I've been meaning to put this up for a month

This is the greatest birthday card ever given or received.


I opened this and did a little happy dance for my roommate to see.

Then I opened it and saw this...



Amazing.

Thank you for reading.

P.S. I leave for Belize tomorrow. While I think there will be internet there, I'm not planning on blogging of my adventures. The point of going is to chronical the whole thing, but I think I may keep it more private until it gets sorted out.

You'd better Belize it!

I'm not a Godly kind of man. I've got friends on that team and they've made it clear they'd love to have me. As it stands, they get me if Vegas gets smitten. I figured after New Orleans, I couldn't argue against a second den of inquity being struck by hard times. But I gotta say, after the bizzare coincidental events of my last few weeks, they may get me anyway.

Let's recap: I quit my job without having anything better to do. My girlfriend breaks up with me out of the blue (more or less). So what happens then? I get a free trip to Belize for two weeks.

...What?

Yeah. You may remember I was doing a video for a friend of my mother's who published this book. Well I did it and it's been very sucessful so far. Well, since that has happened, Teri and her husband have invested in a diving resort in Belize. Because that is the logical thing to do, of course.

And they figure I should make a video to promote the resort.

So they're taking me to Belize for two weeks.

Makes perfect sense, right? I may bring a copy of the Old Testament on my trip. I leave the 11th and I'll try and keep this blog updated with my adventures. The purpose of the whole trip is to document everything, so I don't think it'll be too much trouble.



Belize.


Fucking nuts.


-Thank you for reading

Please update your records

I doubt there are many people who read this blog that don't know about a girl named Etta that has been in my life for more-or-less two months now, even though her name has never appeared here.

Suffice it to say that this is the first and last mention of her.

-Thank you for reading.

Ode to Jamie S. Rich

It's funny, because I was already planning on posting something silly about the fact that I haven't shaved in over a week - which is not in itself something I owe to Jamie S. Rich, but is coinciding with a recent post of his. But then I go and check his blog today and find this incredible link to a preview of his upcoming comic, "Love the Way You Love."

And it's really good.

I'll be the first to admit that I was skeptical about the style it's drawn in. Very cartoony. Jamie and I have talked briefly about it, and after seeing how well the art works with the storytelling I am a full convert. It will be part of my purchasing schedule even during my unemployment.

...which explains the beard. You see, whenever I suffer a break-up of sorts, I like to not shave for a good while. I don't like the feeling of a beard. I don't look good with a beard. Hell, I don't even grow a respectable beard. The hairs present are willing, but the numbers just aren't there. Anything after five days just looks silly.

I know all these things. And I go against my better judgement for one reason: The transference of the symbolic act of moving on to the a concret physical experience. It's like that part in "The Royal Tenenbaums", except with the Elliot Smith and wrist-slitting. Yeah...

We'll see how long the "beard" has to hold out.

-Thank you for reading.

A night to remember... (Birthday: Part II)

In case I haven't told you yet, my birthday was friggin' awesome.

After spending the afternoon generally resting and reveling in the calm before the storm, I began to get back in step with some balloon inflating. I completed the project before my sister and her boyfriend (who intended to help me) showed up - which was all for the best, because then we could make a hasty jaunt to the Rogue Pub where I could take advantage of my free yearly half yard of beer. Or so we thought.

Scott from Holocene called as we were stepping out the door and we were able to swing by to distribute the newly inflated balloons - which was a load off my mind. Seeing Holocene in the fluorescent light of day was odd. It looks smaller. And without the cover of mood, it is blatantly apparent how sparse the decor is. Truly a success in minimalism.

With floating bunches of lime green, mandarin orange and silver in place, we left for the Rogue. Time, at this point, was running out and I did not have the time to drink my half yard with the leisure that such a thing usually demands. Needless to say, I was sporting a healthy buzz when we arrived at Jakes for my Birthday Dinner With The Family.

