Rolling right into and through March, leads us directly into the line of fire of the world's best sporting event, the NCAA tournament, and an appetizer of things to come with major league baseball's spring training. In the world of sport, many things go hand in hand; mustard and hotdogs, beer and peanuts, the remote control and the television are a few that come immediately to mind. One side effect of sport that straddles the line between harmless fun and games and take no prisoners, is gambling. Gambling runs with the kids from the other side of the tracks but also sings in the choir and is the star shortstop on the varsity baseball team. Gambling drives a black low cut mustang with a huge sound system, but also listens to Mozart and Chopin.
I love to gamble. Let me reiterate...I LOVE TO GAMBLE. On anything. Baseball, basketball, cricket, poker, blackjack, football or whether it's going to snow before halftime, or whether the next guy up rips a double, triple or whiffs. But I don't gamble for a living nor do I invest more than I am willing (or able) to lose. I know the risks and have assessed them like any good investor and have decided over the course of my many years of throwing money out the window, that I am not a good gambler. This, however, does not preclude me from having a good time, and consequently, losing money. Money isn't that important, but you do have to have it to be able to throw it away. I, therefore, fall into the category reserved for harmless addictions, and addicts. My friends and I are very similar, which is quite possibly why we never actually lose any money, as it just circles between our pockets, leaving only a long twisted trail of lint behind and some brief shittalking.
However, when making wagers on something that I feel somewhat knowledgeable about (NCAA tourney) against someone with little said knowledge, I tend to take the bet fairly lightly. When that said person wins that bet, which in this case is a domestic affair involving cooking vs. weeding, it becomes a serious affair. Which is why, a few days ago I found myself on my hands and knees, in the dirt, with the wrong end of a garden utensil in my hand, pulling dandelions out of our yard/garden, which, if you didnt know any better, you'd swear we were growing dandelions instead of trying to get rid of them.
This would constitute a 'friendly wager' in the term of the day, much like the wagers in a golf foursome that don't involve money (wait, is that possible?). Our bet was who would win the most games in each of the four rounds of the NCAA tourney. I lost the first round 22-21, and then we tied the next two, until I triumphed this past weekend, much to my considerable delight. My loss relegated me to the hours of weed pulling, while her loss allows her the priviledge of shopping, preparing, cooking and finally cleaning up a dinner for the two of us.
I'm not sure who is getting the better deal, but my side of the bet has been fulfilled while hers remains outstanding. While betting remains a passion and not a lucrative money making venture (much to my dismay), it does serve to heighten the importance of games and events, making the outcomes that much more exciting, thus putting a little added zest into an otherwise ordinary day in the life of a sports fan.
I am not in danger of losing my car, my house, or my girlfriend due to my habit, but it do like to indulge my weakness for the underdog by playing poker online, taking part in ESPN brackets, and calling my friends to wager bottles of scotch on whether Griffey Jr. is going to hit any homers in April!
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Every year around the spring vernal equinox, a severe affliction of "bracketitis" attacks the majority of the United States population of males under the age of 45. It is as predictable as the sun rising in the east, as debilitating as a rampant virus and nearly as contagious.
From all walks of life, the 'madness' infects and spreads. It sparks conversation, debate, it lightens bank accounts in an effort to stop it, it frays the threads of even the strongest relationships, and, worst of all, it can make grown men weep with joy or cry with despair.
Flood, famine, earthquake and other natural disasters have failed to slow down this national epidemic. We are at its mercy, trying to seal ourselves off from its long reaching tentacles by moving to a new city, avoiding friends already infected, living on a boat in the south pacific, but it finds us, grips us and turns even the strongest into slothful agents of the disease.
Those succumbing to the 'madness' receive little to no support from their spouses, coworkers and family, preferring to let the sickness run its course and leaving them in the company of similarly weakened. They become patients in the asylum, all tuned to the same station mounted on the wall, watching with glazed eyes, having their doctors check their pulses every third hour, and becoming more connected and ever more infectious the longer the illness runs its course.
It starts benignly enough with idle chatter on the phone, a text or two, some emails between past survivors, and then, like a swarm of locusts across a fertile field in Iowa, spreads far and wide, reaching the outposts of Alaska, Oregon, and Colorado and Florida in a desperate attempt to feed the frenzy and infect as many people as possible before the start of the 'madness'.
Mean Green, Racermania, Catamounts, Mountain Hawks, Orange, Blue Devils and Runnin' Rebels are all pet names for the regional strain of the infection but the mother is simply referred to as "MADNESS". The funny thing about this strain of virus is that it is contained within a three week period of the year, a three week stretch of time that, if eliminated, would save multitudes from this debilitating illness and strengthen the fibers of society.
If you know someone who suffers from this disease it is best to avoid immediate contact, especially after initial diagnosis as the patient is unable to think or talk about anything other than the confusing 'bracket'. The patient is at a highly contagious state at this moment, which generally lasts for three days, and then the infection rate is much lower due to the finality of the disease. The 'bracket' is a talisman to the ill, studying it, hovering over it, debating it, cursing it, altering it, and then, finally crumpling it in disgust as their stomachs become 'upset', and a new bout of illness takes over.
Right now, in the midst of the first and second rounds of the 'madness', the disease reaches its zenith, as those afflicted terribly over the first week have either subsided into a tolerable state, having thrown their 'bracket' into the trash and have fought the virus tooth and nail. And then there are those still infected, still yabbering nonsense about a twelve over a five, and a thirteen over a four. Numbers which mean nothing to the layman, but everything to a man in the throes of the 'madness'. Money is now laid waste too, as twenty dollar bills fight for air space with the benjamins of the big spenders seeking redemption from the early rounds of losing. We are all at its mercy.
Be strong boys, be strong, and we will survive....though Kansas won't and neither will Duke after today. :)
From all walks of life, the 'madness' infects and spreads. It sparks conversation, debate, it lightens bank accounts in an effort to stop it, it frays the threads of even the strongest relationships, and, worst of all, it can make grown men weep with joy or cry with despair.
Flood, famine, earthquake and other natural disasters have failed to slow down this national epidemic. We are at its mercy, trying to seal ourselves off from its long reaching tentacles by moving to a new city, avoiding friends already infected, living on a boat in the south pacific, but it finds us, grips us and turns even the strongest into slothful agents of the disease.
Those succumbing to the 'madness' receive little to no support from their spouses, coworkers and family, preferring to let the sickness run its course and leaving them in the company of similarly weakened. They become patients in the asylum, all tuned to the same station mounted on the wall, watching with glazed eyes, having their doctors check their pulses every third hour, and becoming more connected and ever more infectious the longer the illness runs its course.
It starts benignly enough with idle chatter on the phone, a text or two, some emails between past survivors, and then, like a swarm of locusts across a fertile field in Iowa, spreads far and wide, reaching the outposts of Alaska, Oregon, and Colorado and Florida in a desperate attempt to feed the frenzy and infect as many people as possible before the start of the 'madness'.
Mean Green, Racermania, Catamounts, Mountain Hawks, Orange, Blue Devils and Runnin' Rebels are all pet names for the regional strain of the infection but the mother is simply referred to as "MADNESS". The funny thing about this strain of virus is that it is contained within a three week period of the year, a three week stretch of time that, if eliminated, would save multitudes from this debilitating illness and strengthen the fibers of society.
If you know someone who suffers from this disease it is best to avoid immediate contact, especially after initial diagnosis as the patient is unable to think or talk about anything other than the confusing 'bracket'. The patient is at a highly contagious state at this moment, which generally lasts for three days, and then the infection rate is much lower due to the finality of the disease. The 'bracket' is a talisman to the ill, studying it, hovering over it, debating it, cursing it, altering it, and then, finally crumpling it in disgust as their stomachs become 'upset', and a new bout of illness takes over.
Right now, in the midst of the first and second rounds of the 'madness', the disease reaches its zenith, as those afflicted terribly over the first week have either subsided into a tolerable state, having thrown their 'bracket' into the trash and have fought the virus tooth and nail. And then there are those still infected, still yabbering nonsense about a twelve over a five, and a thirteen over a four. Numbers which mean nothing to the layman, but everything to a man in the throes of the 'madness'. Money is now laid waste too, as twenty dollar bills fight for air space with the benjamins of the big spenders seeking redemption from the early rounds of losing. We are all at its mercy.
Be strong boys, be strong, and we will survive....though Kansas won't and neither will Duke after today. :)
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
ten minutes
Have we met?...
Is a line I've never heard or used before in all of my years of dating. A cliche as old as the stools at some of the bars I have been to. It's classy yet tasteless, used and useless, an ice breaker and a deal breaker. We use it as a verbal handshake, a way of becoming personal without intimacy. You hear it rarely now, but time was a man behind the marble bar in his penguin suit could utter the phrase to a milky white seductress in a black gown and get not only a demure smile, but a slight shake of the head of encouragement. Today, it's worn out and tired, much like the sophisticates of old, past their prime and watching the fading sunset of their glory years. Romance is dead, it's often heard, but it's not the heart that has slowed but the art of conversational banter that leads to romance. It's all underwritten by sex and the steps taken to get there.
The innocence of flirtation is practiced, performed, and perfected by those last great bastions of conversation...the world's bartenders.
six minutes
My secret talent...
Lies down below the stars, under the clouds, past the tree tops and down my throat. It's hard to pinpoint a secret talent because if it comes to light than it ceases to be secret, and if it doesn't come to light to practice, play, paint, draw, write or cook, then it can't really be considered a secret, now can it? Secrets are held inside, mostly in dark corners, occasionally in locked boxed, but they are not exposed to sunlight or shared with the bus driver. We keep secrets private and talents public, giving oxymorons another reason for being. I would like to say that my secret talent is writing a decent story, but I've never published and am hesitant to share stories with friends. I submit them to the scrutiny of strangers, getting no feedback, expecting none and feeling somewhat safer in that realm. Sometimes I write because I'm afraid to say what I think out loud....
Have we met?...
Is a line I've never heard or used before in all of my years of dating. A cliche as old as the stools at some of the bars I have been to. It's classy yet tasteless, used and useless, an ice breaker and a deal breaker. We use it as a verbal handshake, a way of becoming personal without intimacy. You hear it rarely now, but time was a man behind the marble bar in his penguin suit could utter the phrase to a milky white seductress in a black gown and get not only a demure smile, but a slight shake of the head of encouragement. Today, it's worn out and tired, much like the sophisticates of old, past their prime and watching the fading sunset of their glory years. Romance is dead, it's often heard, but it's not the heart that has slowed but the art of conversational banter that leads to romance. It's all underwritten by sex and the steps taken to get there.
The innocence of flirtation is practiced, performed, and perfected by those last great bastions of conversation...the world's bartenders.
six minutes
My secret talent...
