We bid July adieu today. Farewell July, you’ve been a helluva four letter month. As I walked this morning, I thought of how we are now well into the second half of the year, feeling the hours and minutes fall off of me and into the wake I was leaving in the day.
I’m constantly reminded of the passing of time, it’s impossible not to see it in the face of Riley. When you walk in to give him a kiss before leaving and he’s standing up with a death grip on the top rail of the crib, that combo ‘look what I can do/hey, it’s Dad’ smile all over his face, there’s a bitter and complex taste note that reminds me that it will all go so fast.
I had also hoped to be halfway through a novel by this point of the year, but not so much…
In the spirit of this bittersweet, but mostly sweet feeling I’ve been carrying, in the spirit of remembering that time will always go too fast and we need to slow it down sometimes for us, I would like to dedicate this last day of July post to my lady friend:
We were looking out over San Francisco Bay towards sunset, Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge sitting there all picture postcard like. I don’t remember specifically what we were talking about, but I can guess that it involved me looking for ways to talk you out of going back home to Chico. It may have been one of those calm moments where we didn’t need to talk.
I remember how freakishly cold that wind coming in off of the Bay could get, and I remember the black and grey flannel coat that I had. I remember you there, looking out over the water painted an impressionistic masterpiece by the early evening sun, me behind you with my arms around you, feeling safe for the first time in years.
You went along with my insistence that this was not a long term thing, I think you knew just as well as some part of me did that I was lying. And at that moment the piece of my soul that could not just let this pass by, the piece that would wail for eternity if I wasted it spoke up and accused me. My self delusion fell all over me and I realized in a heartbeat how flimsy the lie had been in the first place.
“I think I’m falling in love with you,” I said in a near whisper that you heard perfectly.
One of the best moves I ever made, hands down.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: “I Got The Blues” by The Rolling Stones.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
I'm A Chaser
Some further tales from the theater world…
The long hours of tech rehearsal went by in a flash. There were some small personality conflicts happening. This is going to happen when you lock 12 people in a stuffy basement together for a large number of hours. It was very minor, and ultimately pretty damn funny, but the director felt the need to intervene and try to bring peace to a battle that honestly seemed like the sort of thing siblings do to entertain themselves on a long car ride; the kind where the dad threatens to pull the car over and engage in some socially acceptable child abuse and the mom tells dad to keep his eyes on the road in a tone that implies that everything wrong with the family is his fault.
Everything was fine. Some people got a little cranky as the hours wore on, but again that’s bound to happen, and can usually be repaired with a well placed dick joke.
Saturday night after rehearsal, I had agreed to do a reading for a friend who is a playwright and actor. I had originally worked with her in The Crucible a while back and have done a staged reading for one of her plays. She is one of the sweetest, open and caring people I have ever met. We passed each other while I was walking home last week and it jogged her mind to have me come read for a one act that she was submitting for a contest.
Now, already I would crawl over a twelve foot high wall of rotting wallabies to help her out, and as it turned out she was also recruiting one of the actors that I’m currently working with to also do the reading. She did not know that we knew each other, that we have an easy rapport, that we have kissed on stage a number of times.
Oh man, it just felt good. No stress, working with an actor that I work with (and work well with) already, a funny script with characters that you can just sink your teeth into, a writer who was tickled to hear her characters brought to life…
And in between readings we sat and talked about art and writing and acting. And it was one of those conversations that can easily turn to one of those annoying cases of verbal masturbation, but we kept away from the self congratulatory bullshit. I was again struck by a sense of how lucky I am to be part of this community, how fulfilled. We talked about how art is important, about how it feels when you’ve been unexpectedly touched by a work, when you know that you have performed something that has touched people – whether it’s to make them laugh, or hold their breath in anticipation, or empathize with someone who never even existed. We talked about what we expect from other artists and what we need from other artists, and as the sun was turning down to a brilliant end of day orange and we sat in a circle in this small and comfortably warm studio apartment, it became easy to believe that art could change the world.
Can I get an amen?
The long hours of tech rehearsal went by in a flash. There were some small personality conflicts happening. This is going to happen when you lock 12 people in a stuffy basement together for a large number of hours. It was very minor, and ultimately pretty damn funny, but the director felt the need to intervene and try to bring peace to a battle that honestly seemed like the sort of thing siblings do to entertain themselves on a long car ride; the kind where the dad threatens to pull the car over and engage in some socially acceptable child abuse and the mom tells dad to keep his eyes on the road in a tone that implies that everything wrong with the family is his fault.
Everything was fine. Some people got a little cranky as the hours wore on, but again that’s bound to happen, and can usually be repaired with a well placed dick joke.
Saturday night after rehearsal, I had agreed to do a reading for a friend who is a playwright and actor. I had originally worked with her in The Crucible a while back and have done a staged reading for one of her plays. She is one of the sweetest, open and caring people I have ever met. We passed each other while I was walking home last week and it jogged her mind to have me come read for a one act that she was submitting for a contest.
Now, already I would crawl over a twelve foot high wall of rotting wallabies to help her out, and as it turned out she was also recruiting one of the actors that I’m currently working with to also do the reading. She did not know that we knew each other, that we have an easy rapport, that we have kissed on stage a number of times.
Oh man, it just felt good. No stress, working with an actor that I work with (and work well with) already, a funny script with characters that you can just sink your teeth into, a writer who was tickled to hear her characters brought to life…
And in between readings we sat and talked about art and writing and acting. And it was one of those conversations that can easily turn to one of those annoying cases of verbal masturbation, but we kept away from the self congratulatory bullshit. I was again struck by a sense of how lucky I am to be part of this community, how fulfilled. We talked about how art is important, about how it feels when you’ve been unexpectedly touched by a work, when you know that you have performed something that has touched people – whether it’s to make them laugh, or hold their breath in anticipation, or empathize with someone who never even existed. We talked about what we expect from other artists and what we need from other artists, and as the sun was turning down to a brilliant end of day orange and we sat in a circle in this small and comfortably warm studio apartment, it became easy to believe that art could change the world.
Can I get an amen?
Friday, July 27, 2007
Welcome To The Pleasure Dome
Been feeling good about the theater work the last couple of days. We’re heading into hell week, which means we open next weekend, which means I’ll be spending approximately 6-10 hours both Saturday and Sunday in the theater, which means there will be nothing but rehearsals for the next six days until we have our preview.
But rehearsals the last two nights have been pretty great. There seems to be a renewed energy in the cast, director and stage manager and I feel like we made that sort of metaphysical leap that needs to occur at some point in the rehearsal process to make the show real. Backstage there’s been this calm and comfortable wave of just being together and talking and… It just feels good. I’m happy to be working with these people, happy to be doing this show.
So naturally, my mind goes to bonobos.
Bonobos, or pygmy chimpanzees, are the only other primates to have face to face, genital to genital sex. Girl on girl, boy on boy, girl/boy, you name it. Sex is important in their society for greetings, conflict resolution and post-conflict reconciliation. Hang on and think about this for a second… They use sex as a greeting. It’s gotta be tough to say hello with all kinds of dick in your mouth.
If my photo sharing site wasn’t down at the moment, below you would see a picture of two female bonobos bumpin’ fuzz and grinning like… Well, two monkeys grinding ginies.
The males also engage in front on genital sex. One way is to hang from trees and facing each other while they “penis fence.”
Penis fence.
I think that we have a lot to learn from bonobos, and a lot to learn from penis fencing. I will tell you right now that even if I didn’t do it out loud, if I were to penis fence, I’d be making light saber noises in my head.
But rehearsals the last two nights have been pretty great. There seems to be a renewed energy in the cast, director and stage manager and I feel like we made that sort of metaphysical leap that needs to occur at some point in the rehearsal process to make the show real. Backstage there’s been this calm and comfortable wave of just being together and talking and… It just feels good. I’m happy to be working with these people, happy to be doing this show.
So naturally, my mind goes to bonobos.
Bonobos, or pygmy chimpanzees, are the only other primates to have face to face, genital to genital sex. Girl on girl, boy on boy, girl/boy, you name it. Sex is important in their society for greetings, conflict resolution and post-conflict reconciliation. Hang on and think about this for a second… They use sex as a greeting. It’s gotta be tough to say hello with all kinds of dick in your mouth.
If my photo sharing site wasn’t down at the moment, below you would see a picture of two female bonobos bumpin’ fuzz and grinning like… Well, two monkeys grinding ginies.
The males also engage in front on genital sex. One way is to hang from trees and facing each other while they “penis fence.”
Penis fence.
I think that we have a lot to learn from bonobos, and a lot to learn from penis fencing. I will tell you right now that even if I didn’t do it out loud, if I were to penis fence, I’d be making light saber noises in my head.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
You'll Drive Me To Ruin
It’s funny, the things that enter your head when you’re walking through downtown with Led Zeppelin’s "Communication Breakdown" first thing in the morning. And by funny I mean, "really, that’s what you’re gonna drag up?" questions to my own mind.
I thought about the reply that I got when I had asked my grade school girlfriend to go out with me.
