3 Things


The road to Moab: Headed south to Southern Utah next week to meet moms and pops, to meet sister and nephew Pat. There, I plan to wander the red rocks, smell sage brush on the wind, and see as many desert sunsets as possible.

Work dreams: Got a couple humungous projects weighing me down. I know that I’ve been working a lot lately because I’ve been dreaming about it. Dreaming about words and sentences. Isn’t that sad? Instead of spinning into strange watery landscapes where I ride ocean liners with my mom and then jump off towering cliffs into the pale, shining waves, I’m just sitting there trying to come up with taglines. It’s lackluster. It’s too REAL. I don’t want real life when I close my eyes, I want fucking fairy tales.

Black Mass: Hard boiled. Exceptionally acted. It’s one of the best modern-day gangster stories evahhhh, if you can get over the facial prosthetics that make Johnny Depp look like a blue-eyed cyborg. Which I couldn’t.

Positively October


The first week of October, already gone. And I turned 30 something last week. It was the loveliest day, I barely did a thing. Worked a little, skated a little, laid on the deck in the sun with the cat.

As I got to reminiscing on the past year, I realized something: this summer was the very best summer of my life. At least in recent memory. In non little kid memory. It came on hot and fast. We went swimming every weekend. I skated a ton and went out a ton—on warm Saturday nights, always pedaling my bike down Alameda Street, headed toward Alberta, toward friends, toward tacos. Brooding was near non existent, and wasted angst was kept to a minimum. It was great, I did what I wanted … which is all you could ever really ask for in a summer.

Anyway, it should make all y’all 20 somethings glad to know. Things never dry up. There’s always more. Nope, no shortage of bounty as the years go on. Trying to say the good times will be over at such and such an age—hey that’s just a myth we keep telling ourselves.






Favorites 9.29.15


Blood Moons: Lucky for me, the moon rises right outside my front door. On Sunday night, it arrived a deep, dusty red. In a time before social media, what we did was simply look at the lunar eclipse—some of us wondering about its dark celestial mysteries. Now, we can take pictures with our iPhones! (P.S. I borrowed this pic from my friend Kurt. I doubt it was taken with an iPhone. And for the record I deem astronomical happenings to be plenty worthy of a tap or two.)

Toasted sage: I didn’t know that you could chop and cook sage until it was crisp and then sprinkle it on such things as squash and spaghetti to add fragrance and crunch. I mean, did you?

No roommates: I had roommates all summer and the last of ’em just left. Now the house is super quiet and warm with fall light. I love having the place filled with people, laughter, etc.—but then eventually it’s so nice to be totally all by yourself.

Backyards of Portland: Perfect for the kind of fall days when you want skate and be with friends but make very little effort and deal with zero skatepark undesirables.


September 25th


It’s September 25th. It’s officially fall. Most of which you already knew. Work has been wild, I’ve been chained to the desk. That’s okay—good, even, because mortgages must be paid and brainpower must not go unused, lest it be lost for good under a pile of dust somewhere.

Seasons-wise, I’m down for fall. Then again, I’m down for all the seasons (excepting the month of February, which you can have cuz I just don’t want it).

I’ve been trying hard to adjust to the fall stuff this year, though. The rain and the darkness. Calibration has been a little bumpy. I feel blah. Like I’m not getting out. The darkness comes swiftly and catches me unawares. “I was gonna go skate tonight!” I think. “I was gonna go wander!” I’ve got to reset the schedule, retune the frequency. Plug into the dark fall vibrations and start feeling the tremulous energy that they bring…

A Word About Capes


On Sunday I hiked from Short Sands beach to a precipice overlooking the cold Pacific. This precipice had the regal name of Cape Falcon. Now, sometimes when I hike alone I’ll listen to music, or WTF by Marc Maron. Sometimes it’s better not to, though. Then you can do all that thinking that walking seems to induce. Range around on such far-flung topics as what you’re going to eat for lunch and the state of your spiritual well being. Foggy sunlight, like juice, runs through the trees. The views come and go. And finally, out at the “cape,” where you’re dripping in sweat, the skyline’s all hidden in mist. The only thing to do now is look down at the craggy coastline and think about more immediate things, like the fact that you’re standing at the  very edge of the continent with nothing between you and Japan but a few million whitecaps. Whoa.



2 Things

R.I.P. Junk Spot: As stated elsewhere, our friend Nick and some other guys had this rad, renegade skate spot in New Jersey going. It was there, now it’s gone. Plowed by a landowner-hired thug the other day. I was lucky enough to slash it in May when I went through NYC … The streets really are ever changing—don’t take anything for granted.

Bye, Summer: Last Saturday was like summer’s last stand. 85 in the shade. We all went to the beach, even the babies and dogs, and sent off the warm months with a beer and a swim.



