.Sherowski Daily.

Coming down off a bananas trip to Colorado—not to visit the family, but to cover a sporting event of ludicrous proportions. I did see the fam for a second, though. Ate a quick lunch in a book-store cafe where nephew Patrick procured a book about paper airplanes. Awesome. Anyway, an observation: Twittering and Web-casting, have you heard of these things? They are apparently a pretty essential part of modern journalism, but … this sort of technology makes me uncomfortable. I just want to write stuff down in a notebook and then not be able to read it later when it’s seasoned into cryptic, coffee-stained nonsense. Is that so wrong? I’m not sure if it’s cliché or not to eschew new technology, but I can’t seem to help it. Hell, though, I’ve got this thing you’re reading, so I can’t be a total caveman. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m down—but only to a certain point, you know?

I’ve been home for two days and I’m still tired. However, I did manage a jaunt up to Windell’s to skate the ‘new stuff.’ It was a little wet, but no big deal, I wasn’t in the mood to really get too raw—just down to relax into some mini-rampin’ and catch up on some Northwest living.

Little Cathy grinded right over the pyramid thingy.

Dry season, where are you?

Peter Gunn pivot, captured sniper-style.

Dusk came quickly and quietly, on little cat feet.

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RIP: J.D. Salinger! He died at 91 on Wednesday in New Hampshire, his last published work was in 1965. He was not my absolute favorite author ever, but I did love Franny And Zooey, and Raise High The Roof Beams, Carptenter. Strange sad news!

Anyway…..

In other news, Aspen, people! Oh man I’ve really been getting out of my comfort zone. You know I’m more of a behind-the-scenes person—I deal in words, not images. But….I had to actually do professional athlete interviews in front of a camera and the result is that I’ve been painfully reminded about what an awkward-ass dork I am. It’s bad. Serously. But funny. And shit, who cares? Everybody’s gotta eat! Check out some of the boarding, though, double flips and 1260s. Pretty bananas.

Video bros Justin and Gary.

I know, you think it’s Chamonix, right? It’s just the top of the lift at Buttermilk.

Fawn-skin seat covers at a mansion that Target rented. As a vegetarian I do not approve. That bro is about to tell me, “No Photos!!”

Another pretty picture from the plane window the other day. Mt. Hood, ain’t she lovely?

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Hello. How are you? I’m at the Portland airport sitting in a pool of sunshine reading about Jacques Cousteau. Things could be worse. About Cousteau: “He didn’t particularly care about money as long as he had enough, and his chief financial tactic was simply going out and getting more cash when he ran out.” That’s good style. He was down for living only in the now—no rehashing things past or backward-looking. “The road to paradise is paradise,” he said, quoting an old Spanish proverb.

Anyway, off to Aspen in 53 minutes, and officially “on assignment.” Over and out….

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I was just easing into Saturday evening when I hit a bit of a road bump—a cold to to end all colds. This is okay, however, because my life is relatively undemanding, although my job does require active thought, which can be difficult with a head full of sauerkraut. Anyhoo, I would like to report about a few things that have given me joy as of late. Are you down?

Lonesome Dove: Great, you’re thinking, of course she’d get caught up watching some faded cowboy mini series that aired back in ’89. But—get this—it’s magnificent. The show chronicles a group of Texas Rangers moving cattle from the Mexican border up to Montana. Such a hard glorious life they lived back then. The scenery, amazing, and the acting, good god, the acting. Tommy Lee Jones, you can know the sun rising and setting purely by the emotion portrayed on his face in a single scene. And Robert Duvall, he has the corner on gleeful bad-assness. It’s two DVDs containing three hour-long episodes. We started watching it on a whim and just couldn’t stop. In fact, we still say to each other every now and then, “I miss Lonesome Dove.”

Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern: Culinary “adventurer” Andrew Zimmern travels the world eating outlandish stuffs with the locals. No, it’s not rocket science. But—there’s something about this guy. He doesn’t pull any punches, about himself, about the crap he’s eating, or about those smiling folks handing it to him. He’s sharp and witty, but … he’s also completely consumed by the sheer joy of eating. It’s remarkable. Some of my favorites are Ethiopia (raw, fly-covered camel meet and other spoiled things), Samoa (raw sea snail), Uganda (goats blood, cows blood, and other congealed substances). Anyway, it’s on the Travel Channel, but I just “watch instantly” on Netflix.

Janis Joplin, “Me And Bobby McGee”: Just. Listen. The raw beauty, it will get you.

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This just in: in three week’s time, i’ll be on assignment in the nether-regions of foreign continents. Where, you ask? Let’s just say, I can’t spell it, but I’m going there.

In other news, rain, and more rain, but a trip to Colorado on next week’s horizon, which should bring a dose of exquisite vitamin D and some much needed face time with good old friend Tricia. Exciting!

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Okay, I’m gonna say it. I’m all set with the rain. I need some sunshine in my life. So, to spring: “Let us taste Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls Upon our lovesick land that  mourns for thee…”

To Spring

By William Blake

O Thou with dewy locks, who lookest down

Through the clear windows of the morning, turn

Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,

Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!

