will probably not measure up). It was one of those shows that hurt me the next day from doing the classic rockin' out head bob. I cannot recommend enough seeing The Wrens live. Seriously, holy fuck!

Snow Day #3

The typical "fun" things that kids talk about doing in the snow tend to run out of entertainment value faster than a coke whore. Snow angels? Blow me! Lying in the snow and flailing your arms around is only fun if you're watching someone have a seizure.

Building a snow man? It's okay at first, when you have grand visions of sculpting out of snow a human form that will put Michelangelo’s David to shame. But ultimately they all end up looking like... well like three snowballs stacked on top of each other. And all the hand-me-down scarves, carrot noses, and corn cob pipes don't change that.

Sledding rules, no doubt, but you do eventually get tired of dragging that thing back up the hill over and over again.

Snowball fights... Shit yeah! Stupid aggression checked by hurling weapons at each other with force. I don't know which bully first thought of packing frozen water into a ball and hucking it at someone else’s face, but they were brilliant.

I remember my brother and I both had "secret weapon" snow balls that we would bust out as the need arose. My brother loaded his with a chunk of gravel in the center. This was a little messed up, and frankly hurt like a bitch, but it did add a little more realistic threat to the snowball wars knowing he had one in his arsenal. I would make a hard little ball, roll it in water and let it freeze up a little, then pack a bigger ball around it. Those fuckers could cause concussions.

I used to have fantasies about full scale, neighborhood snowball fights. Our team would have snow tunnels and igloo like bases, a rotating squadron of folks building snowballs so our arsenal would be full. And radios, oh yeah, we'd have headset radios so we could talk to each other while we were sneaking through the dark and snowy woods with a ball in each hand. Eventually we would frighten their team (by not only our amazing strategic abilities, but by a constant weapon pounding) into mistakenly trudging out onto the frozen pond, snow blind and terrified. The ice would crack and plunge them into a freezing, horrible, watery death.



Writing your name in the snow is also pretty cool I guess...

When There's No More Room In Hell...

I’m a fan of the horror film. I’m a big fan of the sub-genre, zombie film. Good ones though, and as far as the good ones go, George Romero has it in spades. Mr. Romero made the original Night of the Living Dead, which is a classic, but for just sheer balls out, social commentary rich, zombie action, you gotta go with Dawn of the Dead.

Dawn of the Dead is not only one of the best zombie films, it’s one of the best horror films ever made. Yup, I said it.

I remember the commercials for the film back when it came out in the late seventies, but I did not see it until I was a young teenager. This intense story of a pack of survivors holing up in a shopping mall during a zombie apocalypse turned my head around. Gory, undoubtedly the goriest thing I had seen at that point, and yet just sharp and intelligently funny.

That was a long preamble to telling you I recently re-watched Shaun of the Dead (which, seriously, I cannot praise enough. Just a great, great, funny film… with zombies). A sort of running joke in Shaun of the Dead is that before the zombies begin to take over, it is difficult to tell that the everyday people weren’t already zombies.

This began to prey on my mind as I walked through the cold and dark streets of Seattle this morning round about five in the AM. There were a large number of people shambling about, a larger number than during the week; shambling around like, well like zombies.

I got to thinking, you know, if the zombie apocalypse happened while I was asleep, how would I know that these early morning street junkies weren’t flesh eating ghouls? I began to mentally catalogue the contents of my bag, wondering what was in there that could take down the undead. Would I have the power and wherewithal to use my metal address/check book as a weapon?

Frankly, I already had enough on my mind worrying about getting mugged for skag money. Damn you, overactive imagination!

The Smell of Wine and Cheap Perfume

Someone opened the door last night, and I stormed the gates with a vengeance. I hate Journey. Man I hate ‘em. Hearing one of their songs makes me want to put forks in my eyes and set them on fire.

I told my coworkers that if I were able to build a time machine, I would go back in time and kill Steve Perry when he was six years old, either by hiring someone to do it or by “accidentally” shoving him into a cage of pit bulls, so that the world can be spared the horror that is Journey.

- I was asked if I would go back in time to kill Steve Perry over killing Hitler and I said yes. I was kidding though. I would go back in time, kidnap Steve Perry, and use his supple body to kill Hitler. –

Okay, I grew up at a time when Journey Escape was the biggest thing since… I don’t know, some other shitty band’s big fucking record. I didn’t like it then when it was overblown to the point of a videogame being based on the album cover, and it certainly hasn’t aged well. I mean no one roller skates to power ballads anymore.

My comments were met with legitimate shock. My coworkers couldn’t believe that someone could hate Journey, let alone with the sort of vehemence that I was displaying. “They invented the power ballad!”, they said. No folks, KISS invented the power ballad, get a grip.

And they’re good people, they are, but as they are Journey fans, they must be smote.

Especially since I can already see it in their shiny little eyes – a Christmas copy of Journey’s Greatest Hits.

Is That General Tsao's Chicken?

The super power that I would choose for today, would be the ability to change my scent.

Now this is just for today mind you, the practicality of this “super power” is, well, slim to none; it’s no x-ray vision or being able to fly. And frankly, the ability to stop mastermind criminals is also pretty limited. Unless I was able to change my scent to rotting flesh left in a box in 100 degree heat that would be so overbearing that the super villain had do double over and dry heave, thus causing them to drop the bags of money they had stolen that have big $’s on them.

But I was thinking more along the lines of changing my smell to that of an ocean breeze, or fresh mowed grass, or scratch-n-sniff lemon. In fact, I could become an ever changing scratch-n-sniff patch, a human Glade Plug-in!

Some smells that I’d really love to be able to toss out of my pours for a day (as opposed to my normal soap-masked Billy funk) are:

Beer
Cedar
Chinese Food (not that cheap greasy shit, but good garlicky, black-beaney stuff)
Cold Sand
Gasoline
French Fries
Caymus Cabernet Sauvignon
Old Books
Purple
Scotch Tape
Bananas (just before they’re banana bread material)
Freshly Vacuumed Carpet

Honestly, I think the most fun would be to make people close to me think they’re having a stroke when I throw out the smell of oranges or burnt toast… I’m honestly not really super hero material.

Trane v. Jolie

I was going to write about Mr. John Coltrane today, but I’m not up to it. I’m going to need to put it off and wait till the words will not fail me. There is a power in Coltrane that I cannot do justice to today…

So instead I’m going to talk about venom lip gloss.

There are some ladies next to me who have put on some lip gloss that is apparently supposed to plump up their lips. It also apparently makes their lips burn while they are being engorged with blood.

I need to pat myself on the back a little bit as I willingly took myself out of the conversation by putting on headphones. I don’t do this for me, I do it because I WILL say something that will be wildly offensive to someone around me. They were saying the words, “my lips are burning” and “oh, it hurts a little bit” and “rub it on my lips” and “engorged with blood”. I do not normally have the wherewithal to censor myself.

This is so unlike me, really. Papa, I’m ascared.

And the interesting/sad/ironic thing is that these ladies were talking about what a skank Angelina Jolie is. And nearly in the same breath, "jolieizing" their lips. Not that emulating her lips will then make them skanks, but... I shake my head in wonder.


Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Magical Mystery Tour by The Beatles

Snow Day #2

I was at a girl’s birthday celebration, back around the age of thirteen. This was I believe in February, and the snow was still thick on the land.

I like that phrase, “the snow was still thick on the land”. It sounds sort of old-timey. It sounds like the way a grandfather figure would start a story while he sits in front of a fire, focusing on a long winter past and completely ignorant of how to entertain a group of people listening to his long and hackneyed fables; said people’s minds start drifting and concocting plans on how to do away with gramps in his sleep and make it look like an accident.

Sorry, I digress. Anyway, there was a barn on the property, complete with a hay loft door upstairs. We went out to the barn, all of us, tramping through the snow. I can’t remember why we went out there exactly, there wasn’t really anything to look at.

During the whole party, I was trying to grab the attention of a girl, and I was failing miserably. We were all walking back to the house and it fell on me all at once that this girl wanted nothing to do with me – and I felt like a bigger loser than normal (and at thirteen that was a depression bomb that would lay major waste).

I fell behind the rest of the group and stopped, standing there in the snow and watching them get smaller and smaller as they got further from the barn. I let loose a miserable groan and let myself fall with force to the snow.