I like seafood, and I like Jakes - but the real reason I chose this place was because I'd been told they carry 25-year-old scotch. I was told correctly. I am now of an opinion that 25-year-old scotch does not change in any but the subtlest ways in the 10 years that pass between it and a slightly more economical 15-year-old variety. But, lord, is it smooth. All flavor and no bite or burn. I will never ask my Dad how much our two glasses cost him, but they were worth it. For his part, Dad had bought me a bottle of 12-year single malt that he had researched and found to be The Good Stuff. It was, also, the finest bottle he could find at the one store he went to. I could say something about the occasion of a son turning 25 possibly being cause to go to more than one liquor store looking for scotch, but I am sure I will be more than happy with his choice. Thank you, Dad.

The dinner was the best family gathering in recent memory. Perhaps, actually, since my last family birthday two years ago. Maybe it is just when seen through the birthday high that the family comes across so pleasantly. But conversation was animated. Food was delicious. Togetherness was felt. I regret that my Uncle and clan chose not to attend, but I respect their reasons.

And then on to the party.

I arrived just before 8 as the band was finishing up sound check. The band. That I had at my birthday. It just sounds good to say that. My first guests were there moments after, and they were the unlikeliest of first-comers. A new friend, Aaron - who tends bar at the wonderful Renaissance cafe - was there +guest. Shortly after, Nestor - another friend who I rarely see - was the next invitee. That the first people to come were people apart from the inner circle of my friends is a great compliment to me and my party: It was a good sign.

All in all, I can account for at least 40 people (parents excluded) in attendance. I am almost certainly missing a few. There were many who I didn't expect and many I did expect that fell short. None of which mattered at the time - but let me just say to those who didn't make it: You missed a great party. That is not meant to shame. It is merely a fact. I was kept in drink (predominantly a gin concoction with cucumber that was cool and refreshing as well as intoxicating. Sweet Jimmy T Did me service and more than service by spinning records until the wee hours - and even stooping low at my request to play "Footloose" - which is the single greatest dance song of all time. I also cut some rug to "Love Pipe," by the Red Elvises, whose day has come and gone. I could say more about the evening, but it is not a recollection of numbers and informations that will stick with me. It is the simultaneous feeling of love and support and joy and pride and giving and receiving that I embodied all day.

And maybe that's why Monday was so terrible.

I was, miraculously, not hung over. It is a birthday miracle. I was, however, Very Tired. I was at work on time, but there was a cloud above my head all day. I was constantly taken with the need to get out of there, like it was sucking me dry of all the feelings laid out in the above paragraph. And so, I called the Boss and asked for a sit-down. As we were on the phone together, he being out as he so often is, I did not want to make any true decisions. Things like this are best done in person. But I did impress on him in plain words that I was unhappy in the position I've been put and needed concrete plans to be reinstated in the function for which I was hired. His response was non committal and defensive, stating that I would never truly not be in a sales position and if that is a problem for me it may be time for me to "move on." This is nothing I haven't thought of or expected. But it was finally real. I postponed any final judgments until we could arrange for a meeting Tuesday. These things are better done in person, after all.

When Tuesday came, I was wresting with the idea of whether to quit or endeavor to get fired. To me, being fired - or, rather, "let go" - would acknowledge for Rick's part that my purpose for being there had evaporated or never materialized and thank you very much, but we just don't need you. It would have made me feel right. I also thought about going on a tirade and telling Rick all the things that are wrong with him and his company. I wasn't sure what exactly I would do when we sat down.

Of course, we'll never know, because that didn't happen.

I went to his office, asked if he had time. He said no. I asked if I should wait. He said he would call me. I accepted this and went to lunch because I was hungry and it was my lunch. When I came back, he had left for the day on some errand or other. I fumed. It was another two hours until I simply called him and told him I was giving my notice. His response, and I will remember this exactly and always - though I don't know why - was: "Sorry things didn't work out for you, buddy." And what really gets me about that statement is the utter disposability with which he views me, and I suspect all the employees in his company. I knew it, but knowing and feeling are two different things.