Lies down below the stars, under the clouds, past the tree tops and down my throat. It's hard to pinpoint a secret talent because if it comes to light than it ceases to be secret, and if it doesn't come to light to practice, play, paint, draw, write or cook, then it can't really be considered a secret, now can it? Secrets are held inside, mostly in dark corners, occasionally in locked boxed, but they are not exposed to sunlight or shared with the bus driver. We keep secrets private and talents public, giving oxymorons another reason for being. I would like to say that my secret talent is writing a decent story, but I've never published and am hesitant to share stories with friends. I submit them to the scrutiny of strangers, getting no feedback, expecting none and feeling somewhat safer in that realm. Sometimes I write because I'm afraid to say what I think out loud....
Friday, March 12, 2010
seven minutes
I wish someone would ask me...
My opinion. I have never offered it up for sale or even just given it away. I feel it's my personal soul that hides deep in the bowels of the treasure of my body. They say opinions are like assholes, that everyone's got one, but having one and sharing one are quite different. I don't want to see your asshole unless I specifically ask to, so why are opinions so freely bandied about? I keep mine to myself, although on days like these it feels right that the world should hear what I'm thinking. Sometimes I stand in the shower practicing the art of sharing my opinion. I'll use the showerhead as my microphone, speaking into it as if a great audience were below me. And in the driving rain of the water, with my eyes closed and my thoughts as naked as my body, I tell the world my opinion.
IF TIME AND SPACE ARE CONTINUOUS
THEN WHY IS THE END NEAR?
eight minutes
This is the place where...
The British, in all of their infinite wisdom attempted to establish a coconut plantation right around the beginning of World War II. Gardner atoll lies as close to the middle of nowhere as you can get, 'out where God lost his shoes,' Captain George said as he peered through his binoculars trying to find a suitable break in teh reef to run the skiff through. George said the only thing living here were boobys, albatross, and coconut crabs as big as trash can lids, despite the rumors that Amelia Earhart's bones were part of the island history. The British abandoned their ill conceived plantation after discovering the lack of fresh water, except that which fell from the sky which would prove to be not nearly enough to survive on living along the equator. Yet, the beauty and richness of an uninhabited island lured us in allowing a stopping point for a boat full of ocean weary researchers.
SOMETIMES I WRITE BECAUSE I CANT SAY SOME THINGS OUT LOUD
I wish someone would ask me...
My opinion. I have never offered it up for sale or even just given it away. I feel it's my personal soul that hides deep in the bowels of the treasure of my body. They say opinions are like assholes, that everyone's got one, but having one and sharing one are quite different. I don't want to see your asshole unless I specifically ask to, so why are opinions so freely bandied about? I keep mine to myself, although on days like these it feels right that the world should hear what I'm thinking. Sometimes I stand in the shower practicing the art of sharing my opinion. I'll use the showerhead as my microphone, speaking into it as if a great audience were below me. And in the driving rain of the water, with my eyes closed and my thoughts as naked as my body, I tell the world my opinion.
IF TIME AND SPACE ARE CONTINUOUS
THEN WHY IS THE END NEAR?
eight minutes
This is the place where...
The British, in all of their infinite wisdom attempted to establish a coconut plantation right around the beginning of World War II. Gardner atoll lies as close to the middle of nowhere as you can get, 'out where God lost his shoes,' Captain George said as he peered through his binoculars trying to find a suitable break in teh reef to run the skiff through. George said the only thing living here were boobys, albatross, and coconut crabs as big as trash can lids, despite the rumors that Amelia Earhart's bones were part of the island history. The British abandoned their ill conceived plantation after discovering the lack of fresh water, except that which fell from the sky which would prove to be not nearly enough to survive on living along the equator. Yet, the beauty and richness of an uninhabited island lured us in allowing a stopping point for a boat full of ocean weary researchers.
SOMETIMES I WRITE BECAUSE I CANT SAY SOME THINGS OUT LOUD
Monday, March 8, 2010
If you've ever been confronted with your won mortality in an accidental situation you will know where I'm coming from today. Last night on my way home from a very nice birthday party out in the' burbs, I crossed the Willamette on the 405 bridge, taking the Kerby avenue exit. This exit is defined by a long straightaway followed by a tight turn into a stop sign, leaving not much room for error as the concrete meridian will attest with its black streaked and pocked white walls.
In my rearview I saw a fast approaching pair of square headlights in my lane. My first thought was 'goddamn cops', as police are notorious for their quick entrances into unsuspecting mirrors, but this was no cop as the car in question got RIGHT UP IN MY TRUNK, only to back off a bit at the rapidly approaching right bank turn.
Thinking she (yes, that was my first thought,that it was a woman) was now aware of the approaching turn, I eased off the brakes and coasted to the stop sign While keeping an alert eye behind me, I again realized that she wasn't a very good driver so I braced myself, took my foot slightly off the brake pedal to ready for impact, and the inevitable push into the intersection. Of course, she hit me, I slid ahead and stomped on the brake avoiding the cars already crossing in front of me. Road clear, I pulled across and got out. She slowly followed, like a dog who has shit on the carpet and knows its in trouble.
Three blondes in Daddy's 2008 sedan series BMW out doing everything but paying attention. No damage, no injuries, no police report, just a few scared (and I think high) girls maybe in their 20's cruising a Sunday night.
Chance encounters can change a life in a blink of an eye, for better or worse, yet always leaving an impression, a lasting scar that is always remembered if it was significant enough. So many things could have gone wrong last night but didn't. I have been in a handful of accidents in my day, all harmless, all less than tragic and, up until last night, all more than 15 years ago. You knock on wood, rub the rabbit's foot, utter om mani padme om a few times, and thank the stars for good fortune. Myabe it's sort of bad things happening to good people, obstacles thrown up in my way as a backhanded hint to stay vigilant, watch your back, keep the edge, and keep the good karma flowing. I'm OK with these less than monumental hurdles, it'll give me strength later on if something worse were to happen.
And until it does, I've got the eyes in the back of my head peeled and my karmic bank fully deposited. hope you do too...
In my rearview I saw a fast approaching pair of square headlights in my lane. My first thought was 'goddamn cops', as police are notorious for their quick entrances into unsuspecting mirrors, but this was no cop as the car in question got RIGHT UP IN MY TRUNK, only to back off a bit at the rapidly approaching right bank turn.
Thinking she (yes, that was my first thought,that it was a woman) was now aware of the approaching turn, I eased off the brakes and coasted to the stop sign While keeping an alert eye behind me, I again realized that she wasn't a very good driver so I braced myself, took my foot slightly off the brake pedal to ready for impact, and the inevitable push into the intersection. Of course, she hit me, I slid ahead and stomped on the brake avoiding the cars already crossing in front of me. Road clear, I pulled across and got out. She slowly followed, like a dog who has shit on the carpet and knows its in trouble.
Three blondes in Daddy's 2008 sedan series BMW out doing everything but paying attention. No damage, no injuries, no police report, just a few scared (and I think high) girls maybe in their 20's cruising a Sunday night.
Chance encounters can change a life in a blink of an eye, for better or worse, yet always leaving an impression, a lasting scar that is always remembered if it was significant enough. So many things could have gone wrong last night but didn't. I have been in a handful of accidents in my day, all harmless, all less than tragic and, up until last night, all more than 15 years ago. You knock on wood, rub the rabbit's foot, utter om mani padme om a few times, and thank the stars for good fortune. Myabe it's sort of bad things happening to good people, obstacles thrown up in my way as a backhanded hint to stay vigilant, watch your back, keep the edge, and keep the good karma flowing. I'm OK with these less than monumental hurdles, it'll give me strength later on if something worse were to happen.
And until it does, I've got the eyes in the back of my head peeled and my karmic bank fully deposited. hope you do too...
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
March. In like a lion, out like a lamb. I think all marching should be done like a lion, paws forward, chest out, tail high...none of this lamb bullshit. Strut like you mean it, march like you have something to say, announce to the world that "I AM LION AND YOU WILL HEAR ME ROAR"...ya, like that. One more time and I'll feel good about moving on with my opinion....ready?...I AM LION AND YOU WILL HEAR ME ROAR.
Good.
Now, moving on, we can safely assume that things are not going to be the same around here, that change is blowing down the road and I have my thumb out hitchhiking. I have decided that my life up to this point has been too reactive, and from this point on, my motto is going to be PROACTIVE! I've decided to start taking this so called life by the horns and start dictating how I want to live it, not how IT wants me to live.
That being said, I will be taking the easy way out here shortly and making my exit stage left and heading back to alaska to work again on the Discovery. I know, I know, it's a step backwards you're saying , and I agree with you, but I also know that we are broke and this is the best/easiest way for me to cultivate a new and better relationship with a potential employer and to make some serious change. I need to get out of the hole, and this provides a quick and easy out,although I do miss softball season and the chance to compete for the starting shortstop job at 42. DAMN.
But, with all the ease and fortuitous fast cash you see coming my way, the Sam/Matt show may still be stuck in the same place in the fall as they are now. But, you forget that the new PROACTIVE Matt is not going to let that happen because he has many new ideas, promotions, and thoughts that will allow him to continue living with this wonderful woman and push through the dreary monotony of regular nine to five jobs and find himself something that will satisfy his thirsty curiosity for the new and the strange and the highly addictive.
You will see, because I will be a better boy, more creative friend, a better listener, a more conservative shopper, a less radical air guitar player and a definitely sounder sleeper.
To which I sound off and bid everyone a good night and a good night to everyone.
Good.
Now, moving on, we can safely assume that things are not going to be the same around here, that change is blowing down the road and I have my thumb out hitchhiking. I have decided that my life up to this point has been too reactive, and from this point on, my motto is going to be PROACTIVE! I've decided to start taking this so called life by the horns and start dictating how I want to live it, not how IT wants me to live.
That being said, I will be taking the easy way out here shortly and making my exit stage left and heading back to alaska to work again on the Discovery. I know, I know, it's a step backwards you're saying , and I agree with you, but I also know that we are broke and this is the best/easiest way for me to cultivate a new and better relationship with a potential employer and to make some serious change. I need to get out of the hole, and this provides a quick and easy out,although I do miss softball season and the chance to compete for the starting shortstop job at 42. DAMN.
But, with all the ease and fortuitous fast cash you see coming my way, the Sam/Matt show may still be stuck in the same place in the fall as they are now. But, you forget that the new PROACTIVE Matt is not going to let that happen because he has many new ideas, promotions, and thoughts that will allow him to continue living with this wonderful woman and push through the dreary monotony of regular nine to five jobs and find himself something that will satisfy his thirsty curiosity for the new and the strange and the highly addictive.
You will see, because I will be a better boy, more creative friend, a better listener, a more conservative shopper, a less radical air guitar player and a definitely sounder sleeper.
To which I sound off and bid everyone a good night and a good night to everyone.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Ten minutes
Is this seat taken?...