Notes, everything was done through notes. Notes were written, then passed onto friendly third parties who negotiated meetings. Things haven’t changed that much since; I gave GRa a note to pass to Biff when I asked her to marry me. It was a certified letter, for sure, but still a note. I believe, that back in the day I had written, in note form, "will you go with me?"
I wasn’t even sure of what responsibilities went with "going with" with someone, it was all very new to me. Julie, the friendly third party mentioned above, approached me at recess and told me that I should ask so and so to "go with me." "What does that mean?" I asked her. "You know, be nice to her and you guys hang out and stuff, you hold hands when you go skating." I tried to explain that that’s what we pretty much did now and Julie gave me the fifth grade equivalent of "just fucking do it.
When I think about it now, "will you go with me?" is really sort of an unfinished question. I mean, it’s elegant in its brevity, but does not explain what I’m talking about, or if she was easily confused, where I was talking about. This may explain the answer via note of:
"I tell you tomorrow."
I wanted to tell her that there should be a "will" in there, to at least make a contraction out of it, but I didn’t. I waited on the answer like I still wait on any potentially life changing answer; with quiet anxiety.
But it wasn’t that there was not a resounding "yes" coming back to me through Julie, it wasn’t that she was taking her time making what was a very important decision to an 11 year old that made me anxious. It was the sentence that had been scribbled out above "I tell you tomorrow."
I tried to read through the heavy lines of graphite that had eradicated the words previously written, and the only one I could decipher (before I quit trying) was "no".
The feeling of knowing that the first response to me from the girl who made my tummy do back flips was a "no" is one that I held onto for some time. She came back to me the following day with a yes and I was nice to her and we hung out and held hands while skating, but somewhere in the back of the mind, rummaging like a ferret, was that scribbled out decline.
I don’t feel that it changed the relationship, or scarred me for life, but I do feel that it’s a pretty good example of what my psyche feeds on. Even today, when I get the good news that I got the part from the audition, I imagine a separate cast list with another actor’s name scribbled out before mine was added.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Well, naturally it’s "Communication Breakdown" - "I don’t know what it is that I like about you, but I like it a lot." Words of wisdom my friends, words of wisdom.
I thought about the reply that I got when I had asked my grade school girlfriend to go out with me.
Notes, everything was done through notes. Notes were written, then passed onto friendly third parties who negotiated meetings. Things haven’t changed that much since; I gave GRa a note to pass to Biff when I asked her to marry me. It was a certified letter, for sure, but still a note. I believe, that back in the day I had written, in note form, "will you go with me?"
I wasn’t even sure of what responsibilities went with "going with" with someone, it was all very new to me. Julie, the friendly third party mentioned above, approached me at recess and told me that I should ask so and so to "go with me." "What does that mean?" I asked her. "You know, be nice to her and you guys hang out and stuff, you hold hands when you go skating." I tried to explain that that’s what we pretty much did now and Julie gave me the fifth grade equivalent of "just fucking do it.
When I think about it now, "will you go with me?" is really sort of an unfinished question. I mean, it’s elegant in its brevity, but does not explain what I’m talking about, or if she was easily confused, where I was talking about. This may explain the answer via note of:
"I tell you tomorrow."
I wanted to tell her that there should be a "will" in there, to at least make a contraction out of it, but I didn’t. I waited on the answer like I still wait on any potentially life changing answer; with quiet anxiety.
But it wasn’t that there was not a resounding "yes" coming back to me through Julie, it wasn’t that she was taking her time making what was a very important decision to an 11 year old that made me anxious. It was the sentence that had been scribbled out above "I tell you tomorrow."
I tried to read through the heavy lines of graphite that had eradicated the words previously written, and the only one I could decipher (before I quit trying) was "no".
The feeling of knowing that the first response to me from the girl who made my tummy do back flips was a "no" is one that I held onto for some time. She came back to me the following day with a yes and I was nice to her and we hung out and held hands while skating, but somewhere in the back of the mind, rummaging like a ferret, was that scribbled out decline.
I don’t feel that it changed the relationship, or scarred me for life, but I do feel that it’s a pretty good example of what my psyche feeds on. Even today, when I get the good news that I got the part from the audition, I imagine a separate cast list with another actor’s name scribbled out before mine was added.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Well, naturally it’s "Communication Breakdown" - "I don’t know what it is that I like about you, but I like it a lot." Words of wisdom my friends, words of wisdom.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Tell Me Where You See Yourself In Five Minutes
I have to be quick on this one here today. I’m going to be interviewing hopeful young lads and lasses who will soon learn that desperate and gut crunching feeling of having your soul crushed. I’ll be doing this all day so I will not have time to post later.
Some people may go into an interview situation such as this, sitting on the interrogation side of the table, feeling the power of holding the possible future of someone in their hands. I have interviewed for people like this, you can tell immediately by the smirking eyes and slight, burnt rubber smell of way too much testosterone in the air. I am not one of these people.
First and foremost, I’m in the room to find someone who I think will be good for the team. Power doesn’t enter into this at all, a lot of it is avoiding having to deal with some whacked out, uncomfortable situation down the road with this person, and quite possibly eight or nine other employees.
But running a real close second, so close that it can taste the sweat flicking off the hair of the above mentioned reason, is the desire to keep a running tally of behaviors that will blow an interview almost as fast as jumping up on the table and taking a largish dump on the copy of your resume.
I’m hoping for at least one bat shit crazy today.
An example of a behavior mentioned above is stumbling into the room as if you had tripped over the invisible possum napping in the doorway, jeans and a T-shirt, hair all amiss, and when being asked what your name is, having to check the badge on your chest that security gave you. Quickly follow up with stories about crazy neighbor kids and how they’re blowing up parts of your property and you’ve got yourself the cream filling of an interview day Twinkie; the sort of shocking sorbet flavor between courses of questions.
Oh and hey, if you could call back a large number of times after you are not given the job? That totally makes you look more rational than your ranting made you out to be.
See, I’m collecting all of these ideas, all of these bad interview tips, so that I may one day go interview for a job I am way unqualified for, and really do not want, so that I can go down in corporate history as that insane MF’er who came in for the VP of Sales job and had to eventually be restrained.
Man, I hope I get a crazy.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: "Candidate" by David Bowie.
Some people may go into an interview situation such as this, sitting on the interrogation side of the table, feeling the power of holding the possible future of someone in their hands. I have interviewed for people like this, you can tell immediately by the smirking eyes and slight, burnt rubber smell of way too much testosterone in the air. I am not one of these people.
First and foremost, I’m in the room to find someone who I think will be good for the team. Power doesn’t enter into this at all, a lot of it is avoiding having to deal with some whacked out, uncomfortable situation down the road with this person, and quite possibly eight or nine other employees.
But running a real close second, so close that it can taste the sweat flicking off the hair of the above mentioned reason, is the desire to keep a running tally of behaviors that will blow an interview almost as fast as jumping up on the table and taking a largish dump on the copy of your resume.
I’m hoping for at least one bat shit crazy today.
An example of a behavior mentioned above is stumbling into the room as if you had tripped over the invisible possum napping in the doorway, jeans and a T-shirt, hair all amiss, and when being asked what your name is, having to check the badge on your chest that security gave you. Quickly follow up with stories about crazy neighbor kids and how they’re blowing up parts of your property and you’ve got yourself the cream filling of an interview day Twinkie; the sort of shocking sorbet flavor between courses of questions.
Oh and hey, if you could call back a large number of times after you are not given the job? That totally makes you look more rational than your ranting made you out to be.
See, I’m collecting all of these ideas, all of these bad interview tips, so that I may one day go interview for a job I am way unqualified for, and really do not want, so that I can go down in corporate history as that insane MF’er who came in for the VP of Sales job and had to eventually be restrained.
Man, I hope I get a crazy.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: "Candidate" by David Bowie.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Seven Sometimes
Sometimes you just have to take what life puts into your clenched fingers and run with it.
Sometimes you have to succumb to the groove, dance your ass off at the bus stop while everyone watches.
Sometimes you wish you could be brave enough to dance under the stares of others.
Sometimes you have to take it to a hill and shout it loud, the way the world fills you with jazz.
Sometimes you have to whisper it with shuddering breaths, afraid that words may break it.
Sometimes it's easy to forget that you will not break.
Sometimes it’s just a moment of silence, a moment where someone is sleeping, where nothing passes, that pounds at your soul like a river entering the ocean.
Sometimes you have to succumb to the groove, dance your ass off at the bus stop while everyone watches.
Sometimes you wish you could be brave enough to dance under the stares of others.
Sometimes you have to take it to a hill and shout it loud, the way the world fills you with jazz.
Sometimes you have to whisper it with shuddering breaths, afraid that words may break it.
Sometimes it's easy to forget that you will not break.
Sometimes it’s just a moment of silence, a moment where someone is sleeping, where nothing passes, that pounds at your soul like a river entering the ocean.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Friday, July 20, 2007
Weekly Morning Meeting
The weekly check in was going well, the management team was getting along and Edward had decided not to air any more stories in regards to his bodily functions or strange growths he had found while showering. The quiet hum to the room was more than likely the nervous energy generated from vague news of internal shake up.
