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. 

Girl In A Band


Can’t wait to read this!

I’m not much of an idolizer, but as mentioned elsewhere, Kim Gordon from Sonic Youth is totally my feminist hero. Talented. Complex. Both cool and hot—plus, she crafted this legacy as a rock-and-roll icon without ever really sexualizing herself.

“When you listen to old R&B records, the women on them sang in a fierce, kick-ass way. In general, though, women aren’t really allowed to be kick-ass. I refused to play the game,” says she.

Truth: It’s a man’s world. Fierce and independent isn’t the easiest way to walk through it as a woman. Kim, girl, I’m with you and I love you!


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I believe in everyday fun.

Also, our pal Derek’s birthday is tomorrow.

In honor of this stuff, not one but two carloads of people drove to Eugene this weekend. Despite the occurrence of “heavy rain,” our intention was very much to skate that new park of theirs. Luckily, there’s a big bridge in Eugene, and this bridge shelters the big skatepark. Unluckily, the wind blows quiet veils of rain into unsuspecting corners. At a certain point, Derek, the birthday boy, slipped on wet cement and smacked is head. Our new intention quickly became pizza.

The below picture may lead you to believe that I was stuck on a road trip with a bunch of dudes, but that’s only partly true, because my dearest friend Kelly lives in Eugene, and so she was around to give me a wee break from all that questionable facial hair.

Anyway, we skated long enough to break a sweat, ate incendiary pizza at Pizza Research Institute, ditched our cars, and then went to what must’ve been every bar in Eugene. Drop shots. Men in drag. A metal show I think? It all ended at a fancy hipster bar where the staff looked on worriedly as the guys tore their shirts off and we turned the place into a giant dance party. Thanks for having us, Eugene, and sorry.

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Above par vegetarian hangover breakfast at Morning Glory.

Three Things

Houndstooth: A nice band from Portland I’ve been listening to lately. Saw them play at Sloan’s a few weeks ago. Her voice is cool—it haunts. And his guitar—it sounds so damn good, really warm, dazzling even. Notes drip out like honey. Is it the guy? Is it the guitar? I’m a little bit in love with both.

Free Coffee: I did some writing for a rad indie coffee roaster and in return I’m getting two-pound monthly deliveries for the next few. Work trades are where it’s at! Future you forgets all about the work past you did and so whatever you get in return feels totally free, a gift, faerie magic.

Curb Cut: The skateboard journal I’m helping run is throwing a flash-mob-style high ollie contest tonight down by the Southwest waterfront. Cuz it’s summer in March. Cuz it’s light out till 7 and it’ll be like 70 degrees so don’t you wanna come hang with your friends and stunt skate for cash before we all get kicked out by security guards?


Not Doing

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I’ve been into this thing where I work really hard during the week and then kinda dissolve into the weekend. Hedonism. It’s awesome. I don’t do anything I don’t want to do. And it’s okay that my house is a mess, that i haven’t pulled a weed since August last year. The lawn is not my enemy … let it grow.

This kind of thing leaves space for all these real moments of quality, I’m finding. Like:

•Not showering once on Saturday. Instead, perching on a front porch with a bunch of people that you like very much watching the light fall. What is it about front porches? They’re better than back porches.

•Not going to the grocery store. Instead, skating a mini ramp under a weeping cherry tree that’s crazy in bloom like some scene straight off a  Japanese kimono.

•Not taking the dog to the park first thing. Instead, wandering down Alberta Street in search of coffