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.

All I'm selling are false promises

Last week on the sales floor was, in ways, less frustrating than my first go-round because I’ve eased my internal pressures (mostly by farting) and am generally more assured in the fact that by simply speaking kindly and honestly with people, they will tolerate your complete incompetence. What I remain skittish about is the fact that I am not giving these people anything when I make a sale. I am selling them a piece of pink paper that says at some point before the magnetic poles reverse, they will receive the items listed therein. How that is supposed to happen is almost entirely beyond my control. So when they inevitably call me two months from now asking where their sink is, I will be just as bewildered as they.

As Katie has mentioned on her blog, she and I are moving at the end of the month. Our place is gorgeous. I bought a rug for it the other day. I never imagined myself buying a rug, but I seem to have gotten quite a deal. We are already planning a bash to christen the dwelling. Katie wants to call the apartment “Versailles,” which I’m not opposed to in theory, but in practice it doesn’t really roll off the tongue. We’re working on it. But the party will be excellent. You should come.

Thank God for Jezebel (the name stuck on my scooter like squashed bugs on her angular hood). I’ve taken to scooting around just to relieve the tension. Today, for instance, a brief jaunt to Cha Cha Cha! for lunch has refreshed me. Unfortunately, the minutes are scraping by, each clinging to the one after it, willing to drag them down but not succeeding and making the following minutes cling harder for their knowing that they will fall just like the ones who are lost.

I’ve endeavored to go to New York this September for two reasons, who happen to be people. The first is Greta, one of my closest friends whom I love dearly. She will be appearing in her first non-student lead role and I’ll be damned if I’m going to miss it. I had the pleasure of seeing her as Juliet in the premier Portland Shakespeare troupe’s production when she was still in high school. Basically, the girl has the stuff. I’ve always known it. I’ve always told her so. And it’s basically just nice to be right.

The second is Alisa, an ex and extraordinary individual that anyone would be a fool to cast from their life just because she doesn’t want to smooch you anymore. So I didn’t, and I’m better off for it. I mean, she gave me a microwave for crying out loud. And I plan to have a thrilling ride on the back of her scooter for my trek back east.

There are others to see, but those are the important ones. The REALLY important ones, anyway. Nobody offended? Ok? Ok. So yes, it will be a lovely trip. I’ve not breathed the NY air for a few years. Hopefully it won’t be too full of poop.

Thank you for reading.

Look what I got

Unless there are strong objections, I think her name is Jezebel. It's the first thing that ever came out of my mouth, but it's grown on me. And I love the dictionary definition that she was a queen who encouraged idolatry, because I do fucking worship her. She's beat up and rattles like a maraca, but I have never experienced such joys as I have in the last few days scooting the streets of Portland.

So now I want to make a sub chapter of some existing scooter club. If Jezebel really sticks, maybe I'll name my chapter something to do with the 10 commandments. Banning false idols and other gods was #2 on the list, so that might give me some ideas.

Otherwise, I've been swamped with work and looking for a new apartment with Katie. And I've got more books, CDs, video games and anime to get through than I can possibly hope to consume in any efficient time frame. Ah, such troubles.

The working world

Does everyone have this much trouble with new jobs? Here I am, three weeks in and I haven’t truly done anything I was hired to do. The closest was yesterday wherein I learned to use the super-fancy poster printer and produced and mounted 18 large posters for display at the Street of Dreams. The furthest from my purpose was when I spent two rather sweltering days in the warehouse last week. But as far as this “catalogue” goes… Well, I’m becoming of a mind that it will never really happen.

And all I want to be doing right now is reading Harry Potter and then playing videogames. These desires haunt my thoughts even as I pound this keyboard. Scooters, too, are much in mind as I have contacted a fellow selling a 1985 Honda Aero and we should meet this afternoon. I’ve learned not to get my hopes up, but I believe I beat others to the punch and if this man has any sense of loyalty, he will give me first priority and option to purchase. The scooter is more practical than charming, but I would never call it an eyesore. A few well-placed stickers and possible a basket or two and I dare say it would look rather fetching. Obviously, if anything happens, it will posted here promptly.