Without looking up from the notebook in front of her, Suzanna read off the litany of new roles created for people making more money than they deserved to be making. When I realized that none of this affected me or my team, the words became a drone. The drone sounded amazingly like the Death Star debriefing scene in Star Wars.
I was barely moved when I thought I heard Suzanna say, “Regional governors now have direct control over their territories. Fear will keep the local systems in line.” I did almost look around to see if anyone else heard what I was hearing, but honestly I couldn’t be bothered.
But when there was an audible gasp in the room, I decided I had probably missed something fairly important. Instead of admitting that I had been daydreaming, I let loose an incredulous “what” in order to push Suzanna into repeating what she had just said.
“Paulette has been kidnapped in Botswana and being held for ransom.”
My incredulousness was real this time, “what the fuck was she doing in Botswana?”
“Looking into outsourcing, that’s not really the issue here Brian. The issue is how are we going to get her back.” Suzanna rifled through some papers before her. “We’ve decided to try to pay the ransom. It’s a paramilitary group, a sort of ‘back to the land’ agrarian movement, with guns. If word gets out about supplying these people with funds, as a bonus, we can make it look good for our approval numbers; media team can spin it appropriately.”
“What do you mean TRY and pay the ransom?” Matt asked.
“Well, our quarterly earnings are a little low, so we will be unable to pull the funds from our overhead.”
“But it’s Paulette,” Christine nearly whimpered. “What are going to do?”
“Bake sale,” Suzanna simply said. There was a moment of shocked silence.
“What?” I asked a bit breathlessly.
“A bake sale,” she repeated. “I want all of you to get the word out to your direct reports. We’re bringing in baked goods, we’re selling them, we’re making money to get Paulette out of Uganda.”
“Botswana,” T.C. said.
“Exactly.”
Christine went from near tears to a flash of demented joy. “I’m going to bring in my surprise, upside down brownie cake!”
“That’s the spirit Christine! Let’s get out there and make a difference!”
Without looking up from the notebook in front of her, Suzanna read off the litany of new roles created for people making more money than they deserved to be making. When I realized that none of this affected me or my team, the words became a drone. The drone sounded amazingly like the Death Star debriefing scene in Star Wars.
I was barely moved when I thought I heard Suzanna say, “Regional governors now have direct control over their territories. Fear will keep the local systems in line.” I did almost look around to see if anyone else heard what I was hearing, but honestly I couldn’t be bothered.
But when there was an audible gasp in the room, I decided I had probably missed something fairly important. Instead of admitting that I had been daydreaming, I let loose an incredulous “what” in order to push Suzanna into repeating what she had just said.
“Paulette has been kidnapped in Botswana and being held for ransom.”
My incredulousness was real this time, “what the fuck was she doing in Botswana?”
“Looking into outsourcing, that’s not really the issue here Brian. The issue is how are we going to get her back.” Suzanna rifled through some papers before her. “We’ve decided to try to pay the ransom. It’s a paramilitary group, a sort of ‘back to the land’ agrarian movement, with guns. If word gets out about supplying these people with funds, as a bonus, we can make it look good for our approval numbers; media team can spin it appropriately.”
“What do you mean TRY and pay the ransom?” Matt asked.
“Well, our quarterly earnings are a little low, so we will be unable to pull the funds from our overhead.”
“But it’s Paulette,” Christine nearly whimpered. “What are going to do?”
“Bake sale,” Suzanna simply said. There was a moment of shocked silence.
“What?” I asked a bit breathlessly.
“A bake sale,” she repeated. “I want all of you to get the word out to your direct reports. We’re bringing in baked goods, we’re selling them, we’re making money to get Paulette out of Uganda.”
“Botswana,” T.C. said.
“Exactly.”
Christine went from near tears to a flash of demented joy. “I’m going to bring in my surprise, upside down brownie cake!”
“That’s the spirit Christine! Let’s get out there and make a difference!”
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Thanks For All Of It
Truly it’s going to sound a little girly, but I had one of those kick in the eye mornings where I realized how effing lucky I am.
I was beat this morning, no lie. I was out late rehearsing a show, had a long and uphill walk home, went for a swim and finally collapsed in my bed a sweaty mess around midnight.
I was tussled from a sound sleep by Bif running out the door to well, go run, and telling me that it appeared Kickers was awake for the morning. And awake for the morning he was. He was in his crib crying it up when I went to go grab him, thinking to myself that “man, I am tired.”
I laid him down in bed with me and started blowing on his hands to warm them up which seemed to occupy his mind long enough to stop crying. I started telling him that I was really very tired, and frankly wasn’t it time that he just calmed his happy ass down and went to sleep. This got him to look up at me with that 2 tooth smile of his.
It was then that I was done for.
I thought about how I was tired because I’d been working the night before with an amazing group of people who are passionate and are taking this show to heart and their roles as actors seriously even though it will turn out to be an hour and a half of dick jokes.
I thought about what a luxury it was to be goofing off with my kid first thing in the morning, how his babbling little proto words are a symphony, how that giggle he has when I rub his nose in an Eskimo kiss is a treasure I never expected – and unfortunately not one I can lock in a safe.
I thought about how kind the universe had treated me in putting in front of me this beautiful, strong and determined woman who makes me feel like I can accomplish any damn thing. I’m not sure whose life I saved in a past life, but they must have been big in Japan, as the kids are saying.
The toast and almond butter breakfast was a feast, the collection of clouds in a cool and sunny morning was worthy of Van Gogh, “I’m Slowly Turning Into You” off the new White Stripes album had my head pumpin’ like an over achieving blow job queen.
Man, when the mornings are good, they’re really good.
I was beat this morning, no lie. I was out late rehearsing a show, had a long and uphill walk home, went for a swim and finally collapsed in my bed a sweaty mess around midnight.
I was tussled from a sound sleep by Bif running out the door to well, go run, and telling me that it appeared Kickers was awake for the morning. And awake for the morning he was. He was in his crib crying it up when I went to go grab him, thinking to myself that “man, I am tired.”
I laid him down in bed with me and started blowing on his hands to warm them up which seemed to occupy his mind long enough to stop crying. I started telling him that I was really very tired, and frankly wasn’t it time that he just calmed his happy ass down and went to sleep. This got him to look up at me with that 2 tooth smile of his.
It was then that I was done for.
I thought about how I was tired because I’d been working the night before with an amazing group of people who are passionate and are taking this show to heart and their roles as actors seriously even though it will turn out to be an hour and a half of dick jokes.
I thought about what a luxury it was to be goofing off with my kid first thing in the morning, how his babbling little proto words are a symphony, how that giggle he has when I rub his nose in an Eskimo kiss is a treasure I never expected – and unfortunately not one I can lock in a safe.
I thought about how kind the universe had treated me in putting in front of me this beautiful, strong and determined woman who makes me feel like I can accomplish any damn thing. I’m not sure whose life I saved in a past life, but they must have been big in Japan, as the kids are saying.
The toast and almond butter breakfast was a feast, the collection of clouds in a cool and sunny morning was worthy of Van Gogh, “I’m Slowly Turning Into You” off the new White Stripes album had my head pumpin’ like an over achieving blow job queen.
Man, when the mornings are good, they’re really good.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
In The Company Of Death
There’s this strange pocket of death that I move through on my way to and from work. It’s next to an old warehouse building and near this generic convenience store/Chinese deli where convenience is apparently a loose term in regards to hours of operation, where the odds of botulism are so high that ungraciously aging ladies mill around in hopes for a free dose through their pores.
On one passing, I noticed the corpse of a mouse well on its way to returning to dust. I remember this fairly clearly as it reminded me of my friends and I at a young age obsessing over decaying animals we would find in our travels through the woods. Plus, I walk along this sidewalk on a daily basis; it was strange I didn’t notice this body when it was fresher.
I completely forgot about this mouse laid low until not long after there were the remains of a bird, not far from the same spot. It had obviously been hit by some scavengers since falling to ground.
Now, my general rule of thumb in life is that 2 occurrences of something can still be ruled a coincidence, three or more there could be something fishy going on. It’s much like the time that I was being hounded by Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin'”. So at this point, in my mind, what we had here was a strange dead animal coincidence.
But then appeared a third bird body; again in the same spot and again picked over. What we have here is the universe conspiring for me to see something, or malicious intent against local wildlife.
More birds showed up over the weeks, culminating in a newly dead pigeon on the sidewalk last night. A story was developing in the back of my mind, one that involved a store of poison being kept in the warehouse falling quickly towards dilapidation; poison that tasted good to birds – finch candy, pigeon scotch. These poor creatures couldn’t resist the tasty treats they were finding and were only making as far as the narrow concrete strip outside. And being these guys weren’t really trying to run away, they became easy marks for scavengers looking for a little street meat.