So I have quit my job. I will put in two weeks to wrap up loose ends and hopefully make a smooth transition for the people I work closely with and have come to respect and care about. It's odd because almost nobody who leaves this company ever does things the respectable way. One day they just decide to stop coming in. And I don't blame them. It's a symptom of the crushing feeling one gets working there. You take all the pressure until finally you just snap. The snapping is a quick thing and once you have broken, there is no way to possibly phone two extra weeks. But I will do it, and it is my hope that in doing it people will know that I have no malice and was a good employee and deserved better than I got. That is my little smug hope.

What does all this mean? Likely that I will be blogging a lot more. That I will be taking some time to reflect. And, ultimately, that I need a new job. Anybody have any ideas?

-Thank you for reading.

Birthday: The beginning

12 hours into my birthday and all goes better than well. As per tradition, I officially began the day by dancing around to the Beatles' "Birthday." In past years, I've done nothing but listen to that song all day. There is a beautiful presence of mind to that song - filling a much needed space for annual tradition. Much like Queen's knack for knowing that sporting events through time were lacking an anthem such as "We Will Rock You" or "Another One Bites the Dust." Marketing genius.

My birthday has already reached outrageous heights at the J&M cafe, where I seemed to know everybody in the restaurant. Cari and Erin were both there with their families. And this fine fellow Andy, who used to stop by Vivace now and again was there with a friend. Writing it down only three names doesn't seem to convey the extraordinary coincidence of it all, but believe me when I say the impact was profound.

On noticing the words on my bright gold paper top hat proclaiming it was my birthday, the waitress brought out my breakfast with a candle stuck in the orange slice. Andy and his friend commenced to clap and sing me a shy round of Happy Birthday, while Russ and Etta lowered their heads in laughter and shame. I was beaming. I still am.

I fucking love my birthday.

-Thank you for reading.

The funny things that happen between people

I do not understand people.

I like to think that I do. That I attempt to do so is paramount. But I still don't get it.

So, Tuesday night I go to the bar. My bar. Well, it is less my bar now than it used to be. Still, I have ties there and generally feel welcome. This is due almost entirely to a friend of mine who tends bar and serves there. Shortly after we met, we tried our hand at dating. And when I say that it was a mistake, I simply mean that the chemistry was not there. Not the right chemistry, anyways, and it was with a fairly mutual agreement on that fact that we placed the boundaries of our relationship squarely around "friendship."

This is almost two years ago. Recently, I met her new beau and he seemed a decent fellow. He builds bicycles. I saw this as fortunate coincidence as I am in the planning stages of doing just that. Tra la la.

Unfortunately, as it turns out, he is "the jealous type."

I don't know if he knows that I ever smooched his lady. What I do know is that I have a level of physical comfort with her - the kind that comes (and is so enjoyable) when you know as a solid fact that there will be no romantic entrigue to follow. Where so many male/female relationships are burdened with the constant uneasiness of sex, the possibility of sex, the thought of sex, et al, it is a pleasure to have people you can be close to without any of the fuss. And this chap observed me acting as such on Tuesday night.

My actions are not wrong. This is something I am very firm on. I however will allow that some people like the lines to be drawn a bit tighter - and it is my place to respect that. If I'd known, I would have. Hypotheticals are not much help to me now. Because as it stands, he is in a jealous rage against me. As I left the bar that night and commented on the new bike he had built, he proceeded to cut all ties with my acquaintance.

And I'm the one who feels bad.

I feel bad for my friend, who has at this point been inconvenienced by my actions. I feel a void of connection with this fellow because of the potent irrationality of his thinking. And I feel the sinking feeling I get every time I know there is nothing I can do to make a situation better.

I am not telling this story to you for you to act as a judge on propriety - because I found myself behaving with a vaguely similar irrationality last night.

I went to get a coffee with another friend. And on entering the establishment, the barista was on the phone. No problem. I was a barista. I have a great respect for the service industry and do not expect its workforce to abandon their humanity when on the clock. But without having words... something about the way he was on the phone immediately pissed me off. And when he spoke, I was more enraged. For no reason, I was sure that this person was an asshole. Do some people just give off asshole? Without even speaking?