I lay there for a moment, watching the snow come down through the light streaming out from the barn. I didn’t realize that Danny had stayed behind and was now calling me from the upstairs hayloft door. I raised my head and looked at him. He was waving in silhouette, his shadow stretching out long between me and the barn. Chris was also up there, in a dress that went down to her calves, and I remember thinking that she must be cold in that dress. Just then she started doing a spastic Charleston dance routine that made me laugh so hard… I laid my head back down and laughed up into the falling snow.

To this day, when I think of that tiny silhouette and long shadow doing that shaky-kneed dance, I still smile like a goon.

{This Is What Happens When I'm Tired & Bored}

I stayed out later than I intended last night, eating Persian food and drinking flagons of beer. Seriously, I can only think to call these 6 gallon mugs of beer as flagons…

Anyway, work is so very tiring today, a Saturday, a day I should be lying about and enjoying a sleepy, nappy time feel. I wanted to share a question that occurred to me as I was walking into the building this morning, the weather finally taking on that full-fledged winter biting cold that requires a knit scarf and Gorton’s Fisherman hat: If I am willing to trade the ability to breathe underwater (unaccompanied) for never having another drop of booze, does that mean I’m not an alcoholic?

Never mind, I never asked that question. Instead enjoy this picture I created at work, while the system was down, using the primitive “paint” program; it’s a lion eating Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous’ Robin Leach. Enjoy:

Pigs On The Wing

This is my Friday office daydream:

An enormous, stuffed pig is wheeled in over the cubicle farm on tracks in the ceiling I had never noticed before. It’s like a Pink Floyd show, without the music and contact high. It stops over by Kirsten’s cube and sways precariously.

And then Jeff (who frankly always seemed a little unstable), comes charging at it with a mini baseball bat. He has this oddly piercing and warbling war cry and this look in his eyes that resembles that of a man being carried down river by a current stronger than he had expected. Jeff takes a swing at that pig. When nothing happens, he takes another swing. When the “destruction” that follows can only be described as a mild disturbance to the pig’s swinging, Jeff puts his all into it and swings once more.

The pig splits open and out pours hundreds of paper airplanes in a variety of sizes and folds. They go immediately into attack mode. This sounds more impressive than it actually is as these things have no engines or weapons.

But those front points do manage to get into a few eyes, causing bewildered cries of pain; there are paper cuts aplenty. The casualties befall both sides however. At one point a smaller plane crashes straight into a bamboo stalk on Kristel’s desk and crumples. Tiny paper bodies fall out of the torn fuselage and litter her desk like it was a linoleum Gettysburg.

They bleed correction fluid by the way.

By the time lunch comes around there are fires scattered throughout the 4th floor. The survivors of the attack, which was all of us (well, all of us except for Jeff who was killed by three coworkers who took the opportunity during the confusion), wander around bleary eyed and scared. As a safeguard, we go to the piñata store down the street and burn it to the ground.

Haiku and Desire

Morning iced puddles
George Michael sings in my head
What a day to live

I have the strongest craving for French bread pizza (or FBP as the kids are calling it these days). And I mean like a big ol’ slab of French bread with sauce, cheese and sausage.

Bright, winter sunshine
Through the gooey, head trip toy
Paints red my cube walls

Rolling around naked, on a train moving quickly through a snowy landscape, sounds like an awesome time!

Office Holiday
Shamed by co-workers as I
Hate Secret Santa

I wish I could go back in time and avoid myself seeing the George Michael Faith video so many damn times. That song’s a lingerer, and I always felt a little uncomfortable at looking too long at his ass in those tight jeans.

Found a good use for
The Flaming Fist of Praha
Whiners on the phone

Long Stemmed Rant

Ranting is not necessarily fun for the listener; unless it’s a crazy homeless guy doing the ranting and he talks really enthusiastically about the underground slave trade of corporate drug dealers using mass transit to traffic. There is a fine line between fun and scary, and a not so professional crazy “ranter” can sidestep fun faster than a big headed toddler will fall down. And some of these guys can use telephones…

There’s something bothering me, and I want to try to not get too histrionic about it, ‘cause that’s no fun. Bush is getting flack right now from the Christian Right, who can sidestep fun faster than a coke fiend can ramble, for having his Christmas card say “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas”. The place I work for is also getting a large number of complaints regarding the same issue. There is apparently a holy mission to make this country ‘all God, all the time’.

So I’m just going to say this quickly as a means of venting:

Not everyone in this country is a Christian, fuckheads! As President of the United States, it might be important to be inclusive of EVERYONE and not just you judgmental, exclusive, hypocritical, self-righteous, holier-than-thou, shit eaters! P.S. Much like that whacky cult Scientology, your religion is also based on book some people consider outdated science fiction!

This sort of thing makes me so angry that my eyes fall out of my head and burst into fiestas of flaming glory. I often need eye replacement surgery. I’m on a list in major hospitals around the country.

And please, do not get me wrong, I am certainly not against religion or anti-Christian. I am against people taking what is a good set of ideas and perverting them to justify hatred, racism, self-aggrandizing and disregard for anyone who does not think the same way. The basic idea of love and be good to each other becomes fascism.

Okay, sorry everybody. Let’s all just settle down, it’s only Wednesday.


Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: At My Post by Grandaddy

Snow Day #1

As I like to organize within disorganization, as I like working with themes, and as the weather forecaster’s keep saying “snow” with gleaming and malevolent eyes, we’re going to make each Tuesday in December a “snow day”.

Are you ready? This is going to be fun!

Back when I was in 4th grade it began snowing pretty damn hard while we were sitting in school. As it got to be towards the dark end of that day, there were concerns that we were going to be trapped, that buses weren’t going to make it.

Let me set the scene for you a little bit. I grew up in a part of Washington that at the time was, if not Butt Fuck Egypt, it was right across the county line. I lived many miles from the school I attended; many windy, hilly and narrow miles – all of which were now covered by a lot of snow.

The news that we very well may have to spend the night at the school was a thrilling one. It was very similar to that childhood dream of being trapped in the mall and having to spend the night there. I’m not sure why though, as I think the thrill of spending the night in the mall would be getting to play with everything, the only thing to play with at school would be like chalk and yardsticks and the gerbils. I guess for a lot of us it would be like an adventure, like sleeping in a couch fort.

For me it was the thrill of getting to sleep next to Cherity, the girl I had fallen in love with in second grade. Nothing was going to happen, I was 9 years old for Christ’s sake, but the idea of laying next to each other and talking late into the night… I still remember how excited this made me feel.

The busses came though, trudging through, complete with their morbidly obese and lonely drivers. The overnight school adventure dream was broken, and as a final kick to the groin, the bus taking me home could not make it all the way up to my house. I walked the final ¾ of a mile, literally uphill and through the snow, at around 9 at night.

I do remember the dark silence of walking through the middle of nowhere, large, feathery snowflakes falling lazily. It was beautiful and somehow primal, it is the scene I see in my minds eye whenever I read of a dark and snowy night.

Lap Dissolve

I walk down the street and catch the furtive glances of people and feel like somehow they know the history, there is an air of envy, a soft spoken look in the eyes that I have been healed.

This makes me think of a conversation with Christy and Matthew about something Chris had said and I go a little dizzy thinking about all the seemingly random connections and the complicated chain of events that led me to San Francisco to begin with. And I think, that at the moment before I die, I will remember everyone I ever met and remember everything ever said to me, and I will see the connections there and how it all fits together, and I will know that all the torment and worry throughout this life were a monumental waste of time.

Expecting people that don't belong here, looking for someone through a time fuzzy overlay and wanting to cry at how easy it is to get lost in that space between those layers. I feel like San Francisco is a city built on the shining promises of thousands of broken dreams, on the sheer balls to surf that light and smile. Seattle feels like the second to last refuge of a wanderlust soul, too petulant to realize itself as a safe harbor for the outcast.

I feel like I'm at home, I feel like I could travel forever.

Bathroom Etiquette - Attack of the Moans

Unless you walk in with a friend, and are trying to be funny - and sometimes, not even then - it is never (let me be really, pristinely, fucking clear here), EVER cool to grunt in a public restroom.

I don't care if your fucking in the stall. I don't care if you're finally crapping for the first time in seven days. I don't care if you've subsisted on a strict diet of broken glass and tacks and have hemorrhoids the size of small dogs to avoid down there.