Last night was spent making merry with an old friend who has abandoned us for New York many years past. Seeing him reminded me of just what a good man he is – quite the life of the party with his wit and character. Even though he manages a video game store, I have no idea how he plays as many games and consumes as much anime as he does. Though I was slightly clued in by his demonstration that a PSP can play compressed video files. My interest in the machine is now piqued, but I’ve mostly forsworn portable game systems for the horrendous temptation they represent.

But presently, I am tempted by the promise of lunch.

Thank you for reading.

Down the drain

That's where my weekend went because it was all spent at the George Morlan Tent Sale. The last three days have been utterly insane. I wish I'd been keeping track of personal numbers the way they tracked all the sales figures. If I could do so, I would love to tell you things like how many miles I walked (all within a one block radius), how many hours I talked and how many names I forgot.

The world of sales is strange. Through one lens, "salesman" is another word for "vulture." I pounced on so many people this way with the "are you being helped" line, or "can I answer any questions for you." It's funny how these phrases are ingrained in my vocal memory from all the salesmen I have been irritated by in the past. Now I am one of them. But on the other hand, I learned that if you are willing to do what you can to help people and be sincere and considerate of their situation, you can sell even if you don't know fuck all about what you're selling. Of course, it involves a lot of frantic shoulder taps for help and I made a point to personally thank everyone I pestered during the weekend.

I don't know for sure, but I averaged 4-6 thousand dollars a day. For a novice, I'm pretty happy. The new girl who actually got the job I originally applied for went at it with a fucking conviction. I don't think I ever saw her without a customer. And after working the 13 hour days, she would go home and research the products Online so as to have more knowledge the next day. I am dumbstruck by her effort.

My trial was entirely intended to give me the crash course primer of the company. I have a sense of the culture and environment at the company. But most importantly, I know what the customer wants to know and what the salesman has to do to move the product. Now over the next few months I get to take all that and build a catalogue custom tailored for George Morlan, and I hope unlike any catalogue that exists. I've got lots of ideas I want to put to use somehow, though any one of them is going to take a lot of work.

What I've been most impressed by is the way this company supports its employees, who in turn support each other. As I said, the help people offered me was invaluable. I can't imagine what I looked like when in a panic, I realized I'd charged someone the wrong price or needed to find some antique replacement part or forgotten how to describe simple aparati like shower faucets. No joke. There came a time I was looking inside my head for words and just found a gaping whole where knowledge and communication used to be. Actually, that's kind of how I feel now. Time for some beers.

Thank you for reading.

God made me a job

Well, actually it was Rick Kramien - President of George Morlan Plumbing - who made me the job. I'll warn you now if it's not too late, there is a HIDEOUS audio clip that plays when you click that link. I'm putting it on my list of things to shake up once I'm comfortable.

You may wonder what the hell I'm doing working for a plumbing company. After looking at the plumbing knowledge test I have to take, I'm kinda wondering the same thing. But appearances aside, this is an incredible opportunity. Basically, I went in to interview for an Admin Asst position with the small hope that I would gradually learn some skills in marketing. Well, when Rick saw my resume, he got all excited about my communication skills and basically created a position for me to spearhead all content production for a catalogue spanning their entire product inventory. To make a metaphor, it would be like asking Santa for a vest and him getting you a 3-piece tailored suit. Sure, the job won't be all glitz and glamour, but it's putting my communication skills to work exactly like I wanted to. AND I still get to walk to work!

Thank you for reading

More death

This is Precious. She was my dog. Now she is dead.

