Favorites 4.23.15


Guys And Power Tools: A cliche, yeah, but still hot.

Sip: The pricey juice carts you can find around town. I’m too lazy to juice myself—but unfortunately I’m addicted to that life-affirming shit, and so I’ll gladly part with my hard-earned loot to have someone else serve it to me.

Bryce Street: A mythical lane (sometimes I can find it, sometimes I can’t) that takes you like a wormhole from inner Northeast where all the bars are to further-out NE where my house is without bother of stoplight or traffic. When you’re tired and/or tipsy, there’s nothing better—hope I stumble upon it this weekend.

Steady Rollin': Dusty tune straight outta SF. My bud Cairo got me hooked on this one—makes you want to get behind the wheel and go.

Just You & Me & The Dead Milkmen


The Dead Milkmen played last night at the Wonder Ballroom—and I went to see ’em. Why wouldn’t I?!

It’s weird, because I was just thinking about them. Are the Dead Milkmen on your mind a lot? Not me. Kinda rare, in all honesty.

So, the fact that I’d been simmering on them, and then the fact that suddenly they were touring through town, and then the fact that suddenly a friend called me all last min to say he had an extra ticket—well, it seems pretty fated, yeah?

ANYWAY, I was tired as a dog but you can’t not be happy at a Dead Milkmen show. Love their tunes. Love their energy. Love how fucking funny they are on stage. Love, love, love their lyrics—best lyrics of any band ever, maybe???!!!! Just rad old guys playing rad old music for a crowd of nerds and weirdos just like me.


Twice A Year


On Tuesday we had a storm. Thunder was involved—and a rainbow. Everything you could ask for from a storm, really.

I grew up on thunder. There is a wildness about it that’s to love. Around here, it thunders, like, twice a year, though.

Tuesday: I didn’t even know it was gonna be THAT kind of storm. It caught me by surprise on an evening dog walk that almost didn’t  happen. We were feeling lazy but decided to go anyway.

My first step on the sidewalk, the thunder cracked, a few blocks from my house, a rainbow unfolded, and still further on, sun beams pierced the downpour—turning the rain into a kinda shower of light.

I guess what I’m saying here is thank god for dogs and the way their sad droopy eyes coerce you into walking outside when you were inclined to stay in. Outside is, of course, where all the good stuff happens.


Friday Afternoon

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I am not extremely wise, but I know enough to know that nothing productive ever happens on Friday afternoon. It’s been a long motherfuckin week, and you’re always in this addled, noncommittal headspace that isn’t conducive to doing any kind of work at all.

My new thing, then, instead of sitting there with my hands hovering over my keyboard, is to launch off on a walkabout.

Because it’s good to walk. Walking, like all the other slow things in life, is meditative. As is staring over the precipice of a towering cliff. As is the wind from an oncoming storm. As is the lacework of yellow flowers in the fields. As are the birds slipping through the tall grass and following us with their songs.

Three Things


New car: I did not “bargain hard.” I’m civilized, I just paid what they asked. It’s possible that I got hosed. Actually, I’m feeling pretty broke now—but Lefty’s happy and anything for the kid, ya know?

Front stoops: I wish I had a front porch. What is it about them? They’re better than back porches. There’s a potentiality there—hanging on the stoop, you could see someone you know and yell hey and they might come over and tell you about a show or a party going on later, maybe, or you could see a cute dog walking by and go out to force cuddle it, et cetera. The other night, we sat on Colleen’s front porch, under white twinkly lights, safe from the spring rain, and everyone felt really happy and comfortable to be among friends and to not be stuck inside.

The Drop: A hard-boiled Brooklyn crime movie with a crazy little twist at the end. Y’all know how I feel about Tom Hardy (he’s my guy), but James Gandolfini (RIP) and Noomi Rapace (the chick from the Swedish Girl With The Dragon Tattoo movies) are so, so great, too.

Ball Sports

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Check it out. To people who grew up punk, these ball sports that all the regular folk were playing and taking for granted are actually really weird and hard. Case in point: our new intramural softball team for Unheard Distribution. “The Unhearders,” we’re called, and at our first game last night, we lost. Like, BAD—28 to 2, in all honesty.

In the outfield, Daniel kept complaining that he had to pee. Covering second base, Johnny was outrun by a lady in yoga pants. Up to bat, Kristina swung at fucking everything (and missed fucking everything!). I was unable to catch a single ball, even the pop fly that the gods sent straight to me like a beam of light.

I really wish you could’ve been there, because you woulda laughed, and people need laughter in their lives, right?

Side note: Tennis is just as tough. Have you played lately? Fucckkkkkkkk.

Spring Scene

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Can you believe we live in a place where all the trees bloom at once and you can look out your front window in the morning to see a yard awash in sun and trees dressed in all manor of color causing petals to fall through the air everywhere like snow and and and …. It’s pretty remarkable. The color and the warmth and the light forces a kind of unexpected happiness on you in a way that, maybe, you haven’t experienced in a long time.

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Favorites 3.26.15


Chilled Sake: Not hard alcohol, but not really wine, either. Crisp, austere … it’s cold but it warms you up.

How It Smelled Yesterday Morning In Portland, Oregon: Damp, really rich, drenched in deep forest mysteries. If you inhaled and closed your eyes, you could see little white flowers and fauns prancing around.

Acupuncture: It doesn’t matter why you’re getting it. Just let ’em stick you with the tiny needles, and then lay back and sail away on a sea of endorphins. It’s dreamy.

Listen Up Phillip: The movie a meaner, angrier Wes Anderson might’ve made.

New Beginnings

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Check it out. Everyone just thinks of mini ramps as things to screw around on—jungle gyms for adults or something. But what a mini ramp really is, or can be anyway, is a community.

I got my ass handed to me a couple years ago by circumstance. I was engaged, did y’all know that? And I owned a business together with my man. Both things went away, right around the same time. Reality bent, disorientation unfolded … but the show must go on.

Circumstantially, I started skating this one backyard mini ramp a lot. Here, slowly, I collected all of these shining people who are now my shining family. To all who wander or are lost, see, there’s always a new somewhere to turn.

This is all just a long-winded way of telling you that that ramp’s gone now. Wet Northwest winters had done a number on its bones. We tore the thing out and took the last wood to the dump yesterday. Sure, it was a little sad. Like with an old, sick dog, though, we knew it was time to put it down.

But! A new ramp’s coming! Different dimensions, fresh strong wood all smelling of sap. Maybe see ya there this spring?


Me, back then. Fun = good for mind and body. 


Benjamin H. Graham in that nice afternoon light.


Unscrewing. The opposite of getting screwed. 


Bye bye, baby.


A cozy Sunday at the dump with my bests.