And as my mind is wont to do, the story began to become a tad darker, a little more desperate. I imagined someone, perhaps someone who works at the salmonella deli, out there methodically killing the urban wildlife under shade of darkness. They then prepare the carcasses, sometimes splaying them open, sometimes just a little rouge around the bills. This person, dressed in a zippered jumpsuit – a navy blue, zippered jumpsuit – then lays his victims out in memory of their young girlfriend who had been attacked and left horribly scarred by a flock of feeding birds and mice.
Did I mention that the birdseed used to feed these animals was put out by the owner of the warehouse? Actually I know that I didn’t tell you, I can scroll right up and see what I’ve written.
Today, I was forced to walk on the opposite side of the road, a victim of the whims of traffic signals. And on the opposite side of the road today I find another dead soldier. Laying in a scruffy patch of weeds, a game of patience ensuing as it biodegrades into the dirt, was an empty bottle of Wild Irish Rose.
Oh, the humanity.
On one passing, I noticed the corpse of a mouse well on its way to returning to dust. I remember this fairly clearly as it reminded me of my friends and I at a young age obsessing over decaying animals we would find in our travels through the woods. Plus, I walk along this sidewalk on a daily basis; it was strange I didn’t notice this body when it was fresher.
I completely forgot about this mouse laid low until not long after there were the remains of a bird, not far from the same spot. It had obviously been hit by some scavengers since falling to ground.
Now, my general rule of thumb in life is that 2 occurrences of something can still be ruled a coincidence, three or more there could be something fishy going on. It’s much like the time that I was being hounded by Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin'”. So at this point, in my mind, what we had here was a strange dead animal coincidence.
But then appeared a third bird body; again in the same spot and again picked over. What we have here is the universe conspiring for me to see something, or malicious intent against local wildlife.
More birds showed up over the weeks, culminating in a newly dead pigeon on the sidewalk last night. A story was developing in the back of my mind, one that involved a store of poison being kept in the warehouse falling quickly towards dilapidation; poison that tasted good to birds – finch candy, pigeon scotch. These poor creatures couldn’t resist the tasty treats they were finding and were only making as far as the narrow concrete strip outside. And being these guys weren’t really trying to run away, they became easy marks for scavengers looking for a little street meat.
And as my mind is wont to do, the story began to become a tad darker, a little more desperate. I imagined someone, perhaps someone who works at the salmonella deli, out there methodically killing the urban wildlife under shade of darkness. They then prepare the carcasses, sometimes splaying them open, sometimes just a little rouge around the bills. This person, dressed in a zippered jumpsuit – a navy blue, zippered jumpsuit – then lays his victims out in memory of their young girlfriend who had been attacked and left horribly scarred by a flock of feeding birds and mice.
Did I mention that the birdseed used to feed these animals was put out by the owner of the warehouse? Actually I know that I didn’t tell you, I can scroll right up and see what I’ve written.
Today, I was forced to walk on the opposite side of the road, a victim of the whims of traffic signals. And on the opposite side of the road today I find another dead soldier. Laying in a scruffy patch of weeds, a game of patience ensuing as it biodegrades into the dirt, was an empty bottle of Wild Irish Rose.
Oh, the humanity.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Only In Threes
On the walk in this morning, they came in reverse order. Like some cleverly self-conscious film, I’m rearranging them.
#1. Has the look of someone who has been on the street for awhile, but not quite a lifer. Looks like he may have been released from an institution, looks like he may believe there are insects in his skin. He stands on a corner, close to the bricks of the building. He pushes off as if to get across the street, but before he makes it 6 feet he spins and goes back to the building. As if there’s something far too comforting about the solidity of the building, as if the idea of flying into the wilds of the crosswalk forced the panic to come off of him in waves you can feel. In the time it took me to cross the street, he had made the same circle three times.
#2. He stands on a corner half a mile before. If you noticed nothing else about him but his clothes, you might think he was a golfer from the late 80’s. His feet are firmly planted, but his hands gesticulate wildly. I can’t hear what he’s saying, the ever present iPod makes it look like the guy’s heavy into the Talking Heads. I’m totaling putting it on him, but the man’s got the moves of a Baptist preacher on a tear. He moves as if the fire of God pushes through him like napalm, the veins on his neck pulse and jaws rabidly move with imagined righteous indignation.
#3. The car goes by me just on the outskirts of Pioneer Square. In memory, it seems to be moving in slow motion. A light brown stations wagon, the black man driving it with his arm crooked out the driver’s side window. Letters that you imagine seeing on the side of a mailbox, glittery and eye-catching letters that would look at home on the side of a cooler holding night crawlers and other fish bait. The driver had apparently felt so strongly about certain passages of the bible that he glued them in all their sparkly glory on the side of his car. He cruises the streets hoping to dazzle into submission those on the fence about religion, performing drive by savings.
I like to sit here and imagine the driver following my general path and picking up the other two not long after I passed them. I like to imagine them having a day of it, driving around the town, eating ham sandwiches, drinking wine coolers and chattin’ about God.
#1. Has the look of someone who has been on the street for awhile, but not quite a lifer. Looks like he may have been released from an institution, looks like he may believe there are insects in his skin. He stands on a corner, close to the bricks of the building. He pushes off as if to get across the street, but before he makes it 6 feet he spins and goes back to the building. As if there’s something far too comforting about the solidity of the building, as if the idea of flying into the wilds of the crosswalk forced the panic to come off of him in waves you can feel. In the time it took me to cross the street, he had made the same circle three times.
#2. He stands on a corner half a mile before. If you noticed nothing else about him but his clothes, you might think he was a golfer from the late 80’s. His feet are firmly planted, but his hands gesticulate wildly. I can’t hear what he’s saying, the ever present iPod makes it look like the guy’s heavy into the Talking Heads. I’m totaling putting it on him, but the man’s got the moves of a Baptist preacher on a tear. He moves as if the fire of God pushes through him like napalm, the veins on his neck pulse and jaws rabidly move with imagined righteous indignation.
#3. The car goes by me just on the outskirts of Pioneer Square. In memory, it seems to be moving in slow motion. A light brown stations wagon, the black man driving it with his arm crooked out the driver’s side window. Letters that you imagine seeing on the side of a mailbox, glittery and eye-catching letters that would look at home on the side of a cooler holding night crawlers and other fish bait. The driver had apparently felt so strongly about certain passages of the bible that he glued them in all their sparkly glory on the side of his car. He cruises the streets hoping to dazzle into submission those on the fence about religion, performing drive by savings.
I like to sit here and imagine the driver following my general path and picking up the other two not long after I passed them. I like to imagine them having a day of it, driving around the town, eating ham sandwiches, drinking wine coolers and chattin’ about God.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Collect Call
Up here, out here, during the spring and summer, they hang these flower baskets from the light poles, sometimes from the awnings and odd gables of buildings. I was looking down at the puddle beneath one this afternoon, it had obviously just been watered fairly recently.
It hit me like a playful slap in the face, the smell of wet concrete. There is something about municipal water spilled onto white gray concrete, it’s got a smell all its own that’s vaguely reminiscent of detergents, perhaps a far away quarry. This time the smell took me back to Southern California with dizzying quickness with smell memories of sprinklers missing their manicured targets and spraying the sidewalks, of washing cars in sun baked driveways, of juvenile attempts at keeping cool.
And then as if the universe were driving a point home, someone passed me on their way to the game throwing off the smell of the fabric softener that your mother used to use. You were there for a second while a bitter break up song played in my ears.
I’m almost tired of being haunted by you. I remember you telling me that I hated it when someone beat me to the punch, and I hated that you were right. I feel all of my passive aggressive tendencies dancing off of me and I want to kill them with my fingers for giving me away.
I realize that even now, by not naming you, by making you somehow mystical by shaking my tail feather around any point, I’m simply falling back on those damnable habits. Are you even real? Are you another tossed off fictional Friday piece?
I crossed the street through that strange lag in time that must occur when a recovering alcoholic walks past the open door of a bar. Each note of music seemed steeped in importance, dripping meanings that were waiting to be gathered. And I’d like to say that I shrugged it off, that I turned my back on my memory and laughed at the all of the wonders here for me today. And I did to a degree, but…
I couldn’t help but wonder what you would have thought about the warm wind blowing in from the water, the faint wisps of clouds in all that blue, the song playing right then.
It hit me like a playful slap in the face, the smell of wet concrete. There is something about municipal water spilled onto white gray concrete, it’s got a smell all its own that’s vaguely reminiscent of detergents, perhaps a far away quarry. This time the smell took me back to Southern California with dizzying quickness with smell memories of sprinklers missing their manicured targets and spraying the sidewalks, of washing cars in sun baked driveways, of juvenile attempts at keeping cool.
And then as if the universe were driving a point home, someone passed me on their way to the game throwing off the smell of the fabric softener that your mother used to use. You were there for a second while a bitter break up song played in my ears.
I’m almost tired of being haunted by you. I remember you telling me that I hated it when someone beat me to the punch, and I hated that you were right. I feel all of my passive aggressive tendencies dancing off of me and I want to kill them with my fingers for giving me away.