My parents finally decided to put Precious down on Friday because of numerous health problems that, I am convinced, had actually turned her into a zombie dog. I'll spare you the gory details, but she was literally falling apart. She had numerous infections and open sores that were just not healing and, at 15 years old, not really worth fixing. I know that's a little callous. I'm ok with that. My Dad got really emotional about it, which is a little surprising considering the love/hate relationship he built with her. As she aged and went deaf, I think she lost any sense of "the rules," that or she just flauted them knowing she had nothing to lose. She really wasn't living much of a life for the last year. And so we say, "It's for the best." But really, all we know for sure is that it was for our best.

Precious came into my life 10 years ago. My sister inherited her from her horse trainer at the time. Unfortunately, we all inherited the name "Precious" too. It took Dad and I a few years before we were comfortable saying that in public. On walks she was referred to as "you," "dog," and "girl." She was a well-bred dog - fuckin' papers and everything. I think she might have showed briefly. Horse trainers like to train other things and in her younger years, Precious had an impressive arsenal of tricks to display for guests. The one where she went on hind legs and after you point a finger-gun at her and say "BANG BANG!" she flopped over dead... that was a crowd favorite.

I always considered her to be part cat, because she was never an overly affectionate dog. She wouldn't want to sit in your lap or beg for attention. No, she was a whore for the treats and scraps. If you had food, she was your best friend. If not, maybe she'd let you rub her belly for a while. A bit of a diva, really. That's part of the reason her loss hasn't hit me that hard. She was never really my dog in the Old Yeller sense of the word. She was just Precious. And I will miss her.

Thank you for reading.

Kara-OK!

The fine art of good karaoke is practiced seven nights a week at the Alibi, but last night I was witness to a slew of songsters like I've never seen. I suppose that's what happens when you start waving money in people's faces. Every Wednesday this month, some ellusive judges are picking people to compete in a final competition for the monetary sum of $1,000. Maybe that doesn't sound like a lot to you. But then I would remind you that this is for getting on a microphone and singing two, maybe three songs by artists whom you probably mimic on your own time (say, in the shower or car) free fuckin' gratis.

I'm not one to brag, but I put on a fair show on the mic. I'm no Freddy Mercury, but I can carry a tune. Likewise, I'm no dance machine, but I acknowledge good karaoke doesn't constrain itself to a mic stand. Stil, I have never seen the room more packed with people - 80 percent of which were formidable contenders. The crowd has two harmful effects from the get go: Cigarette smoke lingers in the Alibi like fog over a Scottish meadow and the chatter of people over already high decible levels of singing both strain the voice something fierce. Luckly, I got my songs in before 10:30 because by 1 am, I couldn't have sang "Footloose" if Kevin Bacon had given me his blessing. What I did sing was "It's now or never" by Elvis and "Man of Constant Sorrow" by The Soggy Bottom Boys. Good songs to be sure, but they don't move the crowd the way I'd like.

All the while I was cheered on by my friend Stacey, from whom I stole the excellent title to this post. I can't think of anyone else I'd rather have had in my corner and her being there was wonderful on levels and for reasons I don't want to get into just now.

Someone I wish wasn't there was this large black man who is just too damn good for karakoe. There comes a point where you should just be in a band or work as a studio musician singing theme songs for cartoons. He gets up there and sings "Kiss" by Prince - and he fucking nails it. NOBODY can sing Prince except Prince. Sigh. I'd seen him at a few other karaoke places around town and hated him for basically nullifying any chance I had at the finals. Stacey and I took off shortly after 1, not waiting to hear who made it. But there's good odds I'll be there next week, if y'all want to come represent!

Thank you for reading.

The Departed

I have a dead woman's furniture in my house.

It's not something I'm particularly weirded out by, as the furniture does not somehow warp into Tim Burton set props once its owner leaves this world, but it is bizarre to consider. The furniture I have was either gifted to me by friends, relatives or street corners. These are the scraps of an estate - and one which I don't think Vanessa even had strong ties to. I told Vanessa if light bulbs start to mysteriously not work or my firstborn only has one arm, we're getting rid of the shit.