I don't care if you've seen the holy light of god, and the infinite has seen fit to fill your fragile mind with the knowledge of the universe, and you and your people have been raised for generations to express your most supreme joy by sounding like some sort of rutting, hog-like animal...

Don't do it, don't grunt in a public restroom.

At home? Grunt it up, monkey face! Make yourself a grunt song. Recite the Gettysburg address with a wince, long low tones and words apparently spelled with only N's or M's. Just keep that sick shit out of a respectable men's room.

Seriously.

Dream Series #4

Another dream series that I have is I call the “travel dream”. The travel dream entails me having to get somewhere (usually by train for some reason), but my luggage is elsewhere, or not everyone in the travel group is present, or I’m running really late, or I have lost my tickets… Essentially, they are very stressful dreams.

My travel dream last night involved me getting on the train (the interior of which looked remarkably like a ferry) a split second before it took off. And as I sat down in the only available seat, inexplicably embarrassed at being the last person on, I realized that I had forgotten to bring my maps and phrase books for the destination. I started to panic a little bit.

And then something happened that I think is rather healthy, I said to myself, “bitch, relax and wing it”. Okay, that wasn’t the precise wording, but the thought was the same. This is when it gets weird…

As soon as I said this to myself, the dream changed to me, my mom and my brother sitting on the side of the road up high on a mountaintop. Baseballs would occasionally fall around us, and my mom would threaten that the next time somebody tossed their ball up here, she was going to do something about it. But she never did. At some point, this kid comes stumbling out of the bushes; they were apparently his baseballs. I realize at this moment that he is the living representation of a parable that I have since forgotten.

The kid and my brother become friends and they watch me take part in this ritual where I slice open slits in each of my toes with a huge Rambo knife. I will then stuff rings into these toe slits. I have apparently done this action many times and it doesn’t hurt, but I wince before I do each toe nonetheless. My brother turns to the baseball kid and says, “He’s slow to do this part, but just wait till he gets going”.

I realized while I was brushing my teeth what this part probably represents…

First

Welcome to December everybody, welcome to the dark advent calendar of the soul. We’re busy here counting down the days in cold, bitter and dangerous chocolates. What makes the chocolate dangerous? We won’t tell you, and that’s what makes it dangerous.

Could be spikes in it, stolen from old school punk bracelets. Could be eating a piece signals some sleeper agent nearby to throw something at you; something hard and flaming. Could be it just tastes like broiled broccoli.

Okay, and I shouldn’t be sharing this with you, but the dangerous chocolate is only a ruse to keep you from eating all of it in one sitting and then slyly taping the cardboard doors shut afterwards. Just like when your younger sibling gets to open the next day's piece and finds there’s no treat and starts crying like a wounded marsupial and you’ve got that stupid look on your face like, “they must have forgotten to put the chocolate in that one”.

Like there’s no advent calendar quality control. There is, my good people, and they’re burly and poorly educated.

I shouldn’t be sharing this with you either, but the fifteenth has a Life Saver, no chocolate. While the Wint-O-Green really sort of represents December to me, I had to go with the Butter Rum. Butter Rum will one day literally save my life.

Run Down

I had to take yesterday to rest as I got full on whacked upside the head by the cold Biffy was spraying around willy nilly. I was actually feeling okay compared to Sunday night-Monday where I slept the sleep of the feverishly sleepy.

So I apologize for no post, but I would like to share a few things that occurred this weekend:

I awoke late one night to tend to a tiresome cat when I noticed a cheerful orange glow coming from the living room window. How nice, I thought until I walked up to said window and realized that there was a car on fire out in the street in front. Boy, I know how that feels, I thought as I watched until the fire department came to put out the car.

Biffy ran herself a marathon. I rode the wave of the coming runners and tried to reach her at different points. She did real good, she was smiling each time I saw her and didn’t have that look of, “for the love of god, please cut off my fucking legs” that she did last time I watched her run a marathon. On my side of things, I learned how to navigate unfamiliar parts of the city with plenty of marathon cops blocking a variety of routes and realized that early mornings here in the winter will make your toes numb when you are wearing well worn Doc Martin’s.

Mandy asked if I was okay, because according to recent blog entries, I seem to have been in a bad mood. I thought it was sweet of her to ask, but I didn’t think I was in any worse a mood than normal. But I am not always the best to judge these things. This was mere hours before the full force of Winter Cold ’06 was to take me over.

Fever dreams of mountain crossings and spiders. Something to do with gingerbread mushrooms or something… Best not to think too heavily on these things.

The weather folks promised snow and went so far as to panic the public with constant reports of school closures and treacherous, icy conditions on the roads. They never actually said, “stay in your house or you will most likely die”, but you could see it in their eyes. Even though they were only predicting 1-2 inches. And yeah, snow never came.

I’m back to the world y’all, buckle up.


Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Long Distance Drunk by Modest Mouse

Thanks...

I realize that yesterday was Thanksgiving, but what would I really be thankful for now? For fan boys to quit talking about Phil Spector’s resume. Every piece of Phil Spector trivia is being tossed around right now.

Did you know that Phil Spector accused Brian Wilson of being a spy? Did you know that Sonny Bono used to work with Phil Spector? Did you know that Phil Spector produced a Ramones album? Did you know that Phil Spector pulled a gun on John Lennon? When he produced Let It Be? He didn’t produce Let It Be. No, he did, that’s why they released that Naked version. No, Phil Spector just came on later to work on the album, and that Naked version is awesome, I didn’t even bother to upload the original version on my ipod.

Shut the fuck up! Seriously, in the name of all that’s holy, shut the fuck up! Fanboys!

The conversation has now moved on to that picture of Nixon and Elvis shaking hands. And they’re talking about it seriously, as if they were curing Down’s Syndrome. It makes me want to jump on a wheelchair and run them over.

Random McNally

It’s sort of strange, this duplicitous, almost schizophrenic behavior I’ve got going on. Part of me (and some people blame it on my Capricorn, but seriously, blow me) really likes order. I mean really likes it. I mean it’s almost fascist in its complete desire for pristine, fucking order.

Yeah, my CD and DVD collections are in alphabetical order, and though quite a few people who see this seem strangely affected by it, it’s not weird to me. How else are you going to find what you’re looking for? What is even weird to me is this desire to fold my freshly laundered underwear in a particular order, is the need to have the canned goods placed in the cupboard in a certain way, is the fact that the knives on the magnetic bar must face a certain way and be in a certain order. Not quite obsessive compulsive, but I can see their house from here…

And then, as if to balance it out, part of me has this huge desire for randomness.

But to be completely honest about it, part of me has this huge desire to thrust randomness at other people. I want to surprise, to shock and awe. I often think about the (again) random person who might come across this blog and just what the hell goes through their mind if they hit one of the particularly random posts.

I love that for the constant readers, most of the time you have no idea what you’re going to get; that I have no idea what you’re going to get until I sit down to write it.

So thank you for letting me get my random on, for putting up with it. I gotta go though, someone put Dead Man back on the shelf in front of Dead Alive.


Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Ball and Biscuit by The White Stripes

Was the Litter Box Always on the Freeway?

I’m feeling scattered and just a little confrontational. Some of it could be that the cat, that stupid little rodent, kept me up all night with his running around and meowing and other ridiculous cat nonsense.

I’ve been having dark thoughts today of testing that cat vs. curiosity angle with tuna in electrical outlets and fake birds on very high and teetering planks…

But honestly, I’ve felt a little tired and out of sorts the last few days. Is it the winter? Is it the impending doom of family Thanksgiving dinner? I don’t know, leave me alone! You wanna fight?!

I’m sorry, I tried to warn you. That shirt really brings out your eyes by the way.

The problem mostly is that I feel myself getting insular, crawling up inside for comfort and protection. And this really hampers my mission of bringing a healthy dose of the random to my little corner of the corporate world. And I’m afraid it makes for a not so cohesive and rather boring post.

Hearing Red Red Meat on the headphones is sort of alleviating the problem, sort of. But honestly, until I am ready to either stand up and “shake the crappy” on out of here, or at least take a nap, I’m going to blame the frigging cat. And I’m gonna send this guy:


He’ll bust a cap in Brody’s ass, but good.

Haunted By A Memory That's Not Mine

Of driving down an unknown street made dark by the towering trees on both sides, Bowie’s The Bewlay Brothers on the stereo; near tears, but ecstatic. Remembering people that have forgotten me, I’m sure, and reveling in the way their memory impacts my emotions.