Asked the stunningly beautiful redhead with her hands full. It was already the bottom of the third so I figured on having the empty seat next to me to hold the random detritus you bring and then somehow collect during a ballgame. Hat, jacket, beet,binoculars,half eaten bag of peanuts, program would all eventually spend some time in that seat. But not now, as beauty incarnate eyed me and my seat lasciviously. She had dark glasses covering what I imagine to be green eyes, but I could feel their intensity through the polarized lens. In one hand was a souvenir mug with expensive cheap beer while the other hand held a foot long with the works and a bun not big enough. The end of the dog pointed skyward lewdly and I couldn't help the smile starting to cross my face. She sidled by me, her breasts inches from my chest drawing my attention, however briefly, away from the game for the first time but not the last today. She sat down, said her name was Lindsey and that it was nice to meet me. I stammered a hello and quickly cracked a few peanuts to shove in my mouth while I looked for my composure. The ballgame quickly became secondary as we got the pleasantries out of the way and began to move into the realm of potential. It was 5-0 in the seventh when I asked her if she wanted to leave, beat the crowds and find a real drink.
another ten minutes
If today had a color...
It would be broken, a palette of stains neither bright nor dull. The sky morphed from blue to grey to white to black to pink, purple and red without so much as a sound. The forest reflected the light onto mossy trunks of brown, layers of green, the occasional burst of pink and the mottled tans of leafless branches. The streets were a washed out gray, the color of old dishwater too long standing, begging to be drained. Each day's color is a reflection of attitude from one person's perspective. I like to think that the brighter colors are reserved for those days when the sex was outstanding before heading off to work, or the bagel was exceptional, or the coffee barista flashed a smile that could have melted a glacier. Those are highlighter yellow, orange, neon green or pink days while at the other end of the spectrum lie those days when the alarm fails to go off, the bus is late, or you forgot to brush your teeth before heading out the door. Those days it's best to have a dark blue, purple, forest green or even brown to color the day with. I have found no days colored black or white, because we live in technicolor and nothing is that easy.
Is this seat taken?...
Asked the stunningly beautiful redhead with her hands full. It was already the bottom of the third so I figured on having the empty seat next to me to hold the random detritus you bring and then somehow collect during a ballgame. Hat, jacket, beet,binoculars,half eaten bag of peanuts, program would all eventually spend some time in that seat. But not now, as beauty incarnate eyed me and my seat lasciviously. She had dark glasses covering what I imagine to be green eyes, but I could feel their intensity through the polarized lens. In one hand was a souvenir mug with expensive cheap beer while the other hand held a foot long with the works and a bun not big enough. The end of the dog pointed skyward lewdly and I couldn't help the smile starting to cross my face. She sidled by me, her breasts inches from my chest drawing my attention, however briefly, away from the game for the first time but not the last today. She sat down, said her name was Lindsey and that it was nice to meet me. I stammered a hello and quickly cracked a few peanuts to shove in my mouth while I looked for my composure. The ballgame quickly became secondary as we got the pleasantries out of the way and began to move into the realm of potential. It was 5-0 in the seventh when I asked her if she wanted to leave, beat the crowds and find a real drink.
another ten minutes
If today had a color...
It would be broken, a palette of stains neither bright nor dull. The sky morphed from blue to grey to white to black to pink, purple and red without so much as a sound. The forest reflected the light onto mossy trunks of brown, layers of green, the occasional burst of pink and the mottled tans of leafless branches. The streets were a washed out gray, the color of old dishwater too long standing, begging to be drained. Each day's color is a reflection of attitude from one person's perspective. I like to think that the brighter colors are reserved for those days when the sex was outstanding before heading off to work, or the bagel was exceptional, or the coffee barista flashed a smile that could have melted a glacier. Those are highlighter yellow, orange, neon green or pink days while at the other end of the spectrum lie those days when the alarm fails to go off, the bus is late, or you forgot to brush your teeth before heading out the door. Those days it's best to have a dark blue, purple, forest green or even brown to color the day with. I have found no days colored black or white, because we live in technicolor and nothing is that easy.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Ten minutes
You want me to do what?
I stared at him in disbelief, not because of what he was asking me to do, but because I was the newest member of this clique and I barely knew these guys. And they didn't know me except for what little I had told them in the mock interview I did, which barely concealed my laughter and lies as I sat at one end of a long table in a seedy downtown bar while the four of them sat across from me throwing shots back and questions forward. I have always been an avid liar, able to pour my imagination onto my tongue, liberating the most vivid aspects of my tortured mind. My face remained blank as I took my time studying them, not questioning their seriousness but their audacity in believing I would do what they wanted me to do. It wasn't out of the ordinary, nor violent, grotesque or dangerous. It was a game to them, I a mere pawn, and this bar would turn into the game board if I nodded my head. Cigarette smoke rose into my streaked eyes and I turned away to feast my eyes on the sexy unknowing bartender who was just about to participate in a bizarre ritual de lo habitual that I realized later this band of elfin hooligans had propagated over and over again through out the city.
Another Ten minutes
I laughed so hard...
Spit flew out of my mouth, boogers dropped from my nose in runny bombs and I think my ears even popped. Everyday life is absurd and funny enough but when you throw an unsuspecting cat lazily preening itself on a sunny patch of driveway and an inquisitive old dog into the mix, the entire day, even the week, becomes lighter and more entertaining. We were returning from a morning stroll, nothing early but it was before noon and there was still a touch of chill in the air. Cherry blossom trees were blooming red and white all over the city and spreading the wonderful bouquet of spring down the street. I don't usually pay too much attention to Abby when she walks because she is old, smart and not likely to bother anyone or anything. But today, she ambled up this driveway in all honest dogness looking to sniff a little kitty, not scare the piss out of it. The striped tabby with the gently swishing tail had her back turned to the approaching Abby and therefore had no idea what was happening, so when she shot into the air vertically with a screech and all five appendages splayed, fear and laughter rushed over us respectively. A five foot standing vertical leap is almost impossible, but with the grace and ease of a practiced feline, this cat accomplished it and hit the ground in stride, disappearing as quickly as she could, leaving both Abby and in disbelief, and me in hysterics.
You want me to do what?
I stared at him in disbelief, not because of what he was asking me to do, but because I was the newest member of this clique and I barely knew these guys. And they didn't know me except for what little I had told them in the mock interview I did, which barely concealed my laughter and lies as I sat at one end of a long table in a seedy downtown bar while the four of them sat across from me throwing shots back and questions forward. I have always been an avid liar, able to pour my imagination onto my tongue, liberating the most vivid aspects of my tortured mind. My face remained blank as I took my time studying them, not questioning their seriousness but their audacity in believing I would do what they wanted me to do. It wasn't out of the ordinary, nor violent, grotesque or dangerous. It was a game to them, I a mere pawn, and this bar would turn into the game board if I nodded my head. Cigarette smoke rose into my streaked eyes and I turned away to feast my eyes on the sexy unknowing bartender who was just about to participate in a bizarre ritual de lo habitual that I realized later this band of elfin hooligans had propagated over and over again through out the city.
Another Ten minutes
I laughed so hard...
Spit flew out of my mouth, boogers dropped from my nose in runny bombs and I think my ears even popped. Everyday life is absurd and funny enough but when you throw an unsuspecting cat lazily preening itself on a sunny patch of driveway and an inquisitive old dog into the mix, the entire day, even the week, becomes lighter and more entertaining. We were returning from a morning stroll, nothing early but it was before noon and there was still a touch of chill in the air. Cherry blossom trees were blooming red and white all over the city and spreading the wonderful bouquet of spring down the street. I don't usually pay too much attention to Abby when she walks because she is old, smart and not likely to bother anyone or anything. But today, she ambled up this driveway in all honest dogness looking to sniff a little kitty, not scare the piss out of it. The striped tabby with the gently swishing tail had her back turned to the approaching Abby and therefore had no idea what was happening, so when she shot into the air vertically with a screech and all five appendages splayed, fear and laughter rushed over us respectively. A five foot standing vertical leap is almost impossible, but with the grace and ease of a practiced feline, this cat accomplished it and hit the ground in stride, disappearing as quickly as she could, leaving both Abby and in disbelief, and me in hysterics.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
I just recently had this idea of writing a novel based on all of these little short tidbits of stories I've been writing over the past month. It makes perfect sense for the short attention span theatre of today's society...write little snippets of stories like these ten minute vignettes I'm doing, and let people's imagination run away with them, instead of having me be their guide. That being said...here are three more blasts of fiction, written in ten minute blocks...see where it takes you.
She opened her eyes...
To the glaring blue sky framed by the tall branches of a coastal redwood. She could feel the breeze, smell the salt on the air and taste dried blood on the edges of her mouth. Blinking once, then again, she sank into the stillness that was now and without moving her head, cast her eyes about. Sound seemed to be long way away, as if she were underwater but with the crystal clarity of squeegeed glass. Her body was scratchy lying clothesless on the droppings of this forest and she wasn't sure how to achieve movement. From an unfathomable distance, strength came walking into her transfixed vision and offered a helping hand. With only her mind moving, she took the familiar crutch and in a snow-glass blur felt the whole world fall out from under her. The leaves gave way to space, the treetops receded into the blue heavens and darkness began to close the area around her vision. A "what was happening" fear quickly turned to careless relaxation as falling through time and space was effortless and peaceful.
The room was empty...
When they burst through the door of the second story apartment. Looking for the greasespots that ripped them off, Tony and Angie had followed the two hippies in the their caustic meanderings for the past two days. They had continually returned to this non-descript building on East 23rd to re-stock, re-fuel, have sex, and douse more patchouli on themselves two or three times a day. Hippies are a weird sot, and as Tony had found out, they are as opportunistic as hungry rats when it comes to dope. Not always the peace, love and "let's just get along' vibe that they make themselves out to be, but more along the lines of the 'let's get something for nothing, work the system and take advantage of every free lunch out there. It's one thing to be a drug user, quite another to be a drug thief. If you can't afford it, don't use it, a simple mantra to Tony and Angie and the principal reason they were dealers and not washed up into the corners of society like high tide detritus. They trusted their clients and their clients trusted them creating a rare network of circular good will when it came to drugs. But this was different as they surveyed the despair in the broken room of people living like animals in the third world. The only thing moving scurried from under the bed to behind the sink. A plate of filth sat on a littered table decorated by childish drawings of a junkie higher than a peach pie on Sunday.
Did you drop this?...
I found it walking down the street just north of the park I usually see you in. I happened to be out watching the trees slowly come out of their winter hibernation, seeing the new moms with their spring packages all tucked into warmth, and the dogs loping idiotically behind. It looked lonely and cold, not exactly dressed for the weather and seemingly out of place here in the city. You have one of those kind faces with smiling eyes that I think fondly of when I see something in my imagination that belongs to you. I wonder if you know it's missing, if you think you just misplaced it or you have a hole in your day because you know, just know deep down in your soul, that it up and walked out on you. In that case, should I try and return it, or tuck it in with me, feed it, love it, nurture it and watch it grow into a beauty only the stars can imagine?
What do you do with a found broken heart?
She opened her eyes...