As it turns out, I knew who this woman was as she would come to Vivace from time to time. She was a Suicide Girl, as was obivous to anyone who saw her. She carried a vinyl bag with large spikes on it, and often met men there who were obviously not friends getting together for coffee. Nonetheless, she seemed nice enough and I have no cause to complain. But now she is dead from a heroin overdose. And don't think of making any suicide/Suicide Girl joke. I can't believe you'd even say that. You people make me sick. It's like nothing is sacred anymore...

Sadly, this isn't the only death in my life as another Vivace customer recently passed away. His name was Kurt and he would come in mornings and order a morning latte in a mug. That was it. He was very soft spoken and kind. He worked at Pioneer Music, and excellent fine instrument store downtown. One of my fellow baristas really took to him and they would play guitar together from time to time. I can't claim any strong ties to the man, but he was a good person and I'm sure many people will miss him.

Death isn't something I'm equipt to deal with. I don't know if anybody is. There still hasn't been a close death in my life, so that'll really shake me down. My gradpa died when I was six, but I couldn't begin to process that. My parents actually had me see a counselor because I didn't cry. I remember my Dad taking me on a walk to break the news and he cried saying it. Seeing your Dad cry at that young age is a strange thing. He is still flawless and my unfailing support and protection. But there he is crying. All I could do was say, "It's ok, Dad." and the like, trying to console him, because this thing happening right in front of me was more real and more pressing than the news that someone I didn't see daily would never be seen again. I'm almost afraid that I'll have the same reaction for all deaths - just to pause, consider and change the files in my head about that person from the "alive" category to "deceased." I tell people I'm dead on the inside, but I don't want to prove myself right.

Thank you for reading.

It's official

Well that was easy. Get a load of this business.

Blogs in the 'Hood

I just made a weekly check-in to a blog I stumbled upon some time ago about the Sellwood neighborhood, only to find it has now moved to OregonLive. Turns out, the site (which is the online presence of The Oregonian, among other things) has a whole section of blogs devoted to various areas around Portland. And you know what's missing... MY neighborhood! SO, I am now officially starting my campaign to be Northwest Portland's blogger. My first post subject: Wacky Willy's.

This emporium of... stuff is closing after many years of operation just a block from my house. It's a sad state of affairs, to be sure. The store reminds me of the song "Portobello Road" from the Disney film Bedknobs and Broomsticks. "Anything and everything a chap can unload, is sold by the barrel at Portobello Road." For the record, I've since been to the real Portobello Road in London and can vouch that the song speaks true. Wacky Willy's is the greatest of junk stores, where you have no idea what will ever be there or how it came to be there. There is a standing trashcan full of the early "brick" style cell phones. Around Christmas, they had a huge shipment of Teddy Ruxpin dolls and tapes. But what's most amusing are the signs the employees make for various doodads. There's no way to explain with words, so I'm going to go snag some pictures to post later.

In the meantime, everyone send OregonLive emails about how wonderful my blog is and that they should pay me millions of dollars to write about NWPDX!

UPDATE!!!

As it turns out, Wacky Williy's already has secured a new home and it remains mere blocks from my house. Yey! Sadly for them, the street visibility is much poorer, but I've a feeling that the kind of people who go there will seek it out. Still, as I promised, here are pictures.




Thank you for reading.

Out with a bang and a beer

This Memorial Day was less about remembering heros and more about remembering my friend Ryan. I was out at the coast for his bachelor party before he ties the knot this Friday. Rather than a raucous, debauched weekend, it was just five guys united by their bonds of friendship to Ryan... and a keg of beer.

I've had friends get married already, but this is the first REALLY close friend to go. His bride-to-be has basically been that for the past 2.5 years, though it's only been official for the last six months. Still, it's going to be quite the affair. I'm an usher (I didn't make groomsman because I won't wear a tuxedo. It's a longstanding vow of mine and Ryan knew me well enough not to even ask) and will be taking Ryan's parents down the aisle. But what I realized also sets this wedding apart is that Ryan comes so much from where I come from, and was so cared for by just about everybody, that EVERYONE will be at this wedding.