Completely alone and mired in this contrary need for someone (anyone) and the relief of nobody.

Made uncomfortable by a grocery store customer who seemed to have a seriously unhealthy attraction to the bag boy; deviant about to turn dangerous.

Up ahead there’s a storm about to break over the trees, somewhere over the water, and I can feel that sick smile spread that is bound to disturb anyone who sees it.

Naked Guy, With an "I" and a Monkey Head

It’s really my own fault in a way. I was on my way into work and delving way too philosophically into the nature of human behavior when I should have been walk-dancing to Frank Black B-Sides.

There’s this person I know who ends up upset and out of sorts because they expect life to just sort of sit still, to just sort of reach this moment of sameness and stay there. I think that we all do this to a degree. The idea that life and the world is an endlessly changing and evolving experience can be a little daunting and uncomfortable. And so we set up routines so we have the illusion of sameness - so that no matter what happens I know I will get up, brush my teeth and head off to work just like I did the day before.

This painted humanity in general in not so pretty a color, which made me feel frustrated. Apparently, this general feeling was cruising the airwaves down here on Utah Avenue South, because people in my row (people who can under normal circumstances withstand the wildly inappropriate things that I will eventually say) were not having it. My co-workers, my partners in crime, were in shitty moods and that pushed me over the edge and into crappy mood mode.

So what does one do to “Shake the Crappy”, as the kids are saying these days? Well if one is me, one prints up this picture:

And then one cuts out each guy individually and makes finger puppets out of them. To up the “shaking the crappy” quotient, paste a monkey head on the guy with the “I”.

I’m totally not kidding…

Rise of the Machines

Getting us just a little closer to the future that The Jetson’s promised, the new bathroom on the floor here at work has nifty automated functions.

The toilets and urinals all flush by themselves. Well, I mean they’re triggered by something, micro changes in air density or something. And the sinks begin spouting that clean, Washington water when they detect your hand is there to receive it.

I’ve seen all this before, but a new one to me is the automatic soap dispenser which pumps out pearly goo when your hand is near the spout. My problem is that I have big hands, and after I have been thoroughly soaped and am setting off the water sensor, my ginormous digits wander into the sight field of the soap and the soap begins spurting like a porn audition.

Sure, not a big deal. There’s usually just this semen like puddle on the side of the basin (which refills itself when I try to wash it away with the automatic water as I keep finding my way beneath the automatic soap dispenser again). But it seems indicative of that technological breakdown that will eventually destroy us.

It’s like HAL 9000 developing a consciousness and going crazy, it’s like the Yul Brenner robot shooting tourists in Westworld, it’s like Frankenstein’s monster going after Frankenstein. It’s like that automated future house in the Bugs Bunny cartoons. It’s a small step now, but I’m telling you, that fucker’s gonna come running.



Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Watching TV by Roger Waters

Not The Voicemail I Was Hoping For

I gotta warn you good people that Billy is in a crappy mood today. I’m in such a crappy mood that I spoke of myself in the third person. I hate that!

I’m trying to deal with a minor setback that is bumming me out harder than it should. It’s actually a little weird, ‘cause I’m kind of divided about it. Part of me really is okay with it and wants to get past it. I respect that part, I look up to that part, one day - when I grow up - I hope be that part.

But there’s another part of me that feeds off of those chattering voices of fear, disappointment and unending self doubt that roll up all black and toxic from rooms I’ve tried to torch. That part won’t let go, that part lets loose giggling whispers that become echoes that build to destructive frequencies, that part somehow makes dreams seem useless and dumb.

Yet another little internal critic, from some other wing in the house, chirps up from time to time to tell me to suck it up and that I’m feeling sorry for myself. He’s probably right. What I can say for sure is I feel a little sad, I feel a little disappointed, and I feel like I’d rather take a boat ride out on Puget Sound than sit in my cube and stew.

Music, Sweet Music

I have this CD lens cleaner that opens with this music, this awful cheesy music. That music is so cheesy, it's like cheddar. It's like colby, swiss and cheddar, blended all together. It's like melted Velveeta spread over a brick of monterey jack.

You get the point.

So, I was listening to this travesty of smooth jazz (which in and of itself is a travesty of regular jazz) that opens the disc before a pleasant sounding man congratulates me on purchasing the most advanced CD lens cleaner on the market. Which is essentially a little brush glued to a CD.

But I got to thinking that somebody wrote that god awful music for this CD lens cleaner. I mean they got paid to knock off this random tune, again, for a CD lens cleaner. And I got to feeling for the poor sax player, who I'm sure had dreams of being a musician that performs music that stirs the souls of others, that speaks in magic and births moments of absolute brilliance. But this sax player is butchering music to be ignored while some twit cleans their CD player.

Sure you say, the guy's getting paid to be a musician. And it's not like a lot of big bands are using sax in their music anymore; I mean Pink Floyd isn't touring right now... But it reinforced the idea that there are jobs out there to be had that had never occurred to me needed to be filled.

R.I.P. Danny Sturdevant

It’s pretty well known in the biz that industrial film shoots are some of the rowdiest, most hedonistic shoots on record. Is it fair to say that there tends to be more intravenous action that at a very busy hospital? Is it fair to say that there tends to be more back door action than at both Sodom and Gomorra combined? Probably not really fair, but bordering on true.

On one particular shoot a few years back, Huffer and Saltz Publishing Presents: Safety in the Workplace (Or Mr. Malorkus’ Super Shiny Suit of Distractions), the Best Boy was killed in a bizarre accident. Huffer and Saltz, as well as 1 Sided Perf (the production company) have tried their best to keep it quiet, it has almost been relegated to urban legend at this point, but I’m here to spread the truth.

Most of the crew were done up on a drug cocktail that was in heavy rotation in the industrial film circles; medicinal cocaine and paintball paint. This was mixed together, baked in an oven (around 200 degrees for 2-2 ½ hours) until it was dried, ground into a fine powder, re-moistened once again with Rebel Yell whisky until it was of paste consistency and then spread on Ritz crackers and eaten.

Well, Ritz or its nearest generic comparison.

The crew spent their lunch break so high they actually thought that this project might just change the world. The rangy smell of anal sex filled the set like a fog. And one of the actresses (I will not divulge her name here as it turns out she is extremely litigious and doing her best to dispel this as a rumor) was riding around the board room set on one of those Hippity Hops. She was an actress from the legitimate world of television sitcoms, and so I don’t think she was quite up to the weirdness quotient, as riding around on a Hippity Hop was as ‘far out’ as she tended to get.

It does stand to reason then that when Best Boy Danny Sturdevant attacked the Hippity Hop with a near religious fervor, brandishing a box cutter and screaming, “Hellfire and damnation! Who says you can’t change the world?!?” that this actress would get a little defensive.

Unfortunately, poor Danny was so hopped up on coke-paint that he didn’t see her coming, and she was able to swing a 10k fresnel light straight at his head. Oh, and it didn’t stop there; she kept swinging that bloodied C-stand until Danny… stopped… moving…

1 Sided Perf and Huffer and Saltz managed to cover it up as an ‘industrial accident’, and through enough gin this actress has managed to almost believe it. But we know the truth, and we will get it out there.

Episode 7: Commentary

Seth Tavola (Writer): “This one was actually originally titled, Sky Dog versus Captain Obvious and was about Stephanie coming to terms with her brother being gay.

Marianne Marlow (Stephanie): “What happened with that story?”

ST: “Billy thought it was too cliché and wanted to do a story where he accidentally mails a naughty letter somewhere inappropriate and has to find a way to get it back. That and he wanted gang bangers, not like bloods and crips though… like a… gang bang.”

MM: “He was drinking a lot back then.”

ST: “Yeah, constantly. In fact we changed the title of this one to Drinky McDrunk Takes on the World.”

MM: “Okay, now I remember this scene took about 15 different takes because Michael, who played Derek in the show, kept making this face every time he said, ‘cunnilingus’ and we’d all break! There was…”

ST: “Hey Marianne, I’ve been dying to ask you something. I had heard that you… after the series died… that you went into making industrial films.”

MM: “Yes Seth, I made one.”

ST: “And I kinda heard that one of the people involved died on the set.”

MM: “And where exactly did you hear that?”