To the glaring blue sky framed by the tall branches of a coastal redwood. She could feel the breeze, smell the salt on the air and taste dried blood on the edges of her mouth. Blinking once, then again, she sank into the stillness that was now and without moving her head, cast her eyes about. Sound seemed to be long way away, as if she were underwater but with the crystal clarity of squeegeed glass. Her body was scratchy lying clothesless on the droppings of this forest and she wasn't sure how to achieve movement. From an unfathomable distance, strength came walking into her transfixed vision and offered a helping hand. With only her mind moving, she took the familiar crutch and in a snow-glass blur felt the whole world fall out from under her. The leaves gave way to space, the treetops receded into the blue heavens and darkness began to close the area around her vision. A "what was happening" fear quickly turned to careless relaxation as falling through time and space was effortless and peaceful.
The room was empty...
When they burst through the door of the second story apartment. Looking for the greasespots that ripped them off, Tony and Angie had followed the two hippies in the their caustic meanderings for the past two days. They had continually returned to this non-descript building on East 23rd to re-stock, re-fuel, have sex, and douse more patchouli on themselves two or three times a day. Hippies are a weird sot, and as Tony had found out, they are as opportunistic as hungry rats when it comes to dope. Not always the peace, love and "let's just get along' vibe that they make themselves out to be, but more along the lines of the 'let's get something for nothing, work the system and take advantage of every free lunch out there. It's one thing to be a drug user, quite another to be a drug thief. If you can't afford it, don't use it, a simple mantra to Tony and Angie and the principal reason they were dealers and not washed up into the corners of society like high tide detritus. They trusted their clients and their clients trusted them creating a rare network of circular good will when it came to drugs. But this was different as they surveyed the despair in the broken room of people living like animals in the third world. The only thing moving scurried from under the bed to behind the sink. A plate of filth sat on a littered table decorated by childish drawings of a junkie higher than a peach pie on Sunday.
Did you drop this?...
I found it walking down the street just north of the park I usually see you in. I happened to be out watching the trees slowly come out of their winter hibernation, seeing the new moms with their spring packages all tucked into warmth, and the dogs loping idiotically behind. It looked lonely and cold, not exactly dressed for the weather and seemingly out of place here in the city. You have one of those kind faces with smiling eyes that I think fondly of when I see something in my imagination that belongs to you. I wonder if you know it's missing, if you think you just misplaced it or you have a hole in your day because you know, just know deep down in your soul, that it up and walked out on you. In that case, should I try and return it, or tuck it in with me, feed it, love it, nurture it and watch it grow into a beauty only the stars can imagine?
What do you do with a found broken heart?
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Eight Minutes
Afraid to see his face...
By the time they had left the smoky confines of that downtown bar she was no longer sure of her desires. They had been eating and drinking since the light of day, and now, pushing three in the morning, and staggering into the rain soaked street she had only heard the horn and screech of brakes. His head had turned into the oncoming light only to be whiplashed over the hood and into the windshield. A scream aimed at silence rose from her throat and bounced down the street like a golf ball on a cart path. The car stopped, blinking angry red tail lights and a door opened spilling a teetering man onto the pavement. His head was bleeding as disbelief flooded over his body. She moved closer to the scene, afraid of everything, including the pile of humanity prone on the hood of the late model Lexus. Walking as though dreaming, the driver's voice came through as if in a fog mumbling something about drunks and their place in the world. Standing with the door in her hand, the cracked windshield had blood racing down it and his face with his closed eyes and shredded skin became unrecognizable.
Ten minutes
Distillation...
My lunch break was cut short due to the exploded juice in my bag. Goddamn eco-friendly non-toxic paper thin containers. Bring back the can and bottle. I'm all for saving the Earth and leaving the ice for the polar bears, but this green movement is over the top. Soaps that don't clean. Herbs that don't cure. Plastic that doesnt cling. Food that doesnt taste. Toothpaste that encourages cavities. Stain that doesnt stain. Gas that smells like french fries. It's a consuming world and we are at the top of the food chain looking down on the spotted owl, the wood frog, the bald eagle and the third world. We covet, we desire, want bigger better faster more and the future be damned. I don't have kids or brothers, sisters or family so, Yes I am a cynical self serving ego-centric thorn in the side of today's society. I don't care. I live my life my own way. I don't toss cigarettes out my window or trash the sidewalks but I do drive everywhere, eat tuna, smoke pot, spend money on frivolous non-renewable products, gamble and have been known to shoot a squirrel or two with a BB gun. It's not a crime to be ignorant nor is it as uncommon as you greenies may think as most people only do the right thing because of public perception. Well, FUCK THAT. We're not all angels and most of us don't desire to be. We are products of our own making, a factory rife with pollutants populating the world with would-be do-gooders with the devil on every shoulder.
Eight minutes
In my pocket...
Is the general flotsam and jetsam of any given day, but on every day ending in a "y" is cash and a tube of hemp lip balm. I'm addicted to both in the worst way. I feel utterly and completely naked without my folded bills in the left front pocket and lip goo over there on the right. If I'm wearing shorts, they cohabitate. If I'm swimming they stay home in the locker/car/backpack. They get along as well as two addictions can, being wholly independent of each other and existing in separate but overlapping universes. If it wasn't for my pants, they would have nothing whatsoever in common and might possibly jump ship and strike out on their own. My faith in them though is unwavering and steadfast. I will be less likely to leave the house without clothes on then I am to leave without my two friends. They are a part of me, a single line in the multiple page description of who I am, two small inanimate objects living in a pocket.
Afraid to see his face...
By the time they had left the smoky confines of that downtown bar she was no longer sure of her desires. They had been eating and drinking since the light of day, and now, pushing three in the morning, and staggering into the rain soaked street she had only heard the horn and screech of brakes. His head had turned into the oncoming light only to be whiplashed over the hood and into the windshield. A scream aimed at silence rose from her throat and bounced down the street like a golf ball on a cart path. The car stopped, blinking angry red tail lights and a door opened spilling a teetering man onto the pavement. His head was bleeding as disbelief flooded over his body. She moved closer to the scene, afraid of everything, including the pile of humanity prone on the hood of the late model Lexus. Walking as though dreaming, the driver's voice came through as if in a fog mumbling something about drunks and their place in the world. Standing with the door in her hand, the cracked windshield had blood racing down it and his face with his closed eyes and shredded skin became unrecognizable.
Ten minutes
Distillation...
My lunch break was cut short due to the exploded juice in my bag. Goddamn eco-friendly non-toxic paper thin containers. Bring back the can and bottle. I'm all for saving the Earth and leaving the ice for the polar bears, but this green movement is over the top. Soaps that don't clean. Herbs that don't cure. Plastic that doesnt cling. Food that doesnt taste. Toothpaste that encourages cavities. Stain that doesnt stain. Gas that smells like french fries. It's a consuming world and we are at the top of the food chain looking down on the spotted owl, the wood frog, the bald eagle and the third world. We covet, we desire, want bigger better faster more and the future be damned. I don't have kids or brothers, sisters or family so, Yes I am a cynical self serving ego-centric thorn in the side of today's society. I don't care. I live my life my own way. I don't toss cigarettes out my window or trash the sidewalks but I do drive everywhere, eat tuna, smoke pot, spend money on frivolous non-renewable products, gamble and have been known to shoot a squirrel or two with a BB gun. It's not a crime to be ignorant nor is it as uncommon as you greenies may think as most people only do the right thing because of public perception. Well, FUCK THAT. We're not all angels and most of us don't desire to be. We are products of our own making, a factory rife with pollutants populating the world with would-be do-gooders with the devil on every shoulder.
Eight minutes
In my pocket...
Is the general flotsam and jetsam of any given day, but on every day ending in a "y" is cash and a tube of hemp lip balm. I'm addicted to both in the worst way. I feel utterly and completely naked without my folded bills in the left front pocket and lip goo over there on the right. If I'm wearing shorts, they cohabitate. If I'm swimming they stay home in the locker/car/backpack. They get along as well as two addictions can, being wholly independent of each other and existing in separate but overlapping universes. If it wasn't for my pants, they would have nothing whatsoever in common and might possibly jump ship and strike out on their own. My faith in them though is unwavering and steadfast. I will be less likely to leave the house without clothes on then I am to leave without my two friends. They are a part of me, a single line in the multiple page description of who I am, two small inanimate objects living in a pocket.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
It's that time of the decade when we do battle with the networks about television coverage of the olympics, and I have to say, that this year's edition is about the worst I've ever seen. It's bad enough that we have to watch tape delayed coverage from across the globe when the events are held multiple time zones away, but why the three hour lapse in coverage when it's on the west coast of our very own country?
MONEY, my friends, pure and simple.
The olympics are about spirit, the brotherhood of humanity and the dreams of athletes worldwide. They are not about money, yet NBC has turned a premium sporting event into their own personal pinata, busting the coverage for the sake of gathering all the dollar bills they can that fall to the floor. I am as pro american as the next guy but when all I see from NBC is the good ol stars and stripes in competition I begin to wonder if I'm watching the nationals instead of the worldwide olympics. Rarely has so few countries been so poorly represented as at these games. We see lindsey, we see shaun and his boyz, we see apollo and his protege, we see the figure skaters likely to win gold, but do we see any other competitors in any detail? Nope, we get snippets of competition and unlikely stories told in sidelights, we get highlights from the 'rest of the field'. We get more commercials than the superbowl and for what? taped delayed coverage that if you had any interest at all in following you would be better off perusing the internet for scores and highlights.
It's a wonderful event that NBC prez Dick Ebersol said is going to lose money for his network. Well, I can't say I feel sorry for dick, because his worry is not my problem as all I want to see is some unbiased coverage of what is supposed to be the greatest stage in the world for its athletes. And what is Cris Collingsworth doing commentating snowboarding???? Does he know anything about the sport?
So much for biased commentating as NBC has working the biggest set of 'homers' this side of chicago and harry caray. I guess I'm cranky because we watch so little tv and what we do watch we like to be entertained by and not talked down to, or told who to root for, or be part of that great american machine that we are made out to be.
The olympics ARE fun to watch, but not on NBC.
MONEY, my friends, pure and simple.
The olympics are about spirit, the brotherhood of humanity and the dreams of athletes worldwide. They are not about money, yet NBC has turned a premium sporting event into their own personal pinata, busting the coverage for the sake of gathering all the dollar bills they can that fall to the floor. I am as pro american as the next guy but when all I see from NBC is the good ol stars and stripes in competition I begin to wonder if I'm watching the nationals instead of the worldwide olympics. Rarely has so few countries been so poorly represented as at these games. We see lindsey, we see shaun and his boyz, we see apollo and his protege, we see the figure skaters likely to win gold, but do we see any other competitors in any detail? Nope, we get snippets of competition and unlikely stories told in sidelights, we get highlights from the 'rest of the field'. We get more commercials than the superbowl and for what? taped delayed coverage that if you had any interest at all in following you would be better off perusing the internet for scores and highlights.