I realize that even now, by not naming you, by making you somehow mystical by shaking my tail feather around any point, I’m simply falling back on those damnable habits. Are you even real? Are you another tossed off fictional Friday piece?
I crossed the street through that strange lag in time that must occur when a recovering alcoholic walks past the open door of a bar. Each note of music seemed steeped in importance, dripping meanings that were waiting to be gathered. And I’d like to say that I shrugged it off, that I turned my back on my memory and laughed at the all of the wonders here for me today. And I did to a degree, but…
I couldn’t help but wonder what you would have thought about the warm wind blowing in from the water, the faint wisps of clouds in all that blue, the song playing right then.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Crazy From The Heat
Let me briefly mention summers in San Francisco before I veer off all ADD like into something else. Mark Twain famously said that the coldest winter he ever spent was a summer in San Francisco. I’m here to tell you that Mark Twain is a hack; a hack and a pussy.
Here’s the deal, a majority of a San Francisco summer entails the western half of the city being covered in fog. It’s cold and it’s damp for sure, but is nothing compared to the bitter and painful cold that I’ve barely experienced with an upper East Coast winter. But beyond those cold, wet summer days, there are always approximately 2 days in San Francisco where it gets plain, sucky hot.
So what, you ask. Well, Mr. So What, something weird and metaphysical happens on these hot days. As San Francisco is not a city that is meant to be hot, when the temperature does rise, it becomes unbearable. Honestly, it can be just as hot on the other side of the bay in Oakland and you feel fine and dandy, you feel like watchin’ some roller derby all done up on a variety of mini airplane bottles of booze. But cross that bridge back to the city and you hate summer, you hate every MFer in the city, and frankly you’re not crazy about yourself.
I can’t explain it, it’s magic, let it be. But the same sort of thing happens here in Seattle. It was mid to upper 90’s here yesterday, not a big deal when you consider that I have been able to put up with 112 degree weather with a minimum of fuss. But after the walk home, and sitting in the apartment which apparently was built with the same specifications of a pizza oven, I was toast. I certainly didn’t want to move, the power of speech became knocked back to grunts and pathetic whimpers, if I hung my head between my legs I would gather a puddle on the hardwood floor from the rivulets of sweat coursing through my hair.
But, it’s moments like these where I feel most proud of taking reign of my fried faculties and focusing them. I came up with a haphazard list of things that I believe. Are you ready?
Things That I Believe (as of 7/12/07):
1) You can’t always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, you just might find, you just might find, you get what you need.
2) If there is a God, They’re certainly not gonna be happy with you Mr. Bush. Good luck with that.
3) Beer is awesome. Ice cream, also awesome. The two of them together? Not so much.
4) Laughter is about the best sound in the world. Baby laughter? Pretty much the definition of heaven.
5) Iggy Pop really does have a lust for life.
Feeling all loverly today y’all. Shootin’ kisses out to you.
Here’s the deal, a majority of a San Francisco summer entails the western half of the city being covered in fog. It’s cold and it’s damp for sure, but is nothing compared to the bitter and painful cold that I’ve barely experienced with an upper East Coast winter. But beyond those cold, wet summer days, there are always approximately 2 days in San Francisco where it gets plain, sucky hot.
So what, you ask. Well, Mr. So What, something weird and metaphysical happens on these hot days. As San Francisco is not a city that is meant to be hot, when the temperature does rise, it becomes unbearable. Honestly, it can be just as hot on the other side of the bay in Oakland and you feel fine and dandy, you feel like watchin’ some roller derby all done up on a variety of mini airplane bottles of booze. But cross that bridge back to the city and you hate summer, you hate every MFer in the city, and frankly you’re not crazy about yourself.
I can’t explain it, it’s magic, let it be. But the same sort of thing happens here in Seattle. It was mid to upper 90’s here yesterday, not a big deal when you consider that I have been able to put up with 112 degree weather with a minimum of fuss. But after the walk home, and sitting in the apartment which apparently was built with the same specifications of a pizza oven, I was toast. I certainly didn’t want to move, the power of speech became knocked back to grunts and pathetic whimpers, if I hung my head between my legs I would gather a puddle on the hardwood floor from the rivulets of sweat coursing through my hair.
But, it’s moments like these where I feel most proud of taking reign of my fried faculties and focusing them. I came up with a haphazard list of things that I believe. Are you ready?
Things That I Believe (as of 7/12/07):
1) You can’t always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, you just might find, you just might find, you get what you need.
2) If there is a God, They’re certainly not gonna be happy with you Mr. Bush. Good luck with that.
3) Beer is awesome. Ice cream, also awesome. The two of them together? Not so much.
4) Laughter is about the best sound in the world. Baby laughter? Pretty much the definition of heaven.
5) Iggy Pop really does have a lust for life.
Feeling all loverly today y’all. Shootin’ kisses out to you.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Is This A, Uh... What Day Is This?
Man, I am losing all track of time and date today. Purpose seems to be staying strong with confusing the living bejeezus out of people, that and quick impressions of what I would be like as a deranged street person. But for some reason I can’t keep an accurate tally in my head of what day we’re on, and this day has gone by in a blur of angry customers and philly cheese steak dreams.
Almost as if the idea were a communicable disease of sorts, things started to get a little loose with a complaint about hallucinogenic water. Yeah, allegations that someone’s ice water was dosed. And, by the by, not the first time I have dealt with this sort of fraudulent complaint.
It made me think that there was a time in my life that I would not have considered complaining about having a hallucinogen put in my beverage; I would have thanked the universe and found the nearest playground for an 8 hour swing-a-thon.
On top of consistently forgetting where in the week we are exactly, I feel like there was a lot of stuff I was to get done today that did not, in fact, get done. I can say that I laughed for an inappropriately long time at a web banner that read:
“Isn’t it time you did something about your severe underarm sweating?”
That’s pretty effing direct. Plus I’m oddly entertained that they make the point of pointing out something should be done about your SEVERE underarm sweating. Your piddling underarm sweating is of no concern. Is this a new medical condition? Is severe underarm sweating the new restless leg syndrome? Will it get shortened down to SUA for easier digestion?
There will undoubtedly be some severe underarm sweating when I walk home in the 90 degree plus heat today, and frankly I’m not sure it’s time I did something about it. The severe neck sweating that shall occur by the time I reach the summit of Pine Street is another story though.
I don’t want to complain about the weather, ‘cause man that’s annoying and boring, but I do wish there was a cold pool and a bottle of ouzo waiting at the end of that hike.
There’s not.
I’m hoping for a fresher start tomorrow, less time slippage and more hustle.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: “Stray Dog And The Chocolate Shake” by Grandaddy. Okay, mostly the high pitched, “supervisor” at the beginning. And okay, mostly the thought of Harpoon, in a high pitched voice saying, “supervisor”.
Almost as if the idea were a communicable disease of sorts, things started to get a little loose with a complaint about hallucinogenic water. Yeah, allegations that someone’s ice water was dosed. And, by the by, not the first time I have dealt with this sort of fraudulent complaint.
It made me think that there was a time in my life that I would not have considered complaining about having a hallucinogen put in my beverage; I would have thanked the universe and found the nearest playground for an 8 hour swing-a-thon.
On top of consistently forgetting where in the week we are exactly, I feel like there was a lot of stuff I was to get done today that did not, in fact, get done. I can say that I laughed for an inappropriately long time at a web banner that read:
“Isn’t it time you did something about your severe underarm sweating?”
That’s pretty effing direct. Plus I’m oddly entertained that they make the point of pointing out something should be done about your SEVERE underarm sweating. Your piddling underarm sweating is of no concern. Is this a new medical condition? Is severe underarm sweating the new restless leg syndrome? Will it get shortened down to SUA for easier digestion?
There will undoubtedly be some severe underarm sweating when I walk home in the 90 degree plus heat today, and frankly I’m not sure it’s time I did something about it. The severe neck sweating that shall occur by the time I reach the summit of Pine Street is another story though.
I don’t want to complain about the weather, ‘cause man that’s annoying and boring, but I do wish there was a cold pool and a bottle of ouzo waiting at the end of that hike.
There’s not.
I’m hoping for a fresher start tomorrow, less time slippage and more hustle.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: “Stray Dog And The Chocolate Shake” by Grandaddy. Okay, mostly the high pitched, “supervisor” at the beginning. And okay, mostly the thought of Harpoon, in a high pitched voice saying, “supervisor”.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Makes Scents
So I was throwing a whiz after a morning glut of coffee and water when I caught a whiff of evergreen trees. Bathroom cleaner thought I, before it slowly occurred to me that the cleaner they use in the bathroom here is not scented as such. I’m pretty sure I was pissing pine.
I don’t know what combination of what caused this to happen. Asparagus pee I’ve had, ditto penicillin, but this one was new. I began a quick catalogue of dinner items, fluids that I had ingested, possible clouds of industrial waste I had walked through.
I chalked it up to some weird combination of Colombian coffee, hummus and stress and let it be. And then I thought about Gorgeous’ encounter with turning garlic a brilliant blue. This, naturally, led to my thinking about the ability to purposefully change the scent of your urine.
Hear me out.