ST: “I read it on some fan’s blog.”

MM: “Jesus. You can’t believe anything you read online!”

That's My Billy

At nineteen, the television show of my life involved me living in a ginormous work/live loft in some part of downtown Los Angeles that doesn’t exist. There were floor to ceiling windows on three sides of the place (a brick wall on the fourth) that looked out onto this fantasy neighborhood of tall buildings, fun shops and bistros along narrow and quaint (but clean) streets.

I would be a film director, a young and famous film maker. Everyone wants to work with me, I get blowjobs for breakfast. And despite being fabulously wealthy and famous, I’m down to earth and charming. I have a young assistant named Ethan who gets into all kinds of hilarious situations.

There would be the girl, Stephanie. We worked together, she’s beautiful and unattached. We’re not together, but there’s this constant sexual tension that leads to a number of silly misunderstandings. Occasionally one or the other of us will realize that we should be a couple, but the other one will suddenly be starting a relationship with someone else. Someday…

I would have had these roommate neighbors, two guys (young and attractive) that we would one day do a back story episode on how they became roommates. One of them would have been a stoner guy, Derek, sweet and funny, but pretty dumb. The other, Jonathan, would be sort of an uptight business guy, his ideas would never pan out and his disappointed outrage would be a source of much amusement for the rest of us.

Of course it stopped being funny when, in a rampage Jonathan accidentally kills Derek with a Cuisinart bar blender and then dies from a self inflicted gunshot wound. It turns out that Ethan had a closet meth habit that is now firmly out of the closet. Stephanie and I get shit faced drunk one night and end up fucking. She gets pregnant and runs off home Iowa, never to be heard from again. I’m busted on trumped up charges for deviant internet porn and the agents that bust into and bust up my beautiful work/live loft look an awful lot like the guys who were on that show Project UFO.

Admittedly, the final season was a little rough. In hindsight, we should have quit while we were on top. The first season DVD’s are due out just in time for Christmas. You should check them out, the commentary is funtastic!

New York Stories #2

I get easily suckered into believing what television shows are selling me. Part of me really believes that you can move to New York and live in a huge loft in the Village and be an artist for a living.

But wait Billy, that soft-spoken, rational part of my mind says, how could you afford to live in a place that you could easily ride your bike around in while you work 20 hours a week as a waiter, spending the rest of your time being an artist type guy?

Because people don’t… they don’t want… people hate old buildings with tons of room, the petulant and immature voice of all that’s television bread states.

Truth is that an affordable place in New York City, in that city that doesn’t sleep, is most likely a small and dingy room in a tenement building, with quite possibly a bathtub in the kitchen, and in a shitty neighborhood to boot. Them’s the breaks.

I assumed that on moving to San Francisco I’d be spending my time in a glorious Victorian flat with my glorious and open-minded friends. Yeah, back in ’94 it was almost possible, if you didn’t mind living with 6-8 people. Shit, I mean part of me still seriously believes that if I moved back to LA, I could live in an adorable place right on the beach and be an actor for a living.

It’s almost like there’s this deal between television and NYC where the shows agree to put a happy, magical spin on the city, and then just sprinkle in enough crime shows to scare the shit out of any god-fearing yokel from Nebraska who gets the brilliant idea to move there.

City life can certainly be far more banal and sad, and quite often more dangerous and squalid than Friends makes it out to be. I believe late 70’s era Scorsese hits closer to the mark.

But then again, the ultimate point of television is to not depress you more than your own life and to convince you that you need so many things…


Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Two of Hearts by Stacy Q. Don’t ask…

New York Stories

I pass a Krispy Kreme “factory” on my way to work every day. When I was passing in the dark cold this morning, that fried dough smell reminded me of my first trip to New York.

New York was an amazing adventure my first morning there. We took the red eye in, getting to JFK first thing in the morning, and then jumping on the subway into downtown. Biff and I walked everywhere.

We walked to the Empire State Building, and to the Met, and through Central Park, and down to Greenwich Village, which of course we fell in love with.

Nearly everyone who moves out west from the East Coast complains that there are no diners; that and not being on the East Coast. I could divert into a whole other rant here, but I will control myself. We partook of the East Coast tradition of lunch in a diner (a lot of not great food) and cup after cup of that wonder that is diner coffee. Diner coffee is an element of its own, a thing that provides its own definition of warmth and earthiness.

Another mandate from people who learned that we were going to New York was to “get a Krispy Kreme donut, they’re amazing!” We found one near where the World Trade towers once stood.

Whatever, they’re donuts. I’m not a huge donut fan and Krispy Kreme certainly did not change me of that. (Top Pot here in Seattle though might just turn me around…)

But that smell just reminded me of cruising through the wonder that is New York City, again thrilled at having a partner with whom I can travel well with, smiling like a goon all the time. That cold, that coffee, that just thrilled to be there feeling when drinking a beer in a Village bar with my honey, that fear and desire of standing beneath the towers and wanting to spin like Timothy Speed Levitch.

Liquor, Guns and Money (Without the Guns and Money)

The plan was to leave by midnight, at the latest. Couple beers in me, a good 5-5 ½ hours sleep and then off to work. Well, there were free beers involved. Still though, being mature damn it, and went and said goodbye to some people and they put up a fight, impugned my manhood by comparing the small (in relation to normal) amount of alcohol I’d had, and essentially told me I couldn’t leave. I said I would chug another beer, but I’d have to go.

Rob believes that he was the enabler, he wanted responsibility and I let him have it. The truth is I just have little self control. Did I mention free beers?

So after a few more free beers somebody finally busted out a bottle of whisky. Now as most people who know me know (did that sentence seem like it shouldn’t make sense?), if I turn down whisky:

1. I am trying to be responsible and by that point I’ve probably had more than my fair share.

2. I’ve got the spins and I’m about to vomit whisky out my nose.

3. I’m near death. Scratch that one. If I’m near death I’d better be sucking off a bottle like a 400 dollar whore.

So yeah, I ended up having a good time, but at what price? AT WHAT PRICE?!?

Sleep attempted at around 2AM with too much alcohol on an empty stomach. And yes, as the old song says, it’s nobody’s fault but mine. I am finding it difficult to dredge up the empathy at work today for the dumb asses who spill a hot beverage on themselves and expect me to supply them with a lifetime supply of said beverage because they’re dumb asses.

Wrong day to call…

Father?

I don’t have a fear of clowns necessarily, but this picture made me wet myself in absolute, irrational, screaming terror.

I didn’t think dad had been photographed in his “special day” outfit.

I Said, Brrr...

It’s getting’ cold up here. I mean not to the point of thinking to yourself, “holy fuck, my eyeballs are going to freeze and then crackle like ice in a tumbler of whisky”, but it’s just around the corner. It’s that almost cute uncomfortable, where you laugh when you have to leave your incredibly warm bed because your balls have suddenly crawled up into your body and your nipples have hardened to frozen peas atop a cold, cold coin; not painful, not yet, but it certainly makes you nostalgic for that bed.

This late fall/early winter cold is sort of like a plate of cute little appetizer morsels filled with raspberry seeds that will get stuck in your teeth (but you can floss them out fairly easily) before the main course of poop pasta with broken glass.

Last night, as I was crawling between sheets that were refrigerator cold, I moved my foot over towards the outside wall. It was cold, really cold. I was instantly reminded of childhood overnight stays at my grandparent’s house.

When I slept over at my grandparent’s place I would sleep in the room that had once been my Uncle Jim’s. The bed lay right up against a large glass window, and if it was winter, and if you were a religious man, you would pray that you did not roll up against that window. I would climb into that cold bed and lay in one spot, perfectly still, until my body had managed to warm up a section of the sheets and blanket. I would then slowly venture out to other colder parts of the bed, always being able to retreat back to my center of warmth if things got too hairy.

I called this my foxhole. Not like a trench war foxhole, but like an underground den where foxes all nestled together and kept each other warm.

Despite the bitching that will probably come to a fever pitch by the end of December, I like being cold. I like being forced to wrap up and from time to time uncontrollably shivering. But it’s along the lines of being able to eat this fantastic dessert after the plate of gross and painful pasta. I like getting cold so that soon afterward I can get cozy with sweatshirts and sweaters and warm beverages and blankets and steamy kitchens…

Pusherman

When walking to work, I have to walk up above the mighty I-5 on a pedestrian walkway. In more litigious parts of the world, there would be some sort of chain link barrier to keep people from either doing a lemming or from forcing someone else into doing a lemming. But not so here, there is nothing but a thigh high guard rail above a 6 story fall to North and South bound traffic to hold back suicidal/homicidal urges.