Hey California

Screen Shot 2015-09-15 at 2.07.58 PM

I didn’t like living in California and never wanted to be a “Californian.” It was nothing personal. I just felt super strangled by the huge population and all that SoCal showmanship. Also, get this—I didn’t like the fucking weather!

When I first moved to Portland, it was scummy—scummy with a heart of gold. Regular-ass people lived here! And hippies. And some rockers. I’m okay with all of these things.

Anyway, this is just a long-winded way of saying that I saw 2 things recently that made me stop and take note, made me really comprehend what we’ve all been thinking: Portland is becoming California.

1. The ABOVE photo of the Palmer glacier (or lack thereof) via KGW reporter Rod Hill’s Facebook page. I guess it doesn’t rain here anymore? And dang, remember when we used to snowboard on Mt. Hood in the summertime?!

2. THIS article reporting that a Bay Area investment company bought the Towne Storage building and kicked out all the renters. Later, Burnside! I mean it’s only a matter of time …

Complaining is whatever, and I try not to do it. “I miss the old blah blah blah …” Also, memory lane can be tricky. I’m sure there were plenty of hate-able things about Portland a decade ago. However, I think it’s okay to allow some room for nostalgia and to note that, despite there being no real inherent badness to change, if the things you moved here for aren’t here anymore, then maybe it’s time to make a change of your own?

Like, where’s that next-next spot? I’m gonna be doing some thinking about this …

This Time Last Year


This September isn’t last September. It’s different in ways and better in ways. For some reason, though, I found myself looking through photos from last September. It was nice seeing all the faces and the places and the way the light was soft and gold, angular, like it is today.


This is the old Bracewell mini ramp. It wasn’t much to look at, but I loved it dearly.


Watched one of my bests get married in the old fashioned way—outside in the fresh air in front of a bunch of good people under the high-country Colorado sun. During their vows, a wind whispering of fall set the aspen leaves a’clicking. Hooray for love!


On the way to the wedding, stopped off in Denver to see nephew Pat and Rocket the puppy—who gnawed on my knuckle with pin-sharp baby teeth.


Hiked up Eagle Creek Trail for the first time: Heat. Haze. Big roving rain clouds. Trails carved out of cliffsides. Waterfalls that drop loudly into deep, green pools.


Used the rest of my garden tomatoes to make a galette. Kinda like a pie, but messier and lazier and in my mind more delicious. Rolling pinned the crust, threw great foodstuffs in the center, and then wrapped it up like a lil baby. It was the oven, really, that did all the work.

Goat Lake Cold Camp


We couldn’t know. We just could know that after the hottest summer on record, Labor Day weekend would be the weekend that it’d cool down 40 degrees and spit snow from the sky at high elevations. After all, we’re not god. We’re not omniscient. We have no power vested in us, weather-wise, destiny-wise, or other.


In other words, I need to report that I went backpacking with Mark and Jeremy in Gifford Pinchot National Forest, AKA Goat Rocks Wildneress, AKA middle-of-nowhere Washington, and it was an epic journey full of rain, sleet, wind, and deep, billowy clouds roving through the valleys; full of fierce starry skies, tear-wrenching shivers, and sweeping mountain vistas that danced in and out of the fog.



True story: we were supposed to camp two nights but only camped one. However, this did not lessen the amount of miles hiked, or more appropriately stumbled, around the Goat Lake Loop. It just means that at some point on Saturday as we traversed through the storm, someone started talking about nachos—and all was over. Our gear was wet and we were wet and our freeze-dried lunch was long, long gone, and so it was silently decided, as if by ESP, that we wouldn’t, as planned, find a campsite protected by trees to wait out the weather, but that instead we’d hobble the many miles back to the car and drive all the way back to Portland—our knees, feet, backs, and wavering spirits be damned.


It was an adventure in the truest sense, entailing unplanned hijinks and great feats of strength. I wouldn’t take it back for anything—it has, in fact, already become legendary in my mind. The wildnerness is beautiful, even at its most savage—actually, more so at its most savage. Now, here, I can sit back at my desk and feel lucky to have been really out in it. And maybe, just maybe, I might do it all over again. Sorry, though, only if it’s sunny!



Favorites 9.3.15


September: I always do spectacular things in September like burning stuff in backyard fires and turning my back toward the cold of night, like drinking beer and eating chocolate birthday cake. It’s my month. Razor blue skies and the season pulling at you like a tide.

A homegrown cucumber: Cucumbers are cucumbers. Except they’re not. The good ones taste like perfume.

A Winter’s Tale: A fantastically long book by Mark Helprin (that was made into a lackluster movie starring Colin Farrell). It’s a vivid dream of grit and magic in turn-of-the-century NYC.

Bloodline: A slow burn. Takes you 4 episodes to get hooked—but then you are. The music. The storms. The heat. The faces. An unflinching family drama set in the sun-bleached Florida Keys.