It's a wonderful event that NBC prez Dick Ebersol said is going to lose money for his network. Well, I can't say I feel sorry for dick, because his worry is not my problem as all I want to see is some unbiased coverage of what is supposed to be the greatest stage in the world for its athletes. And what is Cris Collingsworth doing commentating snowboarding???? Does he know anything about the sport?
So much for biased commentating as NBC has working the biggest set of 'homers' this side of chicago and harry caray. I guess I'm cranky because we watch so little tv and what we do watch we like to be entertained by and not talked down to, or told who to root for, or be part of that great american machine that we are made out to be.
The olympics ARE fun to watch, but not on NBC.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
We live in a temporary society doing temporary jobs in a temporary world, so when I get a chance to see something permanent and timeless, I stand in awe. We went out to the coast on valentine's day to get away from the concrete jungle and wallow in the immensity of the ocean. It had been too long since either of us had been there, and the beauty with which we were assaulted was amazing. The sky was littered with cottonballs, and the vast blueness of the pacific was like a riffling bedsheet. The swells could be seen from far away as we crested the coast mountains and began our descent into Cannon Beach for our day of rest, relaxation and fun in the sun.
At Oswaldt state park we left the subaru and with truman and abby began the walk thru the old growth cedar forest to the beach. Oswaldt is a big bay, framed by Cape Falcon (cheers dane) on the one side, an anonymous point on the other. The deep swells from the far reaches of the pacific filter in here, growing taller as the seafloor rises up the closer it gets to the continent. At high tide the beach was fairly nonexistent, but there was still plenty of room to roam and to listen to the thunder of the gods coming to rest against the oregon coast. It was loud, discombobulated, and chaotic, frothy whitewater everywhere with breakers screaming against gravity from one end of the bay to the other.
What I love most about the ocean is its vastness. It has an empty quality to it that stands in direct contrast to the amount of life that depends on it...for sustenance, for mental clarity, for spiritual healing, for global cooling (:) ). The ocean is always there, an eternal friend and while sitting on a driftwood log, I realized that I dont ever want to live far from the ocean again. We live two hours away, but it is WORLDS away in my opinion, a distinct class of people live in the city while another entirely different race lives out there on the edge, near the bubbling, gurgling, breathing, violent, roiling, frothy continental edge. I like it out there, love it, and cant believe I'm not out there right now.
There is the timelessness that I need. The permanence in this world, the permanence of change is what the ocean represents and to leave the world of buildings, cars, people, hustlebustle is as healing to the mind body and soul as a soothing full body massage and a glass of wine. What it is is finding your place, finding your place where it all comes together in one point of the compass. I know where my place is, have always known, but it takes living away from that point to realize it.
At Oswaldt state park we left the subaru and with truman and abby began the walk thru the old growth cedar forest to the beach. Oswaldt is a big bay, framed by Cape Falcon (cheers dane) on the one side, an anonymous point on the other. The deep swells from the far reaches of the pacific filter in here, growing taller as the seafloor rises up the closer it gets to the continent. At high tide the beach was fairly nonexistent, but there was still plenty of room to roam and to listen to the thunder of the gods coming to rest against the oregon coast. It was loud, discombobulated, and chaotic, frothy whitewater everywhere with breakers screaming against gravity from one end of the bay to the other.
What I love most about the ocean is its vastness. It has an empty quality to it that stands in direct contrast to the amount of life that depends on it...for sustenance, for mental clarity, for spiritual healing, for global cooling (:) ). The ocean is always there, an eternal friend and while sitting on a driftwood log, I realized that I dont ever want to live far from the ocean again. We live two hours away, but it is WORLDS away in my opinion, a distinct class of people live in the city while another entirely different race lives out there on the edge, near the bubbling, gurgling, breathing, violent, roiling, frothy continental edge. I like it out there, love it, and cant believe I'm not out there right now.
There is the timelessness that I need. The permanence in this world, the permanence of change is what the ocean represents and to leave the world of buildings, cars, people, hustlebustle is as healing to the mind body and soul as a soothing full body massage and a glass of wine. What it is is finding your place, finding your place where it all comes together in one point of the compass. I know where my place is, have always known, but it takes living away from that point to realize it.
Friday, February 12, 2010
In the everyday adventures of the big city unemployed, I come into contact with a bevy of different professionals doing their "professional" work, refusing to be pigeonholed into the normalcy of the working world. I popped in on a medical clinic, where girls in slinky socks and clogs mingled with secretaries wearing highnecked sweaters and gstrings, who were either acupuncturists, herbal doctors, massage technicians, or possibly even plain janes who fell into a job on the temp service site of craigslist. I stopped in to a tall building downtown, across from Powell's universe of books where I go weekly to volunteer to file random things in an ancient cabinet and there were three women and a tall smile laced man who greeted me warmly. They were curious people, asking about my day and how I was. I dropped off a CycleDeli menu in the hopes that they would order next week, but these are writers working for a nonprofit who hoard their money for books, new releases, a bottle of nice wine, and maybe a new pair of Dansco clogs for the upcoming anthology release party. Then I crossed Burnside and down into Oldtown, where my friend Sam (not the woman who lets me live with her) works in an old building with lots of windows and a habittrail of hallways and stairwells. He is a internet guru, a web designer who surfs the web like Laird Hamilton surfs pipeline. He showed me the set up, showed me the conference rooms with handmade (from recycled doors!) tables, the huge windows, the dominating Vaio video monitors on the wall and all of the young, hip, urban, funky folk who live and work there. A coworker was shovelling some food into his mouth from a styrofoam togo box, while an uneaten slice of pizza the size of a dinner plate sat untouched in front of his buddy to the left.
The point is that all of these people that I came into contact with are living the life of a professional, whether they want to be called that or not. I have never considered myself a professional, and only just recently became aware of the fact that I have/had a career. What seems funny to me is that in my former life of an Alaskan, there were very few "professionals" in my immediate world, most of whom would be reluctant to call themselves that for fear of being labeled an "adult". Most of my friends and associates were what I would call "workers", able to do most any job capably and some jobs quite proficiently. We weren't professionals at all, just people trying to get by and make some money so that we could hang out together, and bitch about working. PeterPan syndrome, I believe is what some call this infatuation with staying young and refusing to grow up, but the ability and desire to try new things, to avoid the rut of putting in years of servitude is what keeps us young not the refusal to grow up because I like my graying hair and expanding belly. I am a cook, that's what I am, but because I refuse to scale the ladder of success in that field, I find the word professional offensive.
The move down into this professional world has always felt at odds with who I am. When I was cooking here, I felt like I had to prove my worth in the cooking community and act the part of a respected professional in my class. Well, that's just not who I am and maybe that was why that experiment didn't last very long. I'm still a kid trying to get used to the idea that I have a career and a house and a fiance and a dog and a car and a stock portfolio. I also have a 31 year old woman living with me who insists that I stay young forever because she doesnt want an old man cramping her style.
The point is that all of these people that I came into contact with are living the life of a professional, whether they want to be called that or not. I have never considered myself a professional, and only just recently became aware of the fact that I have/had a career. What seems funny to me is that in my former life of an Alaskan, there were very few "professionals" in my immediate world, most of whom would be reluctant to call themselves that for fear of being labeled an "adult". Most of my friends and associates were what I would call "workers", able to do most any job capably and some jobs quite proficiently. We weren't professionals at all, just people trying to get by and make some money so that we could hang out together, and bitch about working. PeterPan syndrome, I believe is what some call this infatuation with staying young and refusing to grow up, but the ability and desire to try new things, to avoid the rut of putting in years of servitude is what keeps us young not the refusal to grow up because I like my graying hair and expanding belly. I am a cook, that's what I am, but because I refuse to scale the ladder of success in that field, I find the word professional offensive.
The move down into this professional world has always felt at odds with who I am. When I was cooking here, I felt like I had to prove my worth in the cooking community and act the part of a respected professional in my class. Well, that's just not who I am and maybe that was why that experiment didn't last very long. I'm still a kid trying to get used to the idea that I have a career and a house and a fiance and a dog and a car and a stock portfolio. I also have a 31 year old woman living with me who insists that I stay young forever because she doesnt want an old man cramping her style.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
The sun comes out along Tom McCall waterfront park in February and you would think the asylum had just opened its doors and released the patients. Airplanes buzzed overhead in continuous circles, spying on the traffic, the river, and the pulse of humanity wandering down the promenade. The kids at the USS Oregon war memorial packed their loaded apple and celebrated 4:20 a few hours early. An old black guy with a grizzled beard and milky eyes talked to his burrito while cannibalizing it at the same time. All the black clad youth stood in stark contrast to the blue sky and ghostly pallor of their exposed skin. Vampires exposed, warmth and summer on the way, slinking back into their five month coffins. Grass slithery with perceived wetness and the first traces of brave joggers without gloves and hats. Bike path brisk with noontime walkers, strollers, bikers, strutters and the pillars of any waterfront public space, the homeless.
I felt especially good today, having done my volunteer shift at Oregon Public Broadcasting (yep, im answering phones for their pledge drive:)!), made my first batch of lunches for my new business empire, the cycle deli, and then did more volunteer work filing papers and reading essays for my group Write Around Portland. A busy day. And now, as my gin sits sweating on a coaster, im thinking about going to the blazer game with samantha. We have yet to go to a game, and mr durant and his Thunder are in town, so it should be a nice pasting by the visitors.
I do have to say, that things are looking up...we have irises blooming in the front, along with crocus', and inside is a burgeoning hyacynth as well as a chia pet.
Our new fish Masta (who is a beta) is living comfortably in his cracked glass bowl while a stalk of bamboo springs out of his house, swimming his circles and eating blood worms to satisfy his sushi craving.
I felt especially good today, having done my volunteer shift at Oregon Public Broadcasting (yep, im answering phones for their pledge drive:)!), made my first batch of lunches for my new business empire, the cycle deli, and then did more volunteer work filing papers and reading essays for my group Write Around Portland. A busy day. And now, as my gin sits sweating on a coaster, im thinking about going to the blazer game with samantha. We have yet to go to a game, and mr durant and his Thunder are in town, so it should be a nice pasting by the visitors.
I do have to say, that things are looking up...we have irises blooming in the front, along with crocus', and inside is a burgeoning hyacynth as well as a chia pet.
Our new fish Masta (who is a beta) is living comfortably in his cracked glass bowl while a stalk of bamboo springs out of his house, swimming his circles and eating blood worms to satisfy his sushi craving.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Today just may be the first day of the rest of my life. last night while sitting on the couch contemplating my inherent idleness, sam and I came up with 'the next BIG thing'. It is an idea borne out of simplicity, necessity, and mr zappa's mother's of invention, an idea that transcends restaurants and food carts, drive thru fast food and sack lunches. It takes elements from all aspects of food service and wraps it into one tidy little package called...MATTY'S CYCLE DELI...hows that for a catchy name?