I was courteous and he continued to emit this ass-vibe. We sat in the back. I drank my coffee. I went in for a refil. I look about for cream - it is after 10 and my coffee is more dessert than anything else - and I look to him silently as if to say "Where is the cream?"

He is talking to some girl. I'm not sure if they are flirting and they are planning on making out when he gets off work, if she is a friend come to see him or merely a regular customer. So we look at one another, and before I speak he says, "We're closed, man." He is bobbing his head slowly while he says this. Maybe twice up and down through the phrase. And the tone, was that of the most vacant and false apologies backed with the attitude that I am somehow making his life miserable by not knowing this intuitively and leaving quietly.

I could have punched him in the face.

I know what it is like to have people keep you at a job past closing. I am all for being told that I would do better to leave, so these workers can end their shift and enjoy their work-free lives. But there are ways to be told such things. There are manners that must be observed. As I respect him, so too do I demand respect. And this man had none. I am sure he is the kind of man who does not care if a sexual partner is enjoying his or herself. As long as he's taken care of, what could possibly be amiss.

The reason this sticks with me is that I can't explain it. Again, I am not wrong. But as my bartender friend's boyfriend could not control his reaction to my behavior - likewise I could not control my reaction to this man. And it bothers me. Because I want to accept people for their differences and understand situations and emotions that are not my own. But even if I can do that - and it is no certain thing - what if other people can't. Do I have to sink to their level? And can I let it not bother me that there is nothing I can do?

Thank you for reading.

Formalities

Bunnies and Birthdays

The decision has been made and Holocene has come out on top. That lands my party on my actual birthday: Sunday April, 16. Show up any time after 8 pm. Bring friends. Dance. Converse. Bring me presents... expensive ones.

I'm paying for 100 drinks and intend to give two drink tickets to the first 50 people who come wish me a happy birthday. That means actually coming up to me and saying the words. I'll make sure I'm easy to spot - likely by making my hat MUCH taller than everyone else's party topper. And I'll probably be loud and drunk after too long. That should be a dead giveaway.

I know having a party on Sunday is less than desirable. I hope you can overcome that mental hump and come enjoy the festivities anyway. It would mean the world to me. Because 25 years is far to short a time to have spent among such admirable hobbits...

-Thank you for reading

Operation: Kill Easter

From time to time, Easter has the great honor of falling on my birthday. And that might seem ok. You know, eggs, clucking bunnies...

But it's not.

See, Easter means something to people. Well, not people. Gentiles. And they RUIN my birthday with their church and their family and their hunting for boiled eggs. WELL NOT THIS YEAR!

On April 16, 2006 I will have managed to not die for 25 years. A quarter century. And I intend to make it a Big F'n Deal. But the question is: How?

Here's what I need
1. A place - I want this party to be more than my apartment, while ample, can contain. I'm thinking a venue that can contain between 50 and 100 people. I'm invisioning a loft-like space. Or a bar. Not paying would be awesome, but I don't see a way out of it.

2. A band - I want a band to play my birthday. And a DJ. The DJ I think I can swing. But band... don't know what kind of favors I can call in. I'm willing to pay something.

3. Booze - well, that's pretty self explanitory. But it does create the logistical problem of any minors attending... Do I know any young'uns anymore? Hmmm. Don't think so.

The only REAL issue left is the date. Do I throw the party Saturday night, with the impending Easter morning service? Or do I throw it Sunday night with the onset of work Monday morning, but the added bonus is I imagine Sunday evening will be easier to find a place. I am broadcasting all this for the simple reason that I need your loving guidance. Please post your suggestions.

Thank you for reading.

Lousy Smarch weather

It is snowing outside.

In March.

Not that anything will come of it, but at least it explains why I was so friggin cold last night.



Thank you for reading.

And the award for best moron in a lead role goes to...

I decided rather suddenly last week to have an Oscar party. Nothing fancy, just watching the Academy Awards with friends. Until this week I hadn't seen any of the best picture nominees and maybe only two other films nominated for anything whatsoever. I made time to watch "Capote" and "The Constant Gardner," which in retrospect were good picks.