The hills tell one another, and the listening

Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn’d

Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth

And let thy holy feet visit our clime!

Come o’er the eastern hills, and let our winds

Kiss thy perfumed garments: let us taste

Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls

Upon our lovesick land that  mourns for thee.

O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour

Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put

Thy golden crown upon her languish’d head,

Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.

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I watched The Cove last night. Maybe you’ve heard about it? It’s less of a documentary and more of a punch to the gut. Dolphin slaughter along the Japanese coast in the name of greed and the billion dollar “captive animal” industry. Yep, fucking Seaworld. See, dolphins are sentient beings, as self-aware as humans. Getting them into the tank at your local sea park means sourcing them from what pretty much amounts to concentration camps in places like Taiji, Japan—where the ones who don’t get picked are slashed and stabbed until the water runs red. I don’t want to go on and on, but … I felt sick watching this. Discouraged about humanity. And also, recognizing those self-same longings to watch, touch, and be near these strange, awesome beasts in my very own makeup—the exact same gross human curiosity that keeps these sea parks in business! Ugh. Stick to glimpsing them in wild, people, and I will do the same.

Not that petitions do a damn thing, but go here to sign one and feel like you’re making some kinda difference. I did.

Anyhoo, on a lighter note, Lance and I were snapped by the paparazzi at Nemo this weekend, where we attended the Portland stop of Jeffy’s traveling art show, I Am Snowboarding. Yobeat got the full story—don’t be shy, paddle over and check it out.

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I’m on deadline right now, so I’ll leave you with some juicy pics of the past weekend—Friday birthday bash at Nike warehouse, Saturday wheels on concrete in the Portland suburbs. Did you have any New Year’s resolutions? Yeah, me neither….

Ashley turned 27, so we surprised her at Nike skatepark. I parked right in front though and blew the whole surprise element. Oops. Anyway, it ain’t a party without a piñada. Scott’s about to take a swing at it.

Or maybe take a swing at Ashley?

Or maybe swing around in the air molecules nowhere near the piñada.

Lovejoy and George were there.

And Steve and his little lass…

Melissa baked one of her luscious chocolate sculptures.

And these people … well, they were obviously up to no good.

The birthday girl with a beer and a bag of candy. That’s good style.

The next day the mountain popped out of the clouds and we went to Beaverton park and a loading dock near Hillsboro.

Billy back tail!

Lance leapt around like a cat.

And the sun … the sun finally came out after three weeks or so. Just a quick visit, allowing everyone to relax for a sec and feel the warmth on their backs. And then just like that, we stepped back into the chill.

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It snowed in Portland on December 30th. About four inches when all was told. Growing up in the smack middle of the Rockies where it dumps from November to May, I now suddenly appreciate the magnificence of a once-a-year snowstorm. People run outside homes and office buildings to see the stuff for themselves. Businesses close down. Cars are left abandoned and folks prance down the middle of roads amidst snowball fights. In a city that’s usually wet and gray like an old ragged towel, the snow always purifies, always energizes, always makes things clean and festive and new.

Look, I’m wearing white jeans for a muddy wet bike ride. Awesome.

The neighbor’s creepy Christmas seal under a few inches of fresh.

What else? Well, a new year, and lost of changes. One of them being longtime awesome roommate Traci buying a house with her man, one Mr. Jamie Weller, over on Duke Street. They moved out the last load yesterday and I must say, the house suddenly feels cavernous, silent, empty. I find myself missing the “Ksssshhhhsssh” of a Keystone Light opening at all hours of the day. But serious congrats are in order for these two. They have a long road of painting, tearing down, and building back up again, but it’s all in the good name of having a little corner of the earth to call your own.

Traci, in her new spot. That crust brown carpet’s gotta go.

Luckily, there’s hard woods under there. And if you look closely, the ink from decades’ old Laurel & Hardy newspaper cartoons transfered onto them. A hidden treasure!

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A bit of news that knocked the wind out of me: “Vic Chesnutt died in Athens, Georgia this afternoon, Friday 25 December.”

A wee week or two ago I posted a link to an NPR interview with him. A new album out with Fugazi’s Guy Picciotto, a fresh, sorta hopeful take on existence. As a  quadriplegic who waged war on depression and alcoholism, Chesnutt made dark stuff—but there was redemption in there, too. Now, though, suddenly gone. Just like that. In a wink of stardust and a blast of cold air. “There’s widespread speculation on the Web, but no confirmation, that Chesnutt committed suicide.” At times like this, I say boo for free will. Boo.

But … that’s no way to start a new year.

So, considering certain lighter facets to existence, an NPR thingy about finding God in the Coen brothers’ movies. See, this chick Cathleen Fasani wrote a book called The Dude Abides: The Gospel According To The Coen Brothers.” Interesting stuff in there. According to her, Jeff Bridges’ “the dude” character in The Big Lebowski is a mystical figure, a “righteous soul.” Says she, “There’s a deep centeredness to the dude. He’s not a perfect man—but a pure spirit.” Ha. Love me some sociology like this.

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