The more we started to think about it the bigger it got, and the better it became, and the more money we were making, and before you knew it, we were vacationing half the year in Mexico with our own private palapa and getting hitched on the beach with all of our friends enjoying rounds of tequila and beer on us. It went that fast. But truth be told, reality is a nice brisk headwind when starting a new business, and this one will be no different.
My goal is to provide a healthy, quality alternative to those people in the workplace with not enough time to go out and grab something, as well as those folks who have exhausted the lunch choices within walking distance of their places of employment. I want to make sandwiches that buck the 'subway' norm, push people out of their comfort zone by not giving them a choice, but rather forcing themselves to trust me in my creativity. Their only choice will be vegetarian or meat. I'll do the rest of the work for them. Check either box on the order sheet and your sandwich will be delivered the next day. Of course, this won't be an everyday job, god forbid, but what I'm hoping for is to develop enough of a client base where I make three deliveries to three different locales three days a week of between 10-20 sandwiches per delivery. I'm thinking 45 sandwiches a day, three days a week at twelve bucks a pop...what is that? nearly five bills a week, and doing deliveries on my bike with a rack (a very large one apparently)and a smile.
I love making sandwiches, it just might be my favorite food, and the scope of variety is endless so not only will I not get bored, but neither will my customers. I've been sitting around far too long this winter trying to figure out what to do with my time, and I think I may have hit the nail on the head with this one. It's a simple idea made
The more we started to think about it the bigger it got, and the better it became, and the more money we were making, and before you knew it, we were vacationing half the year in Mexico with our own private palapa and getting hitched on the beach with all of our friends enjoying rounds of tequila and beer on us. It went that fast. But truth be told, reality is a nice brisk headwind when starting a new business, and this one will be no different.
My goal is to provide a healthy, quality alternative to those people in the workplace with not enough time to go out and grab something, as well as those folks who have exhausted the lunch choices within walking distance of their places of employment. I want to make sandwiches that buck the 'subway' norm, push people out of their comfort zone by not giving them a choice, but rather forcing themselves to trust me in my creativity. Their only choice will be vegetarian or meat. I'll do the rest of the work for them. Check either box on the order sheet and your sandwich will be delivered the next day. Of course, this won't be an everyday job, god forbid, but what I'm hoping for is to develop enough of a client base where I make three deliveries to three different locales three days a week of between 10-20 sandwiches per delivery. I'm thinking 45 sandwiches a day, three days a week at twelve bucks a pop...what is that? nearly five bills a week, and doing deliveries on my bike with a rack (a very large one apparently)and a smile.
I love making sandwiches, it just might be my favorite food, and the scope of variety is endless so not only will I not get bored, but neither will my customers. I've been sitting around far too long this winter trying to figure out what to do with my time, and I think I may have hit the nail on the head with this one. It's a simple idea made
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
January 30, 2010
One of the joys you forget about when you live in Alaska is that of the ‘road trip’. Living in just about any other state (except Hawaii), roads are endless, spreading out in the four directions, and beckoning the wandering spirit in all of us.
If you drive a full day from Seward you might make it out of the state. A full day’s drive from Portland lands you in San Francisco. In Missoula, Montana. In Reno. And even deep into Canada if you wish. I love road trips. Love seeing the highway out in front of me, the cooler packed within arms reach, the dog resting plaintively between the seats watching, and a Sam with mismatched socks splayed on the dashboard. We pack the gear in the rocketbox on the roof next to the bikes, leaving Abby’s bed, a tote of “campstuff”, our clothes and some food inside the Subaru and off we go. And then we drive.
We did a fair bit of exploring this summer and fall but we recently drove down I-5 to California for Christmas with my family, and then I did it again solo about two weeks later to help my mom celebrate her 65th birthday. Now, road trips with family and friends and lovers are great as it’s all about the destination, not so much the journey itself, whereas the solo car ride is a more introspective endeavor filled with old songs played at great volume with bad singing accompaniment, some steering wheel drumming, a bit more flaunting of the local speed limits (hello 95 through Ashland at midnight) and maybe a more generous splash of gin in my tumbler.
Driving the I-5 corridor is a 75mph experiment of staying awake and staying between the white lines, as cops don’t care about egregious violations of speed but they do care if you are swerving at 80. The drive to Sanfran is ten hours in a straight shot, or broken up, into two manageable days by yourself. I left Portland at five in the afternoon (nice rush hour planning), drove til midnight then found a deserted little road disappearing into the Trinity wilderness and slept for eight hours in the comfort of my empty car. I cruised through the Shasta wilderness area in a blizzard, me and drive by truckers keeping pace while Kia and Mazda shuffled along at 35. I flew through he Sacramento River delta bird refuge seeing hawks on posts, geese in V formation a hundred strong, a melting sunset, countless ducks and waterfowl, and even a few deer.
I listened to the football game. I turned back the clock to the Grateful Dead and did the Jerry jam for an hour or two. I listened to cartalk. Twice in the same day (different editions!). I made up stories for the people in the cars next to me. I put my feet up on the dash while setting the cruise control to 72. I ate a chicken club at Carl’s Jr. I got excited when the odometer clicked over to 34,000 miles. I drank baileys and coffee followed by a Guinness (in the same cup).
Basically, I had a good time by myself doing exactly what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it and how I wanted to do it. It was a small bit of pleasure that I had forgotten how much I enjoyed. Sometimes we get too caught up in stereotyping aloneness, equating being alone with being lonely, but a solo road trip is anything but lonely as you have your whole head to explore and talk to.
One of the joys you forget about when you live in Alaska is that of the ‘road trip’. Living in just about any other state (except Hawaii), roads are endless, spreading out in the four directions, and beckoning the wandering spirit in all of us.
If you drive a full day from Seward you might make it out of the state. A full day’s drive from Portland lands you in San Francisco. In Missoula, Montana. In Reno. And even deep into Canada if you wish. I love road trips. Love seeing the highway out in front of me, the cooler packed within arms reach, the dog resting plaintively between the seats watching, and a Sam with mismatched socks splayed on the dashboard. We pack the gear in the rocketbox on the roof next to the bikes, leaving Abby’s bed, a tote of “campstuff”, our clothes and some food inside the Subaru and off we go. And then we drive.
We did a fair bit of exploring this summer and fall but we recently drove down I-5 to California for Christmas with my family, and then I did it again solo about two weeks later to help my mom celebrate her 65th birthday. Now, road trips with family and friends and lovers are great as it’s all about the destination, not so much the journey itself, whereas the solo car ride is a more introspective endeavor filled with old songs played at great volume with bad singing accompaniment, some steering wheel drumming, a bit more flaunting of the local speed limits (hello 95 through Ashland at midnight) and maybe a more generous splash of gin in my tumbler.
Driving the I-5 corridor is a 75mph experiment of staying awake and staying between the white lines, as cops don’t care about egregious violations of speed but they do care if you are swerving at 80. The drive to Sanfran is ten hours in a straight shot, or broken up, into two manageable days by yourself. I left Portland at five in the afternoon (nice rush hour planning), drove til midnight then found a deserted little road disappearing into the Trinity wilderness and slept for eight hours in the comfort of my empty car. I cruised through the Shasta wilderness area in a blizzard, me and drive by truckers keeping pace while Kia and Mazda shuffled along at 35. I flew through he Sacramento River delta bird refuge seeing hawks on posts, geese in V formation a hundred strong, a melting sunset, countless ducks and waterfowl, and even a few deer.
I listened to the football game. I turned back the clock to the Grateful Dead and did the Jerry jam for an hour or two. I listened to cartalk. Twice in the same day (different editions!). I made up stories for the people in the cars next to me. I put my feet up on the dash while setting the cruise control to 72. I ate a chicken club at Carl’s Jr. I got excited when the odometer clicked over to 34,000 miles. I drank baileys and coffee followed by a Guinness (in the same cup).
Basically, I had a good time by myself doing exactly what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it and how I wanted to do it. It was a small bit of pleasure that I had forgotten how much I enjoyed. Sometimes we get too caught up in stereotyping aloneness, equating being alone with being lonely, but a solo road trip is anything but lonely as you have your whole head to explore and talk to.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Stuporbowl
January 30,2010
Having listened to but not watched the last game of the playoffs while driving north from San Francisco, I had made a bet with my buddy George after watching the first quarter of the Viking-Saint game. I bet him that in his desire to be “the Man”, “the Hero”, and to have his gunslinger reputation put to rest permanently, Brett Favre would do something so insanely stupid that everyone from the casual fan to the most hardened critic (including Favre backers), would know that there isn’t room in the NFL anymore for egos as big as his. Not at quarterback anyway. He took my bet and today owes me a nice bottle of scotch.
He gave that game away. Gave it away because he needed to make a play that justified all his stupid plays in years past. He needed to complete that pass or make that first down at whatever the cost (hello, twelve men in the huddle with the game on the line???!!!) to his team. He is the consummate pro, don’t get me wrong, but when the game is on the line, he might not even be in the top ten quarterbacks I would choose to have under center in a big game.
I’m not bashing Favre but I hate what he stands for and what he is playing for now that he is out of Green Bay. He wants another ring to cement his status as the greatest ever. I can’t fault him for that, but holding teams hostage to deal with his inability to decide if he wants to play another season is insane. The Packers made the right call in letting him walk, and today are laughing all the way to the pro bowl as Aaron Rodgers has done a more than capable job of filling Brett’s shoes. What happens if no contending team wants him and only the Raiders, Bucs, and Seachickens want to sign him? Does he sign? HELL NO. Will he sign to be a backup? HELL NO.
Brett is as selfish as it gets, and in that respect he is a lot like a Major League baseball player, going to the highest bidder for their services for one year in the hopes that they have a career year and take that team to the promised land. Well, I can tell you right now, that Favre’s best year was the one he just had. Seven interceptions? Unheard of, and if he doesn’t get hurt the poor coach who has him has to play the guy just because he is a Hall of Famer.
If he was smart and willing to do the right thing, because even he knows he can’t have this kind of year again, he would tell Childress he is retiring as soon as possible so the Vikings can get on with their lives and start digging through the scrap heap of the NFL’s unwanted to find next year’s quarterback. Hey, Michael Vick, need a job?
But, because Favre is who he is, he’ll keep everyone waiting, hoping, watching, so that he can make his big announcement when the timing is right, and when the media need a story. Selfish. I’m truly sorry to all those Viking fans out there (Scotty, you listening? Riley, you too?) who have to put up with this.
And in a related story, Adrian Peterson, the greatest runner in the game today, contacts Lester ‘the molester” Hayes and wonders if he can borrow some stickum for next year.
January 30,2010
Having listened to but not watched the last game of the playoffs while driving north from San Francisco, I had made a bet with my buddy George after watching the first quarter of the Viking-Saint game. I bet him that in his desire to be “the Man”, “the Hero”, and to have his gunslinger reputation put to rest permanently, Brett Favre would do something so insanely stupid that everyone from the casual fan to the most hardened critic (including Favre backers), would know that there isn’t room in the NFL anymore for egos as big as his. Not at quarterback anyway. He took my bet and today owes me a nice bottle of scotch.