Let me just give you some context on Ryan: All through junior high and high school, he would go around to every table at lunch and ask for people's scraps. It wasn't because he was poor, it's just who Ryan is. And people would give him everything from a roll to some tater tots to hamburgers because he was so unapologetically genuine about what he was doing. I think he was the best fed kid at school. Ryan's peddling became so commonplace that people (myself included) would actually seek him out to give him food they weren't going to finish.

So myself and the people who care about him sent him off in style this weekend. Nothing special. Just good times, good smokes, good beach and good beer. We all love you, Ryan.

Thank you for reading.

Jobless and Joyful

I got fired last Tuesday.

It's been gradually sinking in since then, but last night I had a dream where I had it out with my old bosses and I came away from it feeling very cleansed. To those of you for whom this is news, I'll sum up: I had recently begun plugging my ipod (Yes, I bought a new one. I call it "Mpu2.") into the stero at work because any more time I spent listening to the crappy, stale music there would have caused me to jam a portafilter into my eye socket. I knew this would chap the bosses' hide. He designed the music program on the computer we used and it is the last remnants of his previous career in engineering. Still, I was willing to bear the consequences if they found out, and hoped it would open a dialogue about some changes that might be made.

Well, they found out. But I had underestimated the fury of Alex's wounded pride because he fired me on the spot. I didn't fight it, but I tried to explain some things to him that might improve the work environment for my co-workers. I doubt any of that penetrated. Because what you have to understand about this man is that he is mentally 7-years-old. He actually admitted to me, and it took a while before I could say this without envisioning my fist in his face, that had I not gone down and put Mpu2 in my bag while switching the stereo back to normal, he would have TAKEN AND KEPT it.

Let that sink in.

Yeah. Fucking absurd.

But regardless of how silly the situation is, it's a blessing. I've been discontent not just there, but with the entire service industry for some time. So the boot out the door is the push I needed to get going in a better direction. I'm reminded of The Sandman, my favorite comic series. For those of you not familiar, over the course of the books, the King of Dreams subconsciously sets himself up for a big fall because it is the only way he can get out of the rut he's in. I did the same thing. Because while I wouldn't say I was trying to get fired, I no longer feared any consequences my actions might bring and my according behavior was out of line.

Still, I have visions of the entire staff just walking out in protest and leaving the old bosses royally ass-fucked.

SO! I'm on the career hunt and if any people have suggestions, I am open to hear them. I've already contacted some temp agencies in the area, but I'd love to get more recomendations (there's so many). I'm thinking I'd like to find something to do with my writing/communication skills like marketing or public relations. I'm also looking at industries that are filled with creative energy like publishing, video games, shoes (nike and adidas are in my backyard). Of course, I might just go teach in Korea. "All things are possible in this best of all possible worlds."

Thank you for reading.

Allure and Dissapointment

I've been spending a lot of time poking around craigslist lately. My love for this site has already been covered and I am not claiming any originality in being one of its many fans. But what I've been so interested by lately are the personal sections - in particular the "casual encounters." I'm 98 percent there as a voyeur, which covers a large percentage of the readers, I'm sure. But, people post these things hoping for legitimate response. The whole breakdown is fascinating. Mostly gay/bi posts, followed by straight males and then ugly/older women. The odd post is by someone who probably has no need to do so, possessing the god given tools to secure satisfaction from whatever sex they want. I'm not saying any of this with disdain. Rather, it is illustrative (as even this or any other blog is) of the outlet created to just say what you want and hope to find a sympathetic ear - maybe even a collaborative voice.

The bottom line: People are lonely and I count myself among them. Don't take that as a depressive statement. I care for many people and have many that do the same for me. But I'm looking for more. To that end, I empathize with the people who make these posts - however outrageous... and I mean really outrageous.