But that's not what I'm driving at.

I had assumed the Oscars started at 8. Not so. They started at 5. I was working at 5. I, in fact, worked until 6:30. And I didn't give a second thought to my original assumption until right as I was leaving work and mentioned to someone, "Yeah, I'm having an Oscar party tonight."

"Aren't they on already?"

And my stomach dropped. So I raced home and turned on the Tivo to salvage the remains of my party. And that would have been OK. But no. Tivo was only scheduled to record three hours of Oscar. Just as the winner for Best Actress was about to be announced - literally, the words were coming out of the presenter's mouth - the Tivo stopped playing back.

Poop.

I don't care about the speeches or the montage or the fashion. I care about missing Jon Stewart. The glimpse I got leads me to believe he was cool and witty - giving the show a new air of sophistication rather than pomp. Though that crap Jake Gyllenhaal had to read about "Epics" which was basically a plug for the public to keep seeing shows at movie theaters was CRAP. And did anybody else notice the "Speed" bus in said montage? You cannot put a clip from "Speed" in a montage with "Lawrence of Arabia." Thank G-d for ol' J.S. putting the spin on things by declaring they were now "out of montage clips."

It only remains to be seen how long he milks this on The Daily Show.



This is one other thing I'd like to mention: Mouse Guard. I was at the comic shop a few weeks ago to pick up some of my regulars and saw this on the new release shelf. I couldn't help picking it up and leafing through, and if you already don't understand why go back and look at that picture again. There is a mouse with a sword and cloak on it.

The story is engaging enough for the moment. It's the first issue of six, so it's really only hinting at things. But it's so beautifully drawn that I can't really stop looking at it. It reminds me of the "Serendipity" books I read as a kid. I still have and cherish a few of those volumes. In search of the Hoard-a-saurus was a favorite. And this one:



You can preview some of the pages here. Not that you need to go buy comics. I'm just saying give credit where it's due.

Thank you for reading.

Wedding Bells

Everybody loves a wedding.

At this point in my life, three of my friends have gotten married. That's no great number considering the slew of weddings my roommate gets invited to every year. But then, she is a year older than I and knows about 10,000 people. But to me, the small scale of my wedding visitations makes each one more distinct. The most recent was just last night as my friend Nora gave herself to a good man by the name of Nick. Their initials, first and last, remain the same even after the union.

I met Nora just a week into college. I was young and emboldened by new freedoms. Nora was sitting on a couch in the student union hunched over a notebook and buried in a large hoodie sweater. What truly caught my eye was her vibrant purple hair, with two streaks of blonde framing her face as it parted down the center. And in an act of unprecedented bravado, I went and complimented her on it. She was awkard, obviously not knowing what to do with me, but we talked and I gave her my phone number.

A week or so later, she called that number and asked if she could hitch a ride to Portland with me. I honestly don't remember if we talked before then, because I was indeed bound for Portland, and it seems odd that she would just think to ask me that randomly. Whatever the case, I obliged and we scheduled our trip accordingly.

The third memory I have of Nora is of her in my car and pulling this horrid, gray mass from her purse that looked like an apple-sized dustball. And she puts this thing up to her nose and she starts sniffing deeply from it, turning it slightly with each inhalation. This is weird. This is gross. It gets grosser when I find out what it is: the remnants of her childhood blanket which has not been washed in a good many years and which she sniffs for comfort. At this point, I abandoned my original intentions of hitting on Nora and though "Maybe she'd be better as a friend."

We became good friends, though odd friends. Sophomore year there was scarcely an afternoon that she didn't come to my apartment. But we never did much together. We have few defining moments. But, and this is very in keeping with my view of friendship, we just decided that we care about one another and are there when needed or wanted.