Say there’s a combination of ingredients that you could ingest, let’s say they’re natural ingredients, heck let’s even say it’s in a pill form, that if you take it makes your pee pee smell like something else. Pop a pill and your bathroom is filled with a subtle hint of gardenia, you walk into a truck stop restroom to the arresting smell of Fettuccini Alfredo, you awake from a drunken stupor to find your jeans bathed in the scent of an ocean breeze.
I see these pills being sold in tins like mints, of a commercial with two plowed sports fans standing in an alley near a dome, one with his arm up on the neighboring wall, the other with his hands at his waste. Sports fan #1 looks over at the other and says simply, “Fresh cut grass?” Sports fan #2 reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tin of pee pills, and flashing an inebriated smile tosses them over to his buddy.
I dream of walking past alleys and being hit with the smell of kettle corn brought on by the same good people who save us from Restless Leg Syndrome.
Wow, this is the sort of thing that happens to my mind when I get a little too much sugar. Should’ve passed on the scone…
I don’t know what combination of what caused this to happen. Asparagus pee I’ve had, ditto penicillin, but this one was new. I began a quick catalogue of dinner items, fluids that I had ingested, possible clouds of industrial waste I had walked through.
I chalked it up to some weird combination of Colombian coffee, hummus and stress and let it be. And then I thought about Gorgeous’ encounter with turning garlic a brilliant blue. This, naturally, led to my thinking about the ability to purposefully change the scent of your urine.
Hear me out.
Say there’s a combination of ingredients that you could ingest, let’s say they’re natural ingredients, heck let’s even say it’s in a pill form, that if you take it makes your pee pee smell like something else. Pop a pill and your bathroom is filled with a subtle hint of gardenia, you walk into a truck stop restroom to the arresting smell of Fettuccini Alfredo, you awake from a drunken stupor to find your jeans bathed in the scent of an ocean breeze.
I see these pills being sold in tins like mints, of a commercial with two plowed sports fans standing in an alley near a dome, one with his arm up on the neighboring wall, the other with his hands at his waste. Sports fan #1 looks over at the other and says simply, “Fresh cut grass?” Sports fan #2 reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tin of pee pills, and flashing an inebriated smile tosses them over to his buddy.
I dream of walking past alleys and being hit with the smell of kettle corn brought on by the same good people who save us from Restless Leg Syndrome.
Wow, this is the sort of thing that happens to my mind when I get a little too much sugar. Should’ve passed on the scone…
Monday, July 09, 2007
The Secret Lives Of Flowers
I was about five minutes into my walk this morning, when I smelled them. It seemed strange that they would be here outside of Southern California, a smell that I thought I had left behind with the omnipresent eucalyptus. But oh yes, there they are by the church there, the shrub with little white flowers that smell of queasiness. I don’t know the real name of the plant or flowers, but I used to call them the Nervous Flowers.
You see, outside of the house of my high school girlfriend there grew a bush of Nervous Flowers. The evening that they got that name was when I arrived to take her to prom. I rang the doorbell and waited for her mother, or her Marine Corps father, to let me inside the house I had never been in. My heart was pumping adrenaline out of my pores so hard, practically all I could hear was the pumping, the rest of the world taking on a muffled sound as if after a concert. I felt as though there were a real threat of vomiting right there. I could barely breathe, and what little breath came in was coated with the sharp smell of those little, white flowers.
The connection was so strong, that for years following that night, anytime I stood at the threshold of the door I would smell those flowers and immediately begin to feel a little loose in the stomach. Over this time the flowers began to smell like other things to me. They smelled of defeat, of resignation, of youthful idealism, but mostly they just smelled of nervousness.
It reminded me of something that Bif had said when we were almost to Mandy and Jason’s the other day. She pointed out the smell of some phantom flower on the air and asked if I knew what sort of tree or bush it came from. I said I didn’t, and she stated that it, “smells like sex.”
She’s absolutely right, and it is something I’ve noticed before but perhaps out of some sort of puritan bashfulness, I never put it in those words. There is this slight semen smell to them, this sort of flat and mushroomy smell, but more than that there lingers this sex funk that tangs up the air. It’s not a necessarily great smell, but that could just be that you yourself are not manufacturing it, that you don’t expect to encounter it outside of wherever it is you tend to get freaky. I imagine people of delicate constitutions being made very uncomfortable when this flower blooms.
Yesterday, we went for a short hike through the arboretum in Washington Park. It was a fantastic, bright and warm day, and it felt great to be roaming along trails in the midst of all of this greenery, itself in the midst of a city. I had Riley strapped to me and he seemed to be enjoying himself where all you could see were the woods. I was pointing out to him the dandelions and the daisies and the buttercups knowing full well that he didn’t know what the hell I was talking about, but hoping that down the road he would have the reinforcement of a great day filled with laughter when he was out among the trees.
You see, outside of the house of my high school girlfriend there grew a bush of Nervous Flowers. The evening that they got that name was when I arrived to take her to prom. I rang the doorbell and waited for her mother, or her Marine Corps father, to let me inside the house I had never been in. My heart was pumping adrenaline out of my pores so hard, practically all I could hear was the pumping, the rest of the world taking on a muffled sound as if after a concert. I felt as though there were a real threat of vomiting right there. I could barely breathe, and what little breath came in was coated with the sharp smell of those little, white flowers.
The connection was so strong, that for years following that night, anytime I stood at the threshold of the door I would smell those flowers and immediately begin to feel a little loose in the stomach. Over this time the flowers began to smell like other things to me. They smelled of defeat, of resignation, of youthful idealism, but mostly they just smelled of nervousness.
It reminded me of something that Bif had said when we were almost to Mandy and Jason’s the other day. She pointed out the smell of some phantom flower on the air and asked if I knew what sort of tree or bush it came from. I said I didn’t, and she stated that it, “smells like sex.”
She’s absolutely right, and it is something I’ve noticed before but perhaps out of some sort of puritan bashfulness, I never put it in those words. There is this slight semen smell to them, this sort of flat and mushroomy smell, but more than that there lingers this sex funk that tangs up the air. It’s not a necessarily great smell, but that could just be that you yourself are not manufacturing it, that you don’t expect to encounter it outside of wherever it is you tend to get freaky. I imagine people of delicate constitutions being made very uncomfortable when this flower blooms.
Yesterday, we went for a short hike through the arboretum in Washington Park. It was a fantastic, bright and warm day, and it felt great to be roaming along trails in the midst of all of this greenery, itself in the midst of a city. I had Riley strapped to me and he seemed to be enjoying himself where all you could see were the woods. I was pointing out to him the dandelions and the daisies and the buttercups knowing full well that he didn’t know what the hell I was talking about, but hoping that down the road he would have the reinforcement of a great day filled with laughter when he was out among the trees.
Friday, July 06, 2007
We Should Be Together Babe, But We're Not
I can’t remember how that idea got rolling, but I would guess that it was simply the lineup that beckoned.
This Ain’t No Picnic was an indie kid festival show being held out in an undeveloped part of Orange County. I started hearing about some bands that would be interesting to see, but probably not worth the drive in from San Francisco. But then there was Grandaddy, and on top of Grandaddy there was Modest Mouse. Good enough, certainly.
You throw in the magic words Built To Spill, and I’m drooling on myself. Even a little now, all these years later… But wait, take that mighty cake of a lineup and add a healthy dollop of Yo La Tengo ice cream, and I’m messing up my pants and bloody loving it. It’s like porn, indie band porn.
So yeah, it had to happen. C&G came down and we planned a weekend on Bif’s parent’s boat in Long Beach. The four of us drove into the dry grasslands of south Orange County, listening to Modest Mouse’s brand spanking new The Moon And Antarctica, and twitching with excitement.
We were sort of moseying around and checking out the first smaller bands of the lineup when I saw the unassuming form of Built To Spill’s Doug Martsch walking around. He walked past, smiling, and I sort of nodded. Not long after, he walked past again carrying boxes. I said to myself that if I saw him again I would say something to him, but when he came by again a third time I chickened out.
I don’t get star struck easily, but this guy had moved me in ways that seldom happen at shows, and thus seemed empowered with a magic that I didn’t feel strong enough to mingle with. A bit later, we saw him sitting alone under a tent, selling his own T-Shirts. The four of us sort of stood agog for a minute before he smiled and waved us in. We bought shirts and took a quick minute to thank him for his music.
The promoters had done a brilliant thing in having two stages set up so that while one band was playing, the next could set up and start immediately. Grandaddy took the stage and waited for a couple minutes as the prior band ate into their time slot. After awhile, front man Jason Lytle began motioning to the soundboard to cut the band off. When that didn’t happen, Grandaddy just started playing over them. They could have been a little cranky, having learned some years later that they had woken up that morning covered with ants after sleeping in a nearby ditch.
I had seen Modest Mouse before, and while I loved their albums I was not a fan of them live. I was basing that on one show, but here they had me from note one; they seemed energized and happy to be there. Bif holds onto this memory of lead singer Isaac Brock singing in front of a cottonwood that positively sparkled in the hot wind as one of her favorites. But for me, there is the memory of watching Doug Martsch leaning against an amp he had just set up on his stage and watching Modest Mouse play their hearts out. It’s that image of musician as everyday music fan that makes me smile somethin’ fierce.