But what happens when nobody answers? Whatever hope the Internet represents, I think it really just hold more dissapointment. Of course, that may just be a matter of asking for reasonable things. Substitute perhaps a conversation for a cock-sucking. See where that goes.

Thank you for reading.

Boost

You know that feeling where you're talking with the most beautiful girl in the room even though you probably don't have any right to - and it's working? I hope so, because it's great.

Comix Chic

I make no secret of the fact that in the last two years I've fallen hard for comics. I collected as a young teenager in the dawn of the Image days when the market was booming with pomp and circumstance. Though I didn't know it at the time, that was a huge bubble that popped shortly after I started collecting avidly. At one point, there were actually two comic stores across the street from one another in my little suburb town of Lake Oswego and even though I hadn't been in either for a while when it happened, I was sad to see them both close their doors. In one case, the whole building was just knocked down.

The comics I collected in those days were mixed, but it was all super hero stuff. Having re-read almost everything I own in this second coming of comics, a lot of it is crap. Then, I was more obsessed with the habit of collecting. You don't want to know how much money I wasted on sports cards before comics. I didn't even care about those damn things. That was just compulsive. Actually, my grandpa and I would play baseball card rummy: Instead of suits, you'd match cards of people from the same team. A child older than five could have probably read the team name of his opponent's cards from the back.

Anyway, getting back into comics was very much an escapism because I had graduated college, was living at home and wanted to occupy my time. I'd started reading a number of manga in college because I'd caught the anime bug and, most times, wanted to read the source material for series I enjoyed. But my new full-fledged foray into comics came with The Sandman. Without exaggeration, it is the greatest comics achievement ever. From there I hit all the other big name series: Preacher, Concrete, Transmetropolitain, Lucifer, Books of Magic. At the same time, I fostered an appreciation for the alternative scene. My Mom had gotten me a copy of Maus back in my first phase because in her mind it was a way for my love of comics to have some real impact rather than good guy fist meeting bad guy face (she was right, by the way). Daniel Clowes, Paul Pope, Craig Thompson, Jason Lutes, Paul Hornschemeier, Doug TenNapel, Kyle Baker... I've discovered a lot of incredible artists. And you'd better believe I was foaming at the mouth for the McSweeney's comics edition.


But just yesterday I struck gold. I was scanning the comic section at Powell's on Hawthorne when I found the Vol. 2 #1 of Raw Magazine. This is the magazine Art Spiegelman started and where Maus was originally published in serialization. This is from 1989 and it is exactly what the McSweeney's edition is today - just 16 years older and subversive rather than celebratory. I haven't even begun to read it, but let me tell you it's a find. As I was telling the clerk (who frequents my coffee shop) how excited I was, the fellow just down the counter asked me where I found it, hoping there might be other copies. No such luck, fellow. No such luck.

R.I.P. Mpu (April 2-11)

Oh, Mpu, I barely knew you and now you are gone. On the first full day in Costa Rica, where I am currently on holiday, Mpu and his older brother DigiCam were stolen right from under my nose. The subject is still sore, so I won't elaborate. But the fact remains, my tiny, wonderful and expensive digital toys are gone. Is this a sign from God? Am I not meant to partake of his technological spledor? Should I shave my head and become some manner of ascetic, spending my days in contemplation of non-technology (aka "nature")? I hope not.

The larger question remains, will there be an Mpu2? The ipod is never something I coveted, and yet, having just barely tasted the possibilities it presents, I may be hooked. The camera is a no-brainer, though I may take some time to consider different models. But I just don't know... Either way, I'll spend some time generating the funds to cover my losses. If I knew how to start pity pay pal donations, I might do such a thing because I have now gotten my first comments from "anonymous" readers, meaning some people might actually be reading this on occasion. Particular thanks to those wonderful people. And for the rest of you, as always,

Thank you for reading.

The continued saga of Mpu

Can I just say how much I love craigslist?