The wedding was beautiful. She wore a light green dress that she proudly told me was actually a bridesmaid's dress she got for $100. But it was Vera Wang, which apparently was the important part. That and the deal she got. Nick, a long time Hot Lips Pizza employee had the reception catered with pizza and beer in a small park facility that they rented for what I assume was a minimal fee. Nora traded her heels in for a pair of pink vans to dance the night away. Many friends played and sung songs, and I wish I would have been one of them. I had intended to play Belle & Sebastian's "Like Dylan in the Movies," which she put on a mix tape for me many years ago. I didn't and I'm sorry for it. I would have liked to have somehow marked the occasion. But really, my mark wasn't needed. It was a wonderful wedding.

Thank you for reading.

The world according to Miyagi

I have gained a new level of love for my friend Erin. She came over last night to watch a movie, which we were to pick from my collection - of which I am very proud. I was feeling open to about anything except blatant goofery - which is too bad because she hadn't seen "The 40-Year-Old Virgin" and I am obliged to spread the gospel of Carell and Cowan. What I was really feeling like was "Brazil." Or maybe "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." I think enough time has finally passed that I can watch that again and not feel the need to fall hopelessly in love.

But I also said in passing, "I could totally watch 'The Karate Kid Part II.'"

And Erin took me up on it.

Fuck yeah! Karate Kid is AWESOME. Anyone who says otherwise gets a crane kick to the nose. You "no can defense" that shit. The awe all boys who grew up in the '80s have with The Karate Kid is inexplicable. I mean, we're talking about a movie where an old dude takes a young boy under his wing and NOBODY even thought of horrid homosexual molestation. "Now, Daniel-san, I will teach you 'Pounding Dog Thrust' technique. Bend over."

The second film has always, to me, been as good as the first. It's a great evolution of the story and the characters, rather than just Daniel having more problems and getting in fights. Plus, it's filmed in Okinawa and they got to put in lots of pretty Japanese shots. And did I even mention how ripped Chozen is? I mean, his pecs like double the thickness of his torso!

But the best part of the whole trilogy (Yes. TRILOGY. Don't even bring up that Hilary Swank shit.) is the spew of wisdom from Mr. Miyagi. Is there some little pocket book, "The Quotable Miyagi"? A quick Googling says no. That is my million dollar idea for the day. Just need to clear it with Columbia. And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to smash some blocks of ice.

Thank you for reading.

It might be dehydration...

For the better part of two years, I've been teaching my body to distill the water it needs from coffee and beer exlusively.

I do not think things are going well.

I keep seeing things from the corner of my eye and thinking for a half moment that they are really there - or are things that they are not. Eye corners are tricksey places, so this isn't too unusual. But I've been more affected by it. Last night at the Goodfoot (check out the awesome site redesign) I kept thinking this jacket on the floor next to my bar stool was a sleeping dog. And this morning, when I woke up, a fold of my blanket looked like a man's nose and mouth in profile.

Speaking of the Goodfoot, the lead singer of Sounds Like Fun was there to watch and I asked him about the song I was denied on his album (still good, though). He apologised and said they weren't able to get it on there, but it is called "Mr. Wonderful." I thought that was appropriate.

Thank you for reading.

The sweet sound of disappointment

I was at the Doug Fir on Sunday for the free CD release show of Sounds Like Fun. My being there was less about the band and more about being out. I go to concerts in waves, and I think I'm about to catch one right now. Still, the band was excellent good fun. A trio of gentlemen singing unabashedly happy songs in three part harmonies.

In contrast to the choral bliss of Sounds Like Fun, Dat'r was about pounding beats and blips with atonal vocal droning. I'm tempted to call them Portland's Crystal Method. It's not the right thing to say about them, but it'll do in a pinch. Dat'r is 2/3 of The Binary Dolls, a band I once lauded in a WW preview enough for them to quote me on press releases. I heart this band. I heart the solo work of Dolls frontman Nick Jaina. So it only follows that I love Dat'r. All three incarnations offer different pleasures. Dat'r offered the universal pleasure of ass shaking on Sunday night. To the pre-recorded loops and samples, they add live accents - most notably the emphatic symbol crashing of Paul Alcott. The bouyancy of his curly locks as he bounces about the stage with sticks and microphones is perhaps the most wonderful thing I've ever seen.