Built To Spill began just as the last notes of Modest Mouse faded into the cottonwoods and charged through a great set that included a knock out version of Macy Gray’s “I Try.” Tears, laughter and plenty of released gusts of breath that felt like you had been reverently holding it. And just when you thought you had been left alone, along comes Yo La Tengo to sucker punch you into the stratosphere.
I was not ready for the sly silliness, the dance moves, I was not ready for the rocking that Yo La Tengo brought. I knew that as part of a festival show that their set would be short, but I could have stood in that sun and watched them play for hours.
The four of us circled up as the band left the stage. Beck was coming up soon to finish off the day, but the four of us were of the same mind that this was simply not going to get any damn better. It was unanimous that we return to the boat, indulge in cold cocktails and take some high flying jumps off the deck and into the water. And of course there would be some more giddy yelps remembering the portions of the amazing day we had had. On our way out, we passed a flood of people only now coming to see Beck and shook our heads at trying to figure out how you explain what had been missed in the power triumvirate that just finished up, the quirky deliciousness of Grandaddy earlier.
One of the top five best shows I’ve been to, hands down.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: “A Perfect Day Elise” by PJ Harvey.
This Ain’t No Picnic was an indie kid festival show being held out in an undeveloped part of Orange County. I started hearing about some bands that would be interesting to see, but probably not worth the drive in from San Francisco. But then there was Grandaddy, and on top of Grandaddy there was Modest Mouse. Good enough, certainly.
You throw in the magic words Built To Spill, and I’m drooling on myself. Even a little now, all these years later… But wait, take that mighty cake of a lineup and add a healthy dollop of Yo La Tengo ice cream, and I’m messing up my pants and bloody loving it. It’s like porn, indie band porn.
So yeah, it had to happen. C&G came down and we planned a weekend on Bif’s parent’s boat in Long Beach. The four of us drove into the dry grasslands of south Orange County, listening to Modest Mouse’s brand spanking new The Moon And Antarctica, and twitching with excitement.
We were sort of moseying around and checking out the first smaller bands of the lineup when I saw the unassuming form of Built To Spill’s Doug Martsch walking around. He walked past, smiling, and I sort of nodded. Not long after, he walked past again carrying boxes. I said to myself that if I saw him again I would say something to him, but when he came by again a third time I chickened out.
I don’t get star struck easily, but this guy had moved me in ways that seldom happen at shows, and thus seemed empowered with a magic that I didn’t feel strong enough to mingle with. A bit later, we saw him sitting alone under a tent, selling his own T-Shirts. The four of us sort of stood agog for a minute before he smiled and waved us in. We bought shirts and took a quick minute to thank him for his music.
The promoters had done a brilliant thing in having two stages set up so that while one band was playing, the next could set up and start immediately. Grandaddy took the stage and waited for a couple minutes as the prior band ate into their time slot. After awhile, front man Jason Lytle began motioning to the soundboard to cut the band off. When that didn’t happen, Grandaddy just started playing over them. They could have been a little cranky, having learned some years later that they had woken up that morning covered with ants after sleeping in a nearby ditch.
I had seen Modest Mouse before, and while I loved their albums I was not a fan of them live. I was basing that on one show, but here they had me from note one; they seemed energized and happy to be there. Bif holds onto this memory of lead singer Isaac Brock singing in front of a cottonwood that positively sparkled in the hot wind as one of her favorites. But for me, there is the memory of watching Doug Martsch leaning against an amp he had just set up on his stage and watching Modest Mouse play their hearts out. It’s that image of musician as everyday music fan that makes me smile somethin’ fierce.
Built To Spill began just as the last notes of Modest Mouse faded into the cottonwoods and charged through a great set that included a knock out version of Macy Gray’s “I Try.” Tears, laughter and plenty of released gusts of breath that felt like you had been reverently holding it. And just when you thought you had been left alone, along comes Yo La Tengo to sucker punch you into the stratosphere.
I was not ready for the sly silliness, the dance moves, I was not ready for the rocking that Yo La Tengo brought. I knew that as part of a festival show that their set would be short, but I could have stood in that sun and watched them play for hours.
The four of us circled up as the band left the stage. Beck was coming up soon to finish off the day, but the four of us were of the same mind that this was simply not going to get any damn better. It was unanimous that we return to the boat, indulge in cold cocktails and take some high flying jumps off the deck and into the water. And of course there would be some more giddy yelps remembering the portions of the amazing day we had had. On our way out, we passed a flood of people only now coming to see Beck and shook our heads at trying to figure out how you explain what had been missed in the power triumvirate that just finished up, the quirky deliciousness of Grandaddy earlier.
One of the top five best shows I’ve been to, hands down.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: “A Perfect Day Elise” by PJ Harvey.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
It's Funny, But I AM That Yankee Doodle Boy
Well, I celebrated America Day, celebrated the hell out of it.
Tuesday night began as an after rehearsal meeting for drinks, not really a celebration of the U.S of A., but more a “we don’t have to work on a Wednesday, let’s drink like it was a Friday.” This was all fine and well until people started producing Jaeger shots for me.
Side note 1: There’s this personality trait that I have where if someone is buying me a drink, I must drink it. And it doesn’t matter what sort of important events are happening the next day; i.e. getting married.
Side note 2: Jaeger, in the past, has made me forget large chunks of an evening where I have broken people’s furniture and repeatedly accosted a friend as if they were a tackling dummy.
So the evening did eventually involve me dropping my pants at the request of a fellow drinker. This would have happened without the Jaeger, but for some reason I decided to announce quite loudly that I was doing so for America which got a robust amount of cheering and applause from the patrons on the patio. I’m assuming they thought it was ironic, but much like anything I write here, I really didn’t have a point.
The actual day of America Day was spent in a sun dappled lawn (I never thought I would get to use the term “sun dappled”. I can now die complete.) drinking beers and playing Cornhole, which deserves a posting all its own (including a page full of documented innuendo around the name Cornhole). But for a brief overview: teams toss corn filled, hand sewn bags at a board with a hole in it. If you get your bag to land on the board it’s worth a point, in the hole it’s worth 3.
I don’t know, apparently it’s something they do in Ohio.
The fireworks arrived after a spectacular sunset, and they exploded so close that you could practically taste them. These fireworks tasted like churros, which is good if you’re a churro fan. As I watched all of these shimmering sparks rain down on Lake Union, I began to think about a July 4th past.
This was back when my first roommate, Captain M.I.A., was moving from his “something fun to do on a Saturday night” drug habit to his “I need something just to get through the day” drug habit. We were meeting up with some friends to watch fireworks on the beach in San Clemente, CA. He showed up at the meeting place with someone I’ll call Lawrence. This is the same someone I’ll call Lawrence who I later found making crack at my kitchen table after coming home from work.
Well the two of them proceeded to get crazy high under a beach blanket which gave Captain M.I.A. the impulse to hold a lighter flame to a rock for going on twenty minutes. “What are you doing?” I would ask. “Trying to heat up this rock,” he would reply. Of course. Some minutes later, awed by the fireworks exploding over his head, he put the superheated rock to his lips, burning them quite badly.
I had at one time thought that watching a fireworks display on acid would a pretty nifty experience. At the time I thought almost anything save a visit to a slaughterhouse or watching Pink Floyd The Wall would be nifty on acid, so I was interested in hearing what the fireworks were like to someone high enough to put a sauna rock on their mouth. “I don’t know,” was the response. “My lip hurts.”
This 4th beat the living crap out of that one, not that it was much of a contest.
Confidential to Mo Money Mandy: I hope the presentation went well.
Tuesday night began as an after rehearsal meeting for drinks, not really a celebration of the U.S of A., but more a “we don’t have to work on a Wednesday, let’s drink like it was a Friday.” This was all fine and well until people started producing Jaeger shots for me.
Side note 1: There’s this personality trait that I have where if someone is buying me a drink, I must drink it. And it doesn’t matter what sort of important events are happening the next day; i.e. getting married.
Side note 2: Jaeger, in the past, has made me forget large chunks of an evening where I have broken people’s furniture and repeatedly accosted a friend as if they were a tackling dummy.
So the evening did eventually involve me dropping my pants at the request of a fellow drinker. This would have happened without the Jaeger, but for some reason I decided to announce quite loudly that I was doing so for America which got a robust amount of cheering and applause from the patrons on the patio. I’m assuming they thought it was ironic, but much like anything I write here, I really didn’t have a point.
The actual day of America Day was spent in a sun dappled lawn (I never thought I would get to use the term “sun dappled”. I can now die complete.) drinking beers and playing Cornhole, which deserves a posting all its own (including a page full of documented innuendo around the name Cornhole). But for a brief overview: teams toss corn filled, hand sewn bags at a board with a hole in it. If you get your bag to land on the board it’s worth a point, in the hole it’s worth 3.