The ads I placed with my tale of ipod case woe actually got a response from a kindly man willing to GIVE me an extra skin he had just lying around. So I went an picked it up from him on Thursday where he works, which was mere blocks from the house I grew up at in the burbs. And you know what? It's exactly the skin I was looking for. I was expecting some gaudy pink monstrosity - which in itself would be awesome because of the story - but instead it is sleek and clear and has that part that covers the input so you don't get it all linty in your pocket. Fantastic.

To further the wheel of karma, I turned right around and offered the skin I mistakenly purchased for free. Not an hour later, someone claimed it and I will pass it on to them today. Of course, he works at Vinton studios, just a block away from my coffee shop. I've probably made him crepes before. This is out of the whole craigslist community. Think of the odds.

I tell you all of this to prove a point: I believe the universe is random, but there sure are a lot of coincidences. But more importantly, there are a lot of kind people.

Thank you for reading.

I pod, therefore...

I have joined the anti-social elite by finally obtaining an ipod musical device. I have named it "Mpu" after the AI satellite in episode nine of Cowboy Bebop, my favorite anime series. Dorky, yes. But not nearly as dorky as the fact that you can also use Mpu as an anagram for Music Player Unit. Wow. I am a such a nerd.

But not only am dorky, I'm also stupid. Because I want to protect my investment (thankyouverymuch) I went to purchase a nice rubbery case to keep Mpu safe. Firstly, let me say I'm dreadfully disappointed with the selection of such accessories. I there is no perfect combination of features. The either have the screen protector AND an annoying clip, or neither. And the colors suck. AND their overpriced starting at $20. So, after settling on a clipless model assuming I could figure some way to also protect the screen, I now realize it is for the 40gig model, where I have the 20gig. I'm not foolish enough to mistakenly purchase a "mini" accessory, but nobody told me the normal ipod models were different sizes! Sigh.

So, not that this will help at all because nobody sees this, I have made a few posts at craigslist to emplore the good people of Portland to bail me out. But should you stumble on this and feel generous/helpful, I'd love any assistance. Honestly, it's not a huge deal. But it's the principle of the thing.

Thank you for reading.

Ding Dong...

Well, the Pope is dead. I have absolutely no moral feelings on this either way. The simple fact is, I am no longer last in the celebrity death pool I'm in. Sadly, it's not like this tragic loss came without expectation, so I've a ways to go before taking the lead. If Jack Osbourne kicks it though, I'll net three points for unexpected checking-out. Honestly, though. I'm not sure how Courtney awarded each person point values. I think it's purely age, which is a little boring. A mutually agreed upon scale of likelihood would have been better.

Moving on to exciting news of the living, last night I had the pleasure of seeing one of my pet bands, alaska! The exclamation point is part of the name, as is the lower case "a", both of which made them a bitch to write about the two times I've put them in various newspapers. This is was my third time seeing them, and sadly the least fulfilling. They were only allowed a 30 minute set at the beginning of a concert for Ash and The Bravery, both of whom I knew nothing about prior to last night. Though I was unfulfilled by the show, I was able to pick up a pre-release copy of their second album. My first impressions are that it lacks the variety of moods shown on their first album, but it does go more passionately into dark and mystic sounds. The lead singer/guitarist Imaad Wassif comes off as a moody, fragile fellow with explosive energy and capable of channeling his emotions into his music with hypnotic effect. The man is literally a scarecrow and as he thrashes about on stage, I am deeply concerned he will break himself.

Another blogger I read was at the show for Ash, and he described alaska! as "dismal." This first struck me as an insult, but honestly it is dismal music. I suppose that's just its appeal to me. And just as I wasn't enthralled with Ash because they are totally new to me, he was unimpressed with alaska!. The way my head works, I need to decide I like something. I'm rarely moved by pure emotion and taken with something in the moment. There must be a process. An introduction followed by a courtship and then, after many many flowers, love.

Thank you for reading.