What this brings me to is the inevitable purchase of both bands CDs. And, as happens time and time again, I am let down by the music once contained in ones and zeros. In the complete reverse effect of what needed to happen, the rumbling urgency of Dat'r is overcome by the now comprehensible whining lyrics that were much better as complimetary melodies. And Sounds Like Fun's album washes out the power of the vocals. Live, I would have followed that voice like a Pied Piper to wherever it led me. And, of course, the one song that cemented my purchase of the album is not actually on it. Damn.

I've talked much with Russ about the value of local music VS the established cannon and rising stars. It's not a debate one of us feels need to be "right" about - which is rare for he and I - but rather oposite views. I cherish the local music for its intimacy and involvement. I love buying the CD that was silk screened by the hand that now plucks notes on the guitar and knowing my X dollars goes directly to his pocket. I love the little shows where no matter where you stand, you are within spitting distance of an empassioned vocalist. I love seeing these people at their day jobs or parties and telling them I appreciate their art. And so, for all this, I accept the inherent risks and disappointments. I make allowances. I give benefits of doubt. And I love it all.

Thank you for reading.

Oh, the pressure!

I've been out of the loop lately, which is largely because of this. But I was scrolling through Jamie S. Rich's posts the other day to find I made the cut of his "regular blog reads." Or maybe, it's just that I link to him... either way, as Jamie is one of my blog inpirators, I am now moved to action!



It's funny who you meet when you sell toilets for a living. I've sold them to one of the head designers for Adidas' hip "classics" line. I've returned a sink from radio/tv personality Lars Larson (who seemed a decent fellow). I've shook the hand of Bobby Kimball from Toto. And just yesterday I sold a some bathroom paraphernalia to a member of Portland darlings, The Decemberists. And, as we are gearing up to have another one of our infamous customer appreciation concerts with non other than "cold as ice" Foreigner, I planted the seed that one day we might have The Decemberists grace our in-house stage. We'll see. I could be the siphon that taps the hip young plumbing market of Portland.

In my non-plumbing hours, I've been working on a DVD for a recently published children's book called "Bird In Hand." It's a story about a day when the author and her husband found an injured hummingbird and nursed it back to health. The illustrations, also done by the author are really stunning and thanks in no small part to my Mom's wonderful networking efforts, the book has been getting noticed. They're carrying it at Borders, now. At least the one in Bridgeport Village. The project I'm working on is to be a video the author can use when giving presentations at schools. They hooked me up with an insane desktop computer that has more power that I possibly know what to do with. If I were the kind of person who played games on computers rather than consoles, I would probably have wet my pants by now.

My other little project - which will be largely neglected until I finish this video - is my very own Web site. I've purchased a domain name and made a few rough designs for a home page. My only prior experience doing Web anything (aside from this wonderfully simply blogging) is back in college where I made a couple HTML sites using just a text editor for a class. I have ambitions of lovely flash animations and sexy graphics, but when something eventually goes up, it will more likely than not look more like this.

Thank you for reading.

I am the seagull

This is so friggin weird.

Over the last month, I've been going to rehersals of ART's latest production: Anton Chekhov's The Seagull. My Mom purchased this package at auction where she and a friend (or son) could go see the process from start to finish of staging this brand new translation. For those who don't know, the play takes its name from a scene where the young male lead kills a gull for no reason and gives it to the girl he loves. Note to self: Girls don't like dead birds.

For me, this whole process has been fascinating and has reinvigorated me with the love of theater (re?) I had in high school. It's been a bigger help that I've befriended the director Jon Kretzu, who is a little nuts and a lot of fun.

What I'm building up to here is this: The play opened Friday night and I went to see it. And here, Sunday morning there is a dead seagull that has apparently just fallen out of the sky and landed in my work parking lot.

Bizzare.

It's easy to forget how light birds must be. This gull looked so solid just lying there, almost like it was glued to the ground or weighed down as if all organs and muscles turn to lead in death. But when I picked it up (most companies don't like dead things in their parking lots. Discourages spending.) it was so light I dropped it out of shock. I obviously had my American Beauty moment taking pictures of it. Who am I to let that bizzare coincidence pass?

