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.

I even post my posts late.

(The following was written on Dec. 15 and my lazy ass is only now getting around to posting it)

As my good friend Parrish pointed out, it's been over a month since I posted anything. Don't I feel sheepish! Well, time does fly and all that. But, really. Sorry. SORRY!

I was actually looking through stuff on my computer literally yesterday to find an entry I had started when I was away from ye olde Intronet and never got around to finishing/uploading. It was mostly about my realization that Elmer's Glue is Ejaculate. So I don't think you were missing out on much.

Winter is cold. I love it. Though I wish I hadn't lost my hobo gloves. I lost my red hat too. I'd get sentimental, but the only thing that bugs me is shelling out another $15 bucks for a pair of gloves. They were such nice gloves...

Yesterday I discovered the greatest movie theatre in Portland: The St. Johns Theatre and Pub. It's right in downtown St. Johns and shows first-run movies for a mere $6. AND they serve beer. I went to see The Chronicles of Narnia (mediocre) with some friends and talked the shop keep into giving me the "Family Beer Combo" (which I invented on the spot) - basically consisting of me getting a jumbo popcorn for $2 with the purchase of two beers (that were going to be purchased anyway). My allegiance is firmly set and I will not be found going to another theatre to see any movie they are currently showing. Really, Portland is a treasure trove of independent theatres. I am now making it my goal to see a movie at ALL of them. Yes that's right. ALL OF THEM! I'll make you a list to monitor my progress and perhaps... join along?

My roommate and I are throwing our second party on Friday: Chrismukkah. I will only say this: Fuck YEAH! The O.C. is my church. I know I am crazy. I know this. I also know I don't care. Because I made a goddamn yamiclaus!

Writing "goddamn" just then keyed me into an odd hypocrisy: I think dammit should be spelled as I wrote it, rather than "damnit." Yet "goddamn" warrants an "n". Why?WHY?

I am making a slideshow/video/thing for the year-end meeting at work. Currently I'm in the "gathering" phase. I have rarely known such joy as when seeing pictures of these people in their youth completely disconnected from the age-worn individuals I know in context of George Morlan Plumbing. It preys on the worst of my voyeuristic impulses. Love. This project is a strange thing that has fallen in my lap, but I am trying to roll with it and learn the art of videography/editing. I'm a bit skittish about it, but it's also a lot of fun. Perhaps I could do this all the time rather than selling toilets...

-Thank you for reading.

Almost famous

Pardon me while I toot my horn for a minute.



While I didn't find out until Sunday, the above image of myself shooting stick at Berbati's was the lead in picture for last Friday's A&E cover story about Portland's latest late night scene. My identity was less of a give away in the paper because the photo was printed black and white (which looked HOT) and thus you wouldn't have noticed my signature red hat - which at the moment I fear I may have lost.

It was taken a week prior when I was out with friends on a completely unplanned Friday post-work bender that continued into the wee hours with me waiting some 40 minutes to get a Voodoo Doughnut. Seriously, what WAS that guy's problem? Anyway, the photographer approached me and asked my name - which having worked in "The Biz" I didn't think twice about and had forgotten it by the next morning. Though that may have had something to do with the bender part of the evening.

The funniest part about this episode is that I found out about the whole thing from a friend in New York, of all places. Apparently his Dad had told him about it and he mentioned it to me in passing when I had just called him to talk about anime and video games. So from now on I want all my news to be filtered by going coast to coast before it reaches my ears. That way all the unimportant stuff falls off somewhere around Nebraska.

But wait, there's more.

You ALL need to watch AM Northwest this Friday morning because I'll be getting my hair cut by Dayna Cakebread (best last name ever) of the Belle Epoque salon. I'm on their mailing list (dork) and she put out the call this morning for cool, scruffy guys. As I haven't had my hair cut since the last time she laid hands on it some three months ago - and she left it fairly long anyway - I'm prime for a new doo. I'm going to give her free reign, so who knows what the hell will happen.

But it's a whole makeover, not just the hair. So I get to wear hot clothes and possibly (and I don't know how I feel about this) get a facial. Anyway. That's worth working a little late this week so I can duck out early on Friday morning, right?

-Thank you for reading.

I want to have less meaning

Hmm. Where to begin.

It's been an odd month, which perhaps explains why I haven't written. I've meant to. I meant to say how I saw Neil Gaiman read from his latest novel and how magical hearing him speak was. He is man who exists to tell stories - captivating ones that, as he would like it said, "say true things." His charisma and ease in his own skin are the kinds of qualities that should be held by all great movers of men. It was a wonderful moment that would not be sullied by waiting an hour and a half for an autograph.

I meant to tell you of my trip to Bend - the second weekend of the month that I have given to my employer. I was there working a home show with poor attendance where I was only 60 percent needed. Had it been a four-night trip, it would have been better. Six-nights, as it was, stretched a little long. I compensated by eating some delicious and outrageously priced meals on the company dime. Yes, waiter, I'll have some of that scotch I see on the bar with "15" blaring out at me. Mmmm. Expensive scotch.