Honestly, I’ve always sort of feared this part of the trek, but I’ve tried to trick myself into thinking that I haven’t. I walk right up against the guard rail and look down at those asphalt lanes stretching off towards Canada, towards Portland. But it’s not the heights that I fear, fuck the heights, it’s falling off and then, adding insult to injury being pounded flat by a car.

And more honestly, it’s a fear of being pushed off.

I can only assume that that meaty little evil fucking part of the brain that occasionally spews out bad ideas in a laugh-hoarse whisper has convinced me that if it had occurred to me that someone might attempt to push somebody off of the overpass and into traffic, than it has occurred to everybody. Last week, I skirted by an adorable little waif in a Catholic school skirt at a flat out run.

And this morning, seriously, there was this guy that just seemed unstable. If unstable had a smell like cabbage and worn brakes, this guy would smell like it. He had on second hand suit pants and jacket and red tennis shoes. Oh, and a ubiquitous beanie. That’s not what did it though. It was that and the combination of the quick head jerks he would make as he was walking along, that and the red beard. Guys with beards, I tell you… I got caught having to walk past him on the freeway overpass and damn it if my breathing didn’t get all clipped and spotty. I had to keep my fists clenched tightly to keep my hands from flailing wildly and screaming like a eunuch jumping into snow melt. Plus I was sure the guy kept jerking his head over to look at me while I passed him.

He didn’t push me, obviously, but this is a fear that creeps through my head like a shadow every morning. It’s not keeping me from leaving the house or anything, but I wouldn’t mind drinking heavily before crossing. But then we would move from the realm of irrational fear and probably on into self-fulfilling prophecy.

One Year

Sunday represented our one year anniversary here in Seattle. I would have said something yesterday, but I figured a slow rotting Easter bunny episode was a little more holiday oriented.

It’s shocking how quickly the year has gone by, seriously. And it’s funny to think about puttering around that box filled apartment, scared but excited, spending money that would have been more wisely spent elsewhere to buy a Subway sandwich for dinner from perhaps the surliest woman in Seattle, and knowing absolutely nobody.

Well Chuck, but the son of a bitch ran off to Dallas. That’s happened to me too many times in my life…

I was walking around the neighborhood on Sunday, it was cold and wet and somehow perfectly Seattle, and I felt so happy to be here, it just seemed right. I again thought about my life a year ago and getting up in the morning to read for a couple hours in the cold kitchen and making Irish soda bread out of the margarine mom had given us as a moving in gift before unpacking something or painting something and drinking massive amounts of French Market coffee. While they were nice memories, they did not hold onto the fear that constantly filled those days; fear of abject failure and fear of absolutely no fucking money.

It was nice to later lie on the couch in our put together, painted and comfortable living room, two cats curled up and warm on top of me, the smell of coffee and left over soup coming from the kitchen… and think to myself that we were doing pretty damn good.

Oh and by the way, we went to this restaurant to celebrate the anniversary and found our new absolute favorite place in the city. We can’t wait to take you there!

Gerald Goes Hunting

Gerald, the slow-rotting Easter bunny, went out into the woods to go hunting. He was invited by this gun nut named Donald that he had met through this kid Paulie. They were halfway through a second bottle of kiwi flavored vodka when Donald brought up the idea. Gerald wasn’t crazy about blowing defenseless animals to pieces until Donald announced he would be bringing enough home distilled whisky to take out two rhinos and a mongoose. And now they had been sitting behind a deer blind for three hours, in the rain, 280 miles from anyplace that came close to registering on Gerald’s charts as civilized. Gerald was less than happy. He glared at Donald who sat stroking his rifle like a man hypnotized by porno.

“I think your smell is scaring off all of the prey. Here, spray a bunch of this on you,” Donald handed him a small aerosol can.

“This is Deep Woods Off.”

“Yup, cover up that shit pronto,” Donald slurred.

“Alright,” Gerald said testily as he pushed himself off the ground. “I’m fucking done.”

As his paws were never really meant to be able to handle a gun, he was clumsy with it and managed to accidentally shoot Donald in the arm. Donald immediately started screaming.

“Shut up bitch, I just grazed you,” Gerald said as he began trudging his way out through the woods.

Donald raised up his rifle, aimed carefully at the back of Gerald’s head and pulled the trigger. There was nothing but a dry click of an empty gun.

“Yeah, I’m that dumb,” Gerald shouted. “I’m going to walk into the woods with a drunk with a gun. I’m a rabbit for chrissakes! That’s right, I took your bullets. And you know what else?”

Donald shook his head in nervous shock.

“I killed your master,” Gerald hissed and continued out of the forest.

Must... Keep... Playing...

This picture is so effing rock-n-roll that it makes my heart pump fire.

The guy is so overcome by the sheer power and mystique that is music, that he has been driven to his knees! His head hangs with exhaustion or ecstasy, he has absolutely no concern for the knees of his tux pants, and yet he keeps pounding those keys!

God damn.

A Good Stumbler Falleth Not

I was wearing my magic hat, the one I wore to come up with the good advertising bits; the great ones the super insidious make-you-buy-a-ton-for-shit-you-won’t-ever-need ones. I have to tell you, this is not a hat I would usually wear outdoors. I fear for the magic, oh heavens, do I fear for the magic. All that wind and rain and weather could wear the magic away like the ocean eroding a shore. But you know, super fast like.

But I couldn’t help myself today. I was wearing a two-piece thong and fishnet gloves, and nothing but nothing went with that get up except that velveteen top hat with an embroidered magenta ‘P’. Not even the magnifying glass earrings which were single-handedly responsible for the Great Bangkok Fire.

Outside the Come In Threes advertising agency – which I always thought sounded a little dirty – I was accosted by this old fool who often panhandled for neckties. He was building a rope bridge to cross the river and get the hell out of this city he said. Well, no fool like an old fool I’d often tell him. But there was something in the air that day that made me want to bash his head in with the enormous hat box I was carrying in my hand. Before I could get a decent swing in, I saw her.

Necessity was walking down the sidewalk in a slim dress that showered diamonds on the sidewalk. She held her young son’s hand. He was skipping slightly. She approached and pursed her lips slightly in a way that made it look like she might be having a petite mal seizure.

“I’d like you to meet my son,” she said.

“Ah, the prodigal son,” I said like a wise ass.

“I’m recklessly extravagant!” he said as he peeked up into my eyes. That was all it took, I had fallen.

“What’s your name little man?”

“Invention!”

“How would you like to come into the office with me, help me take advantage of other people’s fears and neurosis and boil it down to an easily digested and understood couple of words?”

“Birds of a feather,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was responding or just throwing out words. Necessity smiled as I took the boy’s hand and we walked into the office together.

This kid was gonna be a freaking natural.

Love and Ice Skating

I believe that my lovely Jenny H once said (in answering one of those email survey things that kill me) that she did in fact fall in love everyday. I love that, and I completely understand it. I also often fall in love at the drop of the proverbial hat. It certainly doesn’t tarnish or lessen the love of my life that I am lucky enough to bask in. As a matter of fact, I think she also understands the feeling, and also falls in love quite often herself.

When I was like 5 years old, my parents took me to see Sesame Street on Ice. I was heavy into Sesame Street. Heavy! I had a non-sexual hard on for the Count. He was a vampire for Christ’s sake, but an obsessive-compulsive vampire with a monocle! Anyway, I intended to get seriously excited about seeing Bert and Ernie and Snuffleupagus on ice skates, but I was instead entranced by the young girl sitting in the row in front of me.

Whoa! Let me pause here for a second. Muppets on ice? What friggin’ stoner, ice-dance fan thought of that?

This girl though, I never saw her face completely, just a ¾ view from behind, but she made my heart flutter and my stomach do crazy things I wasn’t quite ready for. She had this small little freckle/birth mark just below her left ear that I couldn’t take my eyes off of. She is the only thing I remember about the “icecapade”. It’s as much a mystery today as it was nearly 30 years ago, this notion of love. What brings it on, what is it about a certain person, is it all just chemical? The romantic in me wants to believe that it’s more, but I don’t know.