You know, this brings to mind an incident from last summer where I chanced upon a number of smaller bird corpses along Legacy Hospital in NW. There were four of them within a block, similarly dead with no sign as to why. Is this a bad sign for industrial air quality? I though bird flu was limited to the land dwelling avians, but perhaps... Let's not think of it.

Thank you for reading.

Escalation

This is not the Nerf of my youth. Foam warfare has attained a perfect form in the N-Strike Maverick 6-shot pistol. These foam missles of doom fire far and true. The gun (amazingly void of too many tacky neon colors) feels like it will actually endure multiple aggressive exchanges where combatants pull violently on the cocking mechanism (hmmm... that sounded less perverted in my head). My only regret is that it doesn't have twelve shots, but then I suppose that's why you buy two, isn't it?

I was prompted to buy a dueling pair of these pistols after reading about them on my favorite comic. About a year ago, Katie and I bought two foam swords at Finnegans Toy Store and we fenced the entire way home - even on the Streetcar and while walking/running down NW 23rd. What can I say? We're total dorks. Remind me to show you a picture of our curio full of He-Man and Star Wars toys.

Anyway, just thought you'd want to know I can still have fun.

Thank you for reading.

Froo Years

There is something to be said for the power we all have to make something a big deal when we want to. New Years is becoming an occasion where I insist I be having insane amounts of fun. That doesn't necessarily mean a lot of planning or elaborate parties, it means having an attitude for adventure. I rang in 2006 with two good friends and two new good friends in San Francisco (where, incidentally, I left my heart and some puke on someone's bathroom). If you have not had the pleasure of S.F.'s company, I suggest you make a call. This was actually my first time staying IN the city and being able to spend a few days walking her streets and buroughs laid plain her charm. From the quaint smutteries around my hostel to the only good coffee shop I had time to chance upon off Haight (where they were playing "The Thermals" I might add) I could have just eaten up the beauty like clam chowder in a bread bowl - which I did as well.

There are few actual "moments" to relay from the trip and many of those are not fit for print. But it is no small thing to say that after three long days and nights together with the same four people did nothing but make me love them each more. Everyone had something to contribute to the group. From Dan's many Australian eccentricities and catch phrases to Russ' female escapades to my own drunken boorishness, it was good things all around.


Of all places, we rang in the new year in a Rogue pub. Yes, I went all the way to San Francisco to drink at a Rogue pub. Our evening had taken a downward turn and I was anxious to find something comfortable. And by comfortable, I mean dark. The power had somehow gone out in the afternoon (only at the Rogue, mind you) and was not able to be restored. So the waitressess carried around flashlights and poured insanely generous shots of liquor, as that and bottled beer was all they could sell. Yes, I went all the way to San Francisco to drink bottled Rogue beer. I am a very silly man.

I also had occasion to see my oldest friend on this earth. That is not to say he is my best friend, but I have literally known him since he sprang from the womb. Regardless of how different we become in this life, we will always share a bond worth having a few pints over. He lives in S.F. and does some manner of investing. He will be very rich and I basically keep his acquaintence in the hope that when I go broke he will lend me money.

We had ice cream at Ghirardelli, were this asian man could not have been more excited to bring us our enormous sundaes in success. Seriously, HE was more excited about them then we were. He's probably more excited about sundaes than three-year-olds and I think we ALL remember how fucking exciting a sundae bigger than your head was at the age of three. Later that night, I think we met his sister at the Chinese restaurant we ate at. Slightly less excited, but good fun. Good food too.



I think I will end by saying something to the fine fellows with whom I shared one of the best weekends of my life.

Russ: You're such a prick. And next time, aim for the toilet.
Dan: If there ever comes a time that you are NOT hungry, I will shoot myself. I miss you already
Ethan; I'm glad you are there to point out all that is important with your emotionless, robotic heart and finger.
Cara: A woman whose libido can keep up with four young men... your face should be on currency.

Thank you for reading.