I don’t know, apparently it’s something they do in Ohio.
The fireworks arrived after a spectacular sunset, and they exploded so close that you could practically taste them. These fireworks tasted like churros, which is good if you’re a churro fan. As I watched all of these shimmering sparks rain down on Lake Union, I began to think about a July 4th past.
This was back when my first roommate, Captain M.I.A., was moving from his “something fun to do on a Saturday night” drug habit to his “I need something just to get through the day” drug habit. We were meeting up with some friends to watch fireworks on the beach in San Clemente, CA. He showed up at the meeting place with someone I’ll call Lawrence. This is the same someone I’ll call Lawrence who I later found making crack at my kitchen table after coming home from work.
Well the two of them proceeded to get crazy high under a beach blanket which gave Captain M.I.A. the impulse to hold a lighter flame to a rock for going on twenty minutes. “What are you doing?” I would ask. “Trying to heat up this rock,” he would reply. Of course. Some minutes later, awed by the fireworks exploding over his head, he put the superheated rock to his lips, burning them quite badly.
I had at one time thought that watching a fireworks display on acid would a pretty nifty experience. At the time I thought almost anything save a visit to a slaughterhouse or watching Pink Floyd The Wall would be nifty on acid, so I was interested in hearing what the fireworks were like to someone high enough to put a sauna rock on their mouth. “I don’t know,” was the response. “My lip hurts.”
This 4th beat the living crap out of that one, not that it was much of a contest.
Confidential to Mo Money Mandy: I hope the presentation went well.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Results May Vary
I was going to do something about the inevitability of Scooter being set free, how at least the newscasters had the good sense to not act surprised, and how for quite some time Bush will be the punchline for any joke needing someone ignorant, corrupt or grossly incompetent. But then I realized that I’m feeling good, I’m feeling fine, and I would like to stay a little bit positive before the meeting I have scheduled this afternoon saps every bit of good will I have.
Plus, I’m feeling the call of tapping into my lust for lists. And so, for this fine and sunny day, I present you My Favorite Things as of July 3rd:
1) The briny smell of the Puget Sound as I walked past Pike Place market this morning and through the shady room temperature air.
2) Cold beer.
3) The idea of sitting on Mandy and Jason’s porch tomorrow, drinking said cold beer.
4) Doing something that made the entire cast laugh during rehearsal last night.
5) Having a son who, barring the usual dirty diapers/out of sweet potatoes fuss fest, smiles a lot. I’d like to think I have something to do with it, but in actuality I think I’m just lucky.
6) “2+2 = 5” by Radiohead. Gets me pumped up big time.
7) The memories of a festival show called This Ain’t No Picnic that have been floating around my head for the last few days.
8) I want to give someone the knick name “Captain Dynamite”
9) The embryonic plans for a south bound road trip in the coming months.
10) Lots of deep blue water under a sky that stays lit for twilight past 10.
Plus, I’m feeling the call of tapping into my lust for lists. And so, for this fine and sunny day, I present you My Favorite Things as of July 3rd:
1) The briny smell of the Puget Sound as I walked past Pike Place market this morning and through the shady room temperature air.
2) Cold beer.
3) The idea of sitting on Mandy and Jason’s porch tomorrow, drinking said cold beer.
4) Doing something that made the entire cast laugh during rehearsal last night.
5) Having a son who, barring the usual dirty diapers/out of sweet potatoes fuss fest, smiles a lot. I’d like to think I have something to do with it, but in actuality I think I’m just lucky.
6) “2+2 = 5” by Radiohead. Gets me pumped up big time.
7) The memories of a festival show called This Ain’t No Picnic that have been floating around my head for the last few days.
8) I want to give someone the knick name “Captain Dynamite”
9) The embryonic plans for a south bound road trip in the coming months.
10) Lots of deep blue water under a sky that stays lit for twilight past 10.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Annie Oakley In Tomorrowland
Hey, welcome to July everyone!
We’re getting into the sunny and warm part of Seattle’s summer, but just as a final sort of “F you” to the old man, we got a nice dose of humid rain on Friday. I was telling a coworker that the all that sort of tropical and close air, the low, dark ceiling of clouds and fat drops of rain that seem to have been heated before making their money shot on your face reminded me of my first misspent weekend in New Orleans. He stated that it reminded him of his misspent youth in Southern California.
I cursed him for taking my fond memories of dampened French Quarter sidewalks, fried okra and blackened catfish nuggets, and the sort of drunk that seems to have been gifted to you from Dionysus himself, and sullying them with images of strip malls and smog, bored housewives with more plastic injected into them than soul…
And then of course the conversation turned towards Disneyland, as all conversations eventually will. Disneyland or Ethel Merman…
I stated that one of the downfalls to having a child was the inevitable visit back to Disneyland. Having lived in Orange County, I have been to Disneyland a few too many times. Some family member is there to visit and what do they wanna do? Yup, Anaheim’s version of Xanadu – and not the roller skating movie complete with ELO soundtrack. This coworker had not overdone it on Disneyland on his sentence in SoCal, so didn’t quite understand my discomfort. We did discuss the old Universal Studios tour, which I can get behind completely.
The Universal Studios tour, back in the days of yore, contained no sort of roller coastery rides, but was a delightful tram trip through corny attractions that sort of related to Universal films. There was a flash flood that threatened the mysteriously stalled tram, also a runaway train which threatened the mysteriously stalled tram. There was a house on fire, there was the Psycho house and there was an ice tunnel that rotated so that it looked like you were in a rotating ice tunnel. There was also this B rate television show version of the parting of the Red Sea that I’m almost positive was never used in a film, however I think I did see it in an episode of “The A-Team”.
And, my friends and neighbors, there was the Jaws pond. This was the thing for which I had a hard on at Universal Studios – well that and the oversized telephone from The Incredible Shrinking Woman. The tram would pull up to a body of water where a fisherman sat serenely with his line cast. Up comes a ginormous shark fin, and soon the fisherman is yanked from the boat and replaced with an expanding pool of blood. Then, oh hell yeah, then a really fake looking shark jumps out of the water and towards the tram:
Pretty much the definition of awesome.
Come Sunday, on a shopping trip to Costco, Riley was apparently having the time of his life. He would not stop giggling and it definitely took the sting out of gas huffers waiting on line for artery hardening snacks prepared by surly retirees. I realized that if I was going to get that sort of soul stirring sound by a trip to the Happiest Place on Earth, I’d put up with a few days in Disneyland.
I'd put up with it but good.
We’re getting into the sunny and warm part of Seattle’s summer, but just as a final sort of “F you” to the old man, we got a nice dose of humid rain on Friday. I was telling a coworker that the all that sort of tropical and close air, the low, dark ceiling of clouds and fat drops of rain that seem to have been heated before making their money shot on your face reminded me of my first misspent weekend in New Orleans. He stated that it reminded him of his misspent youth in Southern California.
I cursed him for taking my fond memories of dampened French Quarter sidewalks, fried okra and blackened catfish nuggets, and the sort of drunk that seems to have been gifted to you from Dionysus himself, and sullying them with images of strip malls and smog, bored housewives with more plastic injected into them than soul…
And then of course the conversation turned towards Disneyland, as all conversations eventually will. Disneyland or Ethel Merman…
I stated that one of the downfalls to having a child was the inevitable visit back to Disneyland. Having lived in Orange County, I have been to Disneyland a few too many times. Some family member is there to visit and what do they wanna do? Yup, Anaheim’s version of Xanadu – and not the roller skating movie complete with ELO soundtrack. This coworker had not overdone it on Disneyland on his sentence in SoCal, so didn’t quite understand my discomfort. We did discuss the old Universal Studios tour, which I can get behind completely.
The Universal Studios tour, back in the days of yore, contained no sort of roller coastery rides, but was a delightful tram trip through corny attractions that sort of related to Universal films. There was a flash flood that threatened the mysteriously stalled tram, also a runaway train which threatened the mysteriously stalled tram. There was a house on fire, there was the Psycho house and there was an ice tunnel that rotated so that it looked like you were in a rotating ice tunnel. There was also this B rate television show version of the parting of the Red Sea that I’m almost positive was never used in a film, however I think I did see it in an episode of “The A-Team”.
And, my friends and neighbors, there was the Jaws pond. This was the thing for which I had a hard on at Universal Studios – well that and the oversized telephone from The Incredible Shrinking Woman. The tram would pull up to a body of water where a fisherman sat serenely with his line cast. Up comes a ginormous shark fin, and soon the fisherman is yanked from the boat and replaced with an expanding pool of blood. Then, oh hell yeah, then a really fake looking shark jumps out of the water and towards the tram:
Pretty much the definition of awesome.
Come Sunday, on a shopping trip to Costco, Riley was apparently having the time of his life. He would not stop giggling and it definitely took the sting out of gas huffers waiting on line for artery hardening snacks prepared by surly retirees. I realized that if I was going to get that sort of soul stirring sound by a trip to the Happiest Place on Earth, I’d put up with a few days in Disneyland.
I'd put up with it but good.
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