On the radio, during the car ride home, Paul McCartney and Wings’ Silly Love Songs played and lulled me into a constant reminding of this mystery girl.

To this day when I hear that song – which admittedly is not often – I think of that girl and that freckle, I remember that first thrilling and sort of spins inducing tumble.

Actually, Love

You know what I’m in the mood for?

I’m in the mood to go on up to the 6th floor, walk around with all of the suit clad sales types, smack ‘em on the ass and say, “what’s shaking toots?”

I’m also in the mood to thrash around wildly as security manhandles me out the building, all the while screaming, “Gattica, Gattica!” Mostly in hopes that I can ridicule the guard who admits to liking this shitty movie, or that I can praise the soft-eyed and sensitive one who points out that Al Pacino was actually saying, “Attica, Attica!”

I’m also in the mood to wonder on down to the train tracks after I get up from the sidewalk I’ve been roughly thrown to. I want to hop a train and head off… to Barstow. I would then be in the mood to realize that going to Barstow is a dumb idea and would head on up to convince the conductor that we should go to Olympia so we can visit the old Olympia brewery. He’d say, “shit yeah! I can go for some Oly! It’s the water.” To which I would reply, “yes, it is the water.” I’d smile as I looked out the grit covered engine windows, covering my ears every time the whistle blew to avoid having the train hit a dumbass, and say, “I’m in the mood to get an Oly beer T-shirt”.

I’m also in the mood for tacos.

Once Upon A Time...

Mom has saved a box full of school stuff from when I was a child. There are things like report cards and kindergarten art projects that I’m sure are adorable to parents, but made me want to say to my five year old self, “Look, when you can draw an elephant that doesn’t look retarded, come talk to me”.

I have realized a few things from looking through this veritable box of wonders. I have found that to this day, I draw an elephant as well as I did in kindergarten. I have also been reminded that I always enjoyed writing.

There were stories I had written throughout grade school, a bound book of a story where I went inside a Pac Man game, even a small note to my mom and dad letting them know that I was running away.

These were memories that came at a good time I think. It made me happy to remember that writing was something I had always enjoyed, even at six years old. It was this sort of reaffirmation of purpose, a nudge to my adult mind from that strange child that lived for running around in his imagination. I could almost hear that toe-headed, buck toothed kid quietly say, “You can’t run away from it. Just sit down and write.”

He’s correct, and it felt good to acknowledge that he’s correct. Even if, as one of his teachers specified, he did have problems with character development.

Some things never change

Saturday Missive

I’m tired ‘cause I stayed up later than I should have and then one of the cats went on some sort of maniacal binge that involved a lot of climbing and jumping, and then I had to get up before dawn to go to work and I have just chugged a Chai Latte and rubbed my eyes so long and hard that everything looks a little washed out and distorted.

And I’m sweating a little bit.

I have this urge to end every sentence I say to anyone with, “and hilarity ensues”. I have sat within these cubicle walls for nearly seven hours already and I’m feeling a little pent up and aggressive. I have strong urges to pick up something and throw it at people. I mean soft things like this Santa Claus stress relieving squishee thing, and an apple that has slowly been going bad over the last 6 weeks or so, not a stapler or anything. I would hit them with my marksman like aim and yell, “and hilarity ensues!”

I am also starting to get one of those sort of headaches that makes me think of pulsing, alien flesh bursting out of my skull.

Frankly, I just want to go home, read my book and drink a can of Rainier. Shit yeah!

"She Was Glorious, Burning..."

I met Denis Johnson the other night, the author of the fantastic Jesus Son.

For awhile there, I had this weird relationship with Jesus Son. The lovely Ms. Jennifer Miller was reading it, and I think I was attracted to the title as I was beginning a Velvet Underground phase in my life.

In the song Heroin, Lou Reed sings “And I feel just like Jesus’ son”

Jenny M. proclaimed that this book was her favorite and she had read it multiple times. This seemed like high praise indeed as, and I can’t say why specifically, Jenny doesn’t seem like the sort of person who would read a book more than once. In fact, she sort seems like the kind of person who would mercilessly scorn a person who admitted to reading a book more than once.

That may not be true, and again, I cannot say why I feel that way.

At around the same time, I was taking a creative writing class at SFSU and we read a short story at the start of class that made me kind of stop and go, “whoah, that was good”. Unbeknownst to me at the time, it was the first part of Denis Johnson’s Jesus Son.

Then, not long after, I was visiting C&G and noticed a copy of Jesus Son on their bookshelf. I mentioned to Chris that I had been running into this book multiple times and heard it was good. He said to me, in all seriousness –

“If I have not recommended this book to you, I have been remiss as a friend.”

What did I expect on meeting Denis Johnson? Did I want him to be taken by my natural greatness, so much so that he felt the need to write something about me, something specifically for me? Of course, but that’s what I expect out of everyone I meet…

He looked like someone’s uncle from Woodburn, Oregon or maybe Coeur d’Alene, Idaho; older, weather worn, dressed in a flannel jacket. He seemed really uncomfortable being around people he didn’t know. I shook his hand and told him it was a pleasure to meet him. I was then immediately forgotten as actors circled the writer and did their actor thing.

It was sort of heartening to find that someone fairly accomplished was still just this uncomfortable and seriously normal guy.

I Left My Heart In Natchitoches

Driving through Louisiana is a strange experience worthy of numerous posts, worthy of a novel. I have made the trip from Dallas to New Orleans on a few occasions and if it is something you are thinking about doing – at some point when New Orleans becomes inhabitable again – I would like to impart some well meaning advice:

1. You can never go wrong with Led Zeppelin on a road trip, but there’s something about that stretch of road that is just calls out for two albums. The Last Waltz by The Band sets that trip up so right you’d think divine providence was involved. And American Beauty by the Grateful Dead, genius. Yeah, I’m prepared for you Dead haters, but seriously this album just matches the swampy, melancholy-hopeful anticipation of arrival down in the French Quarter.

2. If you’re not so into fried food, do not stop for a snack, well almost anywhere, but in particular gas stations.

A vast amount of Louisiana is dark, swampy darkness. Along that lonely Interstate 49 are a few “bright” spots, places like Natchitoches and Opelousas. These are places that rang alarm bells in the parts of my brain that had thoroughly soaked up 80’s horror/slasher films. Yup, people could easily disappear in these remote places. People could disappear at the hands of people that said “yup” a lot.

In Natchitoches is a gas station that apparently felt that the bobble head animal market was just getting ready to explode. They had a bobble head version of every animal on the planet; bobble head turtles, bobble head mongooses, bobble head giant squid. They also had their own restaurant which served only fried food. Deep fat fried food.

Fried chicken, fried shrimp, fried catfish, fried pickles, fried okra, fried potatoes, fried corn. I’m saying whole cobs of corn were battered and deep fried. If you did not want your food of the deep fried variety, you did not eat here; unless you were eating salt and pepper.

That’s all fine and well, you do not eat in a gas station if you are concerned about how healthy you are eating. And man, I like me some fried okra, that shit is good. Not so good though when it’s been sitting around under a heat lamp for what I would guess would be thirteenish hours.

So my advice on this fine Thursday, if driving through Louisiana: bring The Last Waltz and American Beauty, if you need to stop in a place like Natchitoches or Opelousas get out as quickly as possible, and for the love of god don’t eat at one of their gas stations.

That’s probably just good advice all around though…

Time Passages

Whenever I think about time capsules (which honestly is not often), those boxes buried with mementos of the times, I think about what I would put into one. The contents change every time this thought comes around as what is important to me at the time changes.

For instance, back in seventh grade I would have put a pair of jeans with a side comb pocket and packages of blueberry Hubba Bubba.

Today, this morning, right now, if pressed at gunpoint or sharp object, I would place into a time capsule:
An empty twelver of Pabst Blue Ribbon
An Ikea catalogue
A Polaroid of one of the Pike’s Place Market fish throwing guys standing around with his hands in his pockets
A can of Crisco
A VHS copy of Two of a Kind with John Travolta and Olivia Newton John
An 8-track of The Best of Jim Croce

Jim Croce… Jim “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” Croce… This guy just doesn’t seem like he should be a popular music star.