My excitement over halloween was high going into October, but now I find I haven't carved a pumpkin or planned any elaborate costume. Somewhere along the line, my resolve broke. I hope to do better by myself for New Years - and if Russ has anything to say about it, I will - but in general my mood is low for both reasons of season and emotion. I never thought myself too susceptible to dramatic mood swings that follow the cloud cover and moisture content of my atmosphere, but I have been bouncing rather from pole to pole as each day decides what exactly it will be. In that regard, there is no finer place than Bend for consistently gorgeous weather. I meant to tell you about the way the sun cradled between south and middle sister as it set punctually 6 marking the progression of 70 degree days into below freezing nights of crystal clarity.

I didn't mean to write this. But being in my head for too long is never a good idea and I don't want to have to continue and look back at things I meant to do.

Thank you for reading.

I am the host with the most

I love my roommate. She tapped the keg for our party because I've never done so and would most likely have fucked it up.


We cleaned the place up nice, complete with foofy foods like hummus and vegetables... OK, there were m&ms too, but they were GIANT and in strange pastel colors.


We keep him in our secret closet. He dances for nickels that people throw at him.

I am so happy with how the party turned out. The crowd was big enough, but not too big. Everyone was respectful of our stuff and drank responsibly while managing to kill the keg. I am heartened that our future entertainment endeavors will meet with success. Next up is likely Pumpkin Carv-nival Part II: The Carvening. I certainly learned my lesson from last year not to leave pumpkins out in rainy weather for two weeks. Ew. Though it was fun to push them all off the balcony.

The first of many

Stretching out

I love my new apartment like I love puppies.

Each time I come home, I have a moment of awe that I live there. It’s beautiful, spacious and full of charm. AND it’s coming together nicely with our preexisting and newly purchased furniture. The living room looks so adult with Katie’s new couches and my awesome rug. The dining room will be good, but we just need more stuff for it, it’s so big. The kitchen was fantastic before we put anything in it and will only grow more incredible – though we did overlook the fact that none of the brand new drawers and cabinets have handles. Yeah. Got to get on that.

My bedroom remains a mess, mostly because after getting my new bed set up and my books put away, my motivation to do anything else dwindled. It’ll happen before next Friday, though, when we are hosting our housewarming bash. I am insisting, though here for the first time, that I purchase the keg as I’ve never done so and have wanted to ever since seeing “Teen Wolf” – which got an odd sort of props from The O.C.’s third season premier last night. I swear, they’re not even trying to make those characters believably 17-years-old, but if they did I probably wouldn’t love it.

Also in the good news department, my time-off request went through and I’m taking a long weekend in New York on the 23rd. I’ve done the NY thing enough times that I don’t need to act too touristy, though I’m always excited about real NY pizza, even if we have the next best thing right here in Portland.

What we also have in Portland is rain. I’m going to have to gear up if I want to attempt scooting to work from here on out. I’m thinking something like this:



Sexy.

-Thank you for reading.

The most outrageous shit ever

Am I that lowly of a person that I get excited when people leave comments on my blog? Yes I am. But what do I see there? BLOG SPAM!!! Scroll down a bit and check it out for yourself. Check your own blog, for that matter, if you have such a thing. Did you look? You’ve got to be fucking joking, right? Yes, because you comment on my blog, I will be very interested in your diabetes testing site. Why, to think, I’ve gone 24 years without considering the fact that I COULD HAVE DIABETES. What a horror!

Fucking blog spam and mattress ads on my Gmail. I think the path of cultural technology excess I’ve embarked on could just be an intermediary to a complete shutout of info tech.

Thank you for reading (and not spamming, fuckers!)

I'm just a boy with a new haircut

I think I will instantly fall in love with any woman who washes my hair.

Of course, it helps that all the girls working at Belle Epoque are button-cute. They said just a wash would be $10, so I'm thinking if I can stretch out two washes a week, I will have beautiful women wash my hair forever.

I treated myself to a full-service wash/haircut/hand and scalp massage (all standard at B.E.) last night and couldn’t be happier about it. Well, actually, I’d be happier if it was a little cheaper, but I figure it’s all money that I won’t be spending when I go bald. Flaunt it while you got it, I always say.

I went under the shears of the owner herself, Dayna Cakebread (not sure if that’s a real name). She moves with speed and precision, at once deciding on her vision and carrying it out with excitement. It was fantastic, as I usually have few specific requests for my stylist. There are just general guidelines that usually include, but aren’t limited to, shorten the back and de-thick-ify the sides. She did that and oh such more… not that I was paying attention because her uber-cute new assistant was massaging my early-stage carple-tunneled hands. Ohhhh so nice. She tried to give me a little too much spike in the back, but I decided I didn’t want to look like this



(that part behind the “N” is still his hair.

Anyway, the move is still on. Apparently my Dad just got a truck that I can use. Sweet. He must be giddy like I was when I got my scooter. Seriously, he’s been talking about getting a truck for like 10 years. It fulfills his inner-putterer, though at this stage in life, I don’t know how much rugged use he’s going to get out of it. I mean, my folks just got a gardener for the love of Pete.

Thank you for reading.

Go see what I saw

Oh Dog, You Sleuth! posted a fantastic picture of Aqua Boy from the soapbox derby. How fucking cool is that kid! I wish my parents would have made me a cape. For Halloween, I'm gonna be fucking Aqua Boy.

Thank you for reading.