He gave that game away. Gave it away because he needed to make a play that justified all his stupid plays in years past. He needed to complete that pass or make that first down at whatever the cost (hello, twelve men in the huddle with the game on the line???!!!) to his team. He is the consummate pro, don’t get me wrong, but when the game is on the line, he might not even be in the top ten quarterbacks I would choose to have under center in a big game.
I’m not bashing Favre but I hate what he stands for and what he is playing for now that he is out of Green Bay. He wants another ring to cement his status as the greatest ever. I can’t fault him for that, but holding teams hostage to deal with his inability to decide if he wants to play another season is insane. The Packers made the right call in letting him walk, and today are laughing all the way to the pro bowl as Aaron Rodgers has done a more than capable job of filling Brett’s shoes. What happens if no contending team wants him and only the Raiders, Bucs, and Seachickens want to sign him? Does he sign? HELL NO. Will he sign to be a backup? HELL NO.
Brett is as selfish as it gets, and in that respect he is a lot like a Major League baseball player, going to the highest bidder for their services for one year in the hopes that they have a career year and take that team to the promised land. Well, I can tell you right now, that Favre’s best year was the one he just had. Seven interceptions? Unheard of, and if he doesn’t get hurt the poor coach who has him has to play the guy just because he is a Hall of Famer.
If he was smart and willing to do the right thing, because even he knows he can’t have this kind of year again, he would tell Childress he is retiring as soon as possible so the Vikings can get on with their lives and start digging through the scrap heap of the NFL’s unwanted to find next year’s quarterback. Hey, Michael Vick, need a job?
But, because Favre is who he is, he’ll keep everyone waiting, hoping, watching, so that he can make his big announcement when the timing is right, and when the media need a story. Selfish. I’m truly sorry to all those Viking fans out there (Scotty, you listening? Riley, you too?) who have to put up with this.
And in a related story, Adrian Peterson, the greatest runner in the game today, contacts Lester ‘the molester” Hayes and wonders if he can borrow some stickum for next year.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Eight minutes
In my mother’s kitchen…
Lie the trappings of a single mom with two kids and not nearly enough time to utilize the kitchen as it was meant to be pre-divorce. She took the house while Glenn (dad) moved into a condo downtown with that tramp of a secretary. She used to cook. It used to be clean. She had a marble inlay for pastry, dough and biscuits, a Wolf range and an espresso machine. Now, she drinks instant coffee, the kids crack walnuts on the marble and the oven is a convenient storage place for more stuff she won’t have time to use. We help when we can but we think mom likes the controlled chaos that is her kitchen, spending as little time as possible in it while abusing the microwave for our meals. Our dogs get the floor, a cold hard tile able to break anything but plastic and perfect for licking. They nonchalantly perch just off the room waiting for the inevitable, knowing it’s only a matter of time before something falls, splashes or spills. Smart dogs.
Twelve minutes
The sound of the gate…
Echoed behind me as I left the garden. Its hinges barely hinged so it generally slapped easily against the chain link. It was a garden of rocks and weeds and junk and statues and driftwood, scrap metal and the random plastic animal living out the rest of its life peacefully in idle bliss. It had no order to it, no real life but served as a depository for his life, and the squeaky clang of the closing gate served as a timeless reminder that this area of his world was contained. Neatly within its boundaries, the gate kept most things from escaping and spreading down the sidewalk and into the street to overtake passersby and stalled cars. Because his garden was not growing anything, friends wondered why he called it that, but to him a garden was a metaphor for a peaceful place to just exist. There was a rickety metal chair he sat in under the seedless birdfeeder to smoke cigarettes (which he dumped in ever increasing abundance in Folgers cans littered around his chair) and think about empty spaces and the problem of hunger. His garden provided a respite from the dreariness of normalcy and as the gate sometimes swung open, that world, outside normal world would infiltrate his space and irritate him. His statues would sometimes appease him, all stoic and unflinching in even the direst of circumstances, but even they are starting to show the cracks of time and he wondered if anything was truly sacred.
Ten minutes
Things I’ll miss…
No matter how hard I try to anticipate the 90 mph fastball coming out of the mechanical pitching machine, I still can’t hit it. I see the ball fine as it goes down the ramp, into the clear chute, and onto the wheel and then WHAM---it’s by me and hitting the backstop. I foul off a few of them of course, but my appreciation for major leaguers (pitchers and hitters) has risen off the charts. Until you stand in against a known entity (the pitching machine) in a controlled environment (the batting cage) where you know when, where, and what kind of pitch is coming, and STILL can’t hit it, you have no idea how much talent it takes to be in the bigs. Imagine facing Tim Wakefield for six innings (knuckleballer), then flame throwing Carlos Zumaya of the Tigers who tops out at 101 mph, then CC Sabathia’s 88mph change up that snaps your wrists in two as you try to hold up. Then in the ninth, just try to put some wood on Mariano’s split fingered nastiness. Funny thing is, you might even get two of these guys in the same at bat! I’ll swing and miss at anything tossed to me if it’s thrown at a major league park, and I can stand in wearing spikes and an old school jersey.
In my mother’s kitchen…
Lie the trappings of a single mom with two kids and not nearly enough time to utilize the kitchen as it was meant to be pre-divorce. She took the house while Glenn (dad) moved into a condo downtown with that tramp of a secretary. She used to cook. It used to be clean. She had a marble inlay for pastry, dough and biscuits, a Wolf range and an espresso machine. Now, she drinks instant coffee, the kids crack walnuts on the marble and the oven is a convenient storage place for more stuff she won’t have time to use. We help when we can but we think mom likes the controlled chaos that is her kitchen, spending as little time as possible in it while abusing the microwave for our meals. Our dogs get the floor, a cold hard tile able to break anything but plastic and perfect for licking. They nonchalantly perch just off the room waiting for the inevitable, knowing it’s only a matter of time before something falls, splashes or spills. Smart dogs.
Twelve minutes
The sound of the gate…
Echoed behind me as I left the garden. Its hinges barely hinged so it generally slapped easily against the chain link. It was a garden of rocks and weeds and junk and statues and driftwood, scrap metal and the random plastic animal living out the rest of its life peacefully in idle bliss. It had no order to it, no real life but served as a depository for his life, and the squeaky clang of the closing gate served as a timeless reminder that this area of his world was contained. Neatly within its boundaries, the gate kept most things from escaping and spreading down the sidewalk and into the street to overtake passersby and stalled cars. Because his garden was not growing anything, friends wondered why he called it that, but to him a garden was a metaphor for a peaceful place to just exist. There was a rickety metal chair he sat in under the seedless birdfeeder to smoke cigarettes (which he dumped in ever increasing abundance in Folgers cans littered around his chair) and think about empty spaces and the problem of hunger. His garden provided a respite from the dreariness of normalcy and as the gate sometimes swung open, that world, outside normal world would infiltrate his space and irritate him. His statues would sometimes appease him, all stoic and unflinching in even the direst of circumstances, but even they are starting to show the cracks of time and he wondered if anything was truly sacred.
Ten minutes
Things I’ll miss…
No matter how hard I try to anticipate the 90 mph fastball coming out of the mechanical pitching machine, I still can’t hit it. I see the ball fine as it goes down the ramp, into the clear chute, and onto the wheel and then WHAM---it’s by me and hitting the backstop. I foul off a few of them of course, but my appreciation for major leaguers (pitchers and hitters) has risen off the charts. Until you stand in against a known entity (the pitching machine) in a controlled environment (the batting cage) where you know when, where, and what kind of pitch is coming, and STILL can’t hit it, you have no idea how much talent it takes to be in the bigs. Imagine facing Tim Wakefield for six innings (knuckleballer), then flame throwing Carlos Zumaya of the Tigers who tops out at 101 mph, then CC Sabathia’s 88mph change up that snaps your wrists in two as you try to hold up. Then in the ninth, just try to put some wood on Mariano’s split fingered nastiness. Funny thing is, you might even get two of these guys in the same at bat! I’ll swing and miss at anything tossed to me if it’s thrown at a major league park, and I can stand in wearing spikes and an old school jersey.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Six minutes
The street that I live on
Is at the top of a long steep hill, surrounded by redwoods and madrones, we live in a cul de sac with two other neighbor families, six dogs, a fig tree, some cats, blackberry and raspberry rows, my two brothers and another family of five and one of four. Yes, it’s a busy cul de sac especially when my parents entertain. They like to throw parties at the house on top of the hill, mom will make endless hors d’oevres while constantly sipping her stoli martini while dad stands on the deck, meaty hand wrapped around a rocks glass full of gin, telling stories and poking the coals of the BBQ. Sometimes cars would be lined out the driveway forcing people exit in reverse order in which they came, leaving hangers on like mr. McGill fumbling for his keys, three sheets to the wind but driving home in the days before MADD was a presence.
Three minutes
On the day I was born
It was raining cats and dogs. The electricity had gone out on Oak Knoll, the wind was screaming and branches were strewn across our empty road. Of course my dad was in an airplane flying from Palm Springs to San Francisco. Of course he quit sucking on his unfiltered camels today. Of course the little Cessna he was flying caught on fire. Of course Fresno would have to do. Of course there were no rental cars but a long distance trucker making his last stop before heading north. Of course my dad made it.
Fifteen minutes
Everyone knew him as
A tinkerer, a fiddler, a noodler, someone unable to keep his hands, feet or mind still. It’s chaotic controlled energy that possesses him and it’s the closest thing to electricity I have ever seen. Even asleep, which is only rumored, his eyelids flutter, his muscles twitch, and nonsense drifts from his mouth in incomplete sentences. He has a dog that is unlike him in every way, a big lazy st. Bernard named Benson that gets tired just watching the man. Some days are spent in the garage among the dozen or so half finished projects…the lawnmower/pruner hybrid, the three wheeled bike with built in GPS, the table with six legs. Its all part of the plan, he says. The garage is his sanctuary, the place to come and drink Pabst from the self made kegerator and smoke Marlboros while letting the wonder of his mind loose on the future. Picking up a wrench, dragging on his cig, and knocking out a beat on an empty 55 gallon barrel, the sound echoes around the shop without direction. He stops and goes to the table saw, looks at it disapprovingly and moves on. This is how the day goes, moving from one thing to another with no purpose and a complete lack of intensity. He picks up a guitar nestled in the middle of a stack of tires, plugs in the amp at his feet and rips off a few Jimmy Page power chords, feeling the sound reverberate through his body. Benson watches impassively. The cigarette gets snubbed out in a BigGulp, hissing violently before becoming history.
Seven minutes
At the red light
She shook with almost uncontrollable fury. Tears fought each other to be the first down her cheeks but the swipe of an angry hand erased any notion that he would get the satisfaction of seeing her cry. It was an ugly two minute fight, a Mike Tyson affair with a left cross followed by the right hook. He was sleeping with her and she caught them in her bed, with her sheets, and her pillows. He was on top of her when he said “ wait babe I can explain.” She had finally let herself go, let herself fall in love with him only to be trampled on once again. She thought about moving to Baghdad where the only thing that could hurt her was sniper fire and bombs.
The street that I live on
Is at the top of a long steep hill, surrounded by redwoods and madrones, we live in a cul de sac with two other neighbor families, six dogs, a fig tree, some cats, blackberry and raspberry rows, my two brothers and another family of five and one of four. Yes, it’s a busy cul de sac especially when my parents entertain. They like to throw parties at the house on top of the hill, mom will make endless hors d’oevres while constantly sipping her stoli martini while dad stands on the deck, meaty hand wrapped around a rocks glass full of gin, telling stories and poking the coals of the BBQ. Sometimes cars would be lined out the driveway forcing people exit in reverse order in which they came, leaving hangers on like mr. McGill fumbling for his keys, three sheets to the wind but driving home in the days before MADD was a presence.
Three minutes
On the day I was born
It was raining cats and dogs. The electricity had gone out on Oak Knoll, the wind was screaming and branches were strewn across our empty road. Of course my dad was in an airplane flying from Palm Springs to San Francisco. Of course he quit sucking on his unfiltered camels today. Of course the little Cessna he was flying caught on fire. Of course Fresno would have to do. Of course there were no rental cars but a long distance trucker making his last stop before heading north. Of course my dad made it.
Fifteen minutes
Everyone knew him as
A tinkerer, a fiddler, a noodler, someone unable to keep his hands, feet or mind still. It’s chaotic controlled energy that possesses him and it’s the closest thing to electricity I have ever seen. Even asleep, which is only rumored, his eyelids flutter, his muscles twitch, and nonsense drifts from his mouth in incomplete sentences. He has a dog that is unlike him in every way, a big lazy st. Bernard named Benson that gets tired just watching the man. Some days are spent in the garage among the dozen or so half finished projects…the lawnmower/pruner hybrid, the three wheeled bike with built in GPS, the table with six legs. Its all part of the plan, he says. The garage is his sanctuary, the place to come and drink Pabst from the self made kegerator and smoke Marlboros while letting the wonder of his mind loose on the future. Picking up a wrench, dragging on his cig, and knocking out a beat on an empty 55 gallon barrel, the sound echoes around the shop without direction. He stops and goes to the table saw, looks at it disapprovingly and moves on. This is how the day goes, moving from one thing to another with no purpose and a complete lack of intensity. He picks up a guitar nestled in the middle of a stack of tires, plugs in the amp at his feet and rips off a few Jimmy Page power chords, feeling the sound reverberate through his body. Benson watches impassively. The cigarette gets snubbed out in a BigGulp, hissing violently before becoming history.
Seven minutes
At the red light
She shook with almost uncontrollable fury. Tears fought each other to be the first down her cheeks but the swipe of an angry hand erased any notion that he would get the satisfaction of seeing her cry. It was an ugly two minute fight, a Mike Tyson affair with a left cross followed by the right hook. He was sleeping with her and she caught them in her bed, with her sheets, and her pillows. He was on top of her when he said “ wait babe I can explain.” She had finally let herself go, let herself fall in love with him only to be trampled on once again. She thought about moving to Baghdad where the only thing that could hurt her was sniper fire and bombs.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Eleven minutes
Behind the cash register…
She sat timelessly, as worn out and tired as most of the items in this store that progress passed by. The shop sat on the edge of a two lane road one up from main street, which was only main because at one point a town existed here. With the railroad gone and tourists asking only for gas and directions, the dust in her shop never moved and the spiders in the corners were the most fascinating thing happening. She ate her sunflower seeds on a stool, with her feet in boots kicked up on the counter, and an open magazine in her lap. Rusty the dog was often taken for dead as little as he moved so she would spray his coat with the empty seeds she chewed. The sun was warm and reflected the webs in the windows and lit the filmy cans of spam on the first shelf. She had nothing to but get old and was making her sweet time. John Russell strolled in needing another tin, as regular as clockwork, John needed a new can every third day, making his way into town in a beat up Chevy always needing gas and belching out the back like a drunk redneck. He smiled, paid, tipped his ball cap and left. Two minutes of excitement and she had about worn herself out.
Fourteen minutes
It was a dark and stormy night…
When they finally had their shit together enough to pull out of the boat harbor. The sky had dropped over the mountains and settled onto the small town, closing down the lights and pushing everybody inside. It was supposed to be a fishing charter but Charley the cook knew better. He had tied down coolers, stuffed refrigerators, locked and stored the foc’s’le in preparation for a bumpy ride the next few hours. On board were friends, and friends of friends, some paying and some freebies, and the mood was light despite the foulness raising outside. Captain had his glasses up on his forehead, never a good sign, and was peeling out of his rain gear when the first wave came over the bow showering the wheelhouse in saltwater. Looks like a long night, he muttered, staring into the endless darkness. The lights in the salon were on and cards were already being dealt amidst beer bottles and rocks glasses, laughter echoing around the cozy windowed room. Peaceful inside, raging out, swells rocked the old boat port to starboard as we crossed one of the many fjords leading from this channel. We were heading to the southwest corner, near where the fleet had been a month or so ago, hoping to pick up where they left off and drag some fresh fish aboard to take home. Late September is late almost everywhere to be fishing, but the forecast promised better things to come as this low was pushing fast and hard and expected to pass by morning.
Ten minutes
Drinking my tea…
Is a ritual. A ritual performed over two weeks twice a year, otherwise I drink coffee. Tea is reserved for when I am fasting, it becomes my meals, my home away from home, my comfort zone and I line up multiple boxes on the counter (up to six or seven varieties, all decaffeinated) and abuse the same mug over and over again. I’m not a tea drinker for a number of reasons, but I think the biggest is that it is false advertising. That vanilla ginger chai that smells divine? Tastes nothing like it smells. A weakly flavored hot water with that distinct leafy grass smell, but I drink it while fasting because plain water is boring, caffeine (ergo, coffee) is off limits, as is booze and soda. When my dad shunned coffee due to his blood pressure, he switched to having a cup of hot water with his toast and sports page in the morning. I’m preparing myself then for the inevitability of quitting coffee when I’m older and rueing the day already. Tea just doesn’t have the body, the strength, the robust character coffee has. Tea is like the ninth batter in an American league lineup, the weakest of hitters, but required because the rules say you have to have nine.
Eight minutes
The greyhound station in Provo…
Is strewn with the bodies of people looking for the exit. Out of Provo, out of Utah and away from the suffocating oppression of Mormonism. I had stalled here on my way to Colorado for a summer of hitchhiking around the west. Being dropped off after an all night push through the desert by a young Mormon rebel who had driven out of the state to buy dope and beer, I found myself on an early Sunday morning high as a cloud in the sky with a nice buzz tagging along for good measure. The next bus away from here wasn’t for another three hours and it was going to Cheyenne. I hadn’t thought about Wyoming, or anything else for that matter lately, but it seemed as good a place as any to check out. I bought my ticket from an old white guy behind a plate glass window with a speaker hole. I slid my money into the slot and received change and a stub that would permit me to leave.
Behind the cash register…
She sat timelessly, as worn out and tired as most of the items in this store that progress passed by. The shop sat on the edge of a two lane road one up from main street, which was only main because at one point a town existed here. With the railroad gone and tourists asking only for gas and directions, the dust in her shop never moved and the spiders in the corners were the most fascinating thing happening. She ate her sunflower seeds on a stool, with her feet in boots kicked up on the counter, and an open magazine in her lap. Rusty the dog was often taken for dead as little as he moved so she would spray his coat with the empty seeds she chewed. The sun was warm and reflected the webs in the windows and lit the filmy cans of spam on the first shelf. She had nothing to but get old and was making her sweet time. John Russell strolled in needing another tin, as regular as clockwork, John needed a new can every third day, making his way into town in a beat up Chevy always needing gas and belching out the back like a drunk redneck. He smiled, paid, tipped his ball cap and left. Two minutes of excitement and she had about worn herself out.
Fourteen minutes
It was a dark and stormy night…
When they finally had their shit together enough to pull out of the boat harbor. The sky had dropped over the mountains and settled onto the small town, closing down the lights and pushing everybody inside. It was supposed to be a fishing charter but Charley the cook knew better. He had tied down coolers, stuffed refrigerators, locked and stored the foc’s’le in preparation for a bumpy ride the next few hours. On board were friends, and friends of friends, some paying and some freebies, and the mood was light despite the foulness raising outside. Captain had his glasses up on his forehead, never a good sign, and was peeling out of his rain gear when the first wave came over the bow showering the wheelhouse in saltwater. Looks like a long night, he muttered, staring into the endless darkness. The lights in the salon were on and cards were already being dealt amidst beer bottles and rocks glasses, laughter echoing around the cozy windowed room. Peaceful inside, raging out, swells rocked the old boat port to starboard as we crossed one of the many fjords leading from this channel. We were heading to the southwest corner, near where the fleet had been a month or so ago, hoping to pick up where they left off and drag some fresh fish aboard to take home. Late September is late almost everywhere to be fishing, but the forecast promised better things to come as this low was pushing fast and hard and expected to pass by morning.
Ten minutes
Drinking my tea…
Is a ritual. A ritual performed over two weeks twice a year, otherwise I drink coffee. Tea is reserved for when I am fasting, it becomes my meals, my home away from home, my comfort zone and I line up multiple boxes on the counter (up to six or seven varieties, all decaffeinated) and abuse the same mug over and over again. I’m not a tea drinker for a number of reasons, but I think the biggest is that it is false advertising. That vanilla ginger chai that smells divine? Tastes nothing like it smells. A weakly flavored hot water with that distinct leafy grass smell, but I drink it while fasting because plain water is boring, caffeine (ergo, coffee) is off limits, as is booze and soda. When my dad shunned coffee due to his blood pressure, he switched to having a cup of hot water with his toast and sports page in the morning. I’m preparing myself then for the inevitability of quitting coffee when I’m older and rueing the day already. Tea just doesn’t have the body, the strength, the robust character coffee has. Tea is like the ninth batter in an American league lineup, the weakest of hitters, but required because the rules say you have to have nine.
Eight minutes
The greyhound station in Provo…
Is strewn with the bodies of people looking for the exit. Out of Provo, out of Utah and away from the suffocating oppression of Mormonism. I had stalled here on my way to Colorado for a summer of hitchhiking around the west. Being dropped off after an all night push through the desert by a young Mormon rebel who had driven out of the state to buy dope and beer, I found myself on an early Sunday morning high as a cloud in the sky with a nice buzz tagging along for good measure. The next bus away from here wasn’t for another three hours and it was going to Cheyenne. I hadn’t thought about Wyoming, or anything else for that matter lately, but it seemed as good a place as any to check out. I bought my ticket from an old white guy behind a plate glass window with a speaker hole. I slid my money into the slot and received change and a stub that would permit me to leave.
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