But these were the days before videos. And when a singer/songwriter dies in a plane crash in Natchitoches, Louisiana, people suddenly raise up their voices in praise. My dad was a huge Jim Croce fan; Bob Segar, Jimmy Buffet and The Eagles as well. My dad has, shall we say, an eclectic taste in shitty music.

I do remember him saying once, while driving to Bremerton as a child with Jim Croce’s Time In A Bottle playing, that it sounded like Mr. Croce knew he was going to die when he sang that song. This is a comment I have always held onto for some reason. A plainly stated comment that fit the musical mood, a quiet moment where my dad expressed the emotions he got from a song.

Yeah Jim Croce’s alright. You Don’t Mess Around With Jim is a pretty decent song, and even the schmaltzy Time In A Bottle gives me a little tear.

Jimmy Buffet though, can lick my balls.

Meetings

I love meetings, business meetings I mean, work meetings. I love them and I hate them, it’s a dichotomous relationship.

I love that I threw in the word dichotomous.

I love being able to get away from the phones, and thusly from really annoying and inane customers, who while they’re busy spilling their childish nonsense, I have my finger on the mute button and am saying, “blah, blah, blah fucking whine about it some more”. It also gives me the chance to soak up the beautiful mystery that is corporate culture.

Oh sure, it seems like an oxymoron - corporate culture, but for those of you lucky enough to have never had to experience a corporate job, believe me… it’s true. Corporate culture has its own language, it has its own expectations, its own dress codes, it has its own favorite holiday side dish that – I shouldn’t be telling you this – has nothing to do with potatoes. Keep it under your hat.

Meetings are a way for middle management folks to think they’re doing something productive. It’s an illusion of communication, an illusion of getting something done. Business meetings are a lot like kids pretending they’re eating a dinner they don’t like by pushing around pieces of said dinner on their plate. Parents don’t fall for that shit, you’d think businessmen would be wise to it too.

You’d think a lot of things about businessmen that you’d be wrong about.

Meetings are also a way for underlings to bitch about the fact that they’re, well, underlings. I had to listen to people, acting just as immaturely as most of our customers by the by, throw out complaints about how their jobs weren’t fun anymore.

I wanted to jump up on my sardonic high horse and yell out to those shiftless little fuckers that, “hey dumbasses, they don’t usually pay you to do things that are fun for you, hookers aside. And hookers aren’t having fun, nor are they getting free coffee and health care! Have none of you ever actually worked before? Did you actually believe the sitcoms when they promised a job that would allow you to own a house, a big fucking house, and yet spend hours a day away from your chosen, “fun” occupation? If you’re going to sit here and complain about how upset you are with your job, and yet refuse to get off your widening, pasty ass and do something about it, then I have no respect for you what so fucking ever!”

But I didn’t. I sipped my coffee and watched the clock, and listened to that sort of Orwellian business-speak that passes for talking. And I did fight the urge to bust out with Madonna's Material Girl.

*And for those with the Billy Cleans His Plate checklist out: I made pumpkin soup with my homemade vegetable stock yesterday. It was pumpkininny!

Saturday Lovin'

As my new Saturday shift begins at 6:30 in the am, and as there are few people here and no supervisor types, I went straight from bed to work. No shower and even a second hand baseball cap on my head that I bought in a Portland Value Village. If my fellow coworkers cannot take the penetrating funk that is the odor of Billy, screw ‘em – let ‘em riot!

I have also shared the news with these people that in some circles I am known as a “dance machine”.

I did not however say which circles…

I Heart Photoshop

I seriously can spend hours doing shit like this:

Dream Series #3

So I have this highway dream series. It involves a long road trip along a straight strip of highway. I am sure that this is brought on by many trips up the ol’ 5 between California and Washington.

This dream highway goes through a variety of terrains, but one constant is a long stretch of divided highway through a flat, green field and this huge but gentle curve where there is this monster gas station that sells effing everything. I always seem to be coming on this shopper’s paradise late at night and in desperate need of smokes.

Last night’s dream was a bit different in that it added a nice stress level to the typical highway dream. I was helping my brother move to Monterey. We were a while on the road before I realized we needed to turn around and tell mom we had left and that we needed to get some cassette tapes for the trip. Mom was fairly nonplussed with both our leaving and our having left without saying goodbye. The only cassettes I could find were about ten tapes by The Cure that were not albums, but songs selected from a variety of albums and put together. A record company mix tape if you will.

It was on going back out to the moving van that I realized it was the same one we had used to move up to Seattle and I had forgotten to return it. I started freaking out, wondering how I would ever be able to pay for this. I talked to some pump jockey kid at a Shell station (yep, for some reason I made sure to check that it was a Shell station) who told me that I would need to take the van back to the company, but to bring along a journalist who would also act as my attorney.

This was all a very stressful way to wake up, heart pounding and breathing hard, at 3 in the morning.

Just A Drill

Mark stood out in the enormous parking lot, staring at the building and trying to drown out the blaring alarm sound by humming Oops, I Did It Again to himself. He was just beginning to sway to involuntary dance moves when Joseph shuffled up to him.

“Hey man, can I bum a smoke?” Joseph asked.

Mark begrudgingly reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the pack and handed him a cigarette.

“Why don’t you buy your own? Mooch.”

“I’m trying to quit, so I’m not buying packs anymore.” Joseph put the cigarette in his mouth and waited expectantly.

“Fuck,” Mark said with exasperation. He pulled out his lighter and lit Joseph’s smoke for him. “At nearly $7 a pack don’t expect me to carry your habit for you!”

Joseph walked away with an overwrought, sad look on his face. Mark rubbed his arms, wishing he had brought his jacket with him. Why did there have to be a fire drill when it was like 40 degrees outside? Hundreds of people were milling around like confused farm animals. He could see Doug ambling towards him.

“Did you hear about the Risk Management guys?” Doug asked. Mark shook his head no. “Apparently, Brent thought it was a real fire and began shoving and trampling people in the stairwell trying to escape – about 6 people are severely injured, if not dead. Nicky was explaining a joke to someone with her hands and threw a cup of scalding hot tea in some HR temp’s face.”

Mark nodded, staring down at the pack of cigarettes in his hand.

“We’ve been out here for like 15 minutes, how much longer you think it’ll be?” Doug asked while he hopped from one foot to the other.

Mark shrugged his shoulders and placed a cigarette of his own in his mouth. He was bringing the lighter up when Shaun grabbed it from him and began walking off towards the building.

“What are you doing?” Mark shouted to him.

“They want a fire?” Shaun called back. “I’ll give ‘em a fucking fire!”

Schnarper-Harnne's

I have a new schedule, with Saturdays working and with Mondays off. It can be a drag, but whatever, having Mondays off can be cool. I was going to try to be super industrious and post from home yesterday while away from work, but I was neither super nor industrious.

I did however make some homemade chicken stock for the upcoming fall soup bonanza*

What I would have mentioned yesterday, typing comfortably from my couch instead of this fluorescent blighted and wobbly, second hand office chair, would have been a story about my lovelies Chris and Greta who were in town for a whirlwind visit.

Chris and Greta (or C & G if you’re abbreviation minded) are two of my favorite people in the world and are the source of a miasma of partner swapping rumors that seem to follow us around. While we did all get married together, and did subsequently take our honeymoons together, we do not, as a group, swing.

Well me and Chris do, but that story will follow…

We seem to speak our own language, the four of us, which most likely makes others feel uncomfortable and excluded. There is also a comfort level between us that is amazing bordering on obscene. We only got them for one night this trip (Chris has family up in this area that were requesting their presence), but I’ll take whatever I can get.

Drinking was involved, of course, but at some point after midnightish, we all went for a walk to try and wake up some of the sleepier minded in the troop. We walked through the newly opened reservoir park in our neighborhood and fell with a drunken thump on the children’s playground area.

Chris and I pumped those swings in lame, drunken attempts to go over the bar. We also did head first and upside down trips on the spiral slides. I tell you this, because nothing quite beats playing on a swing set after hours. It is something I highly recommend.

Our place always feels a little emptier, a little less filled with love when C & G depart, and this short visit was no exception. And the exits now feel a little harder knowing that they’re not just a 3 hour drive away. But, like a show that just moves you to limits you didn’t know you had, the visit was beautiful even if it was too short.

*For those keeping track of the fall bread/pie/soup marathon, I have now made 2 apple pies (successfully) and a batch of both vegetable and chicken stock that are crying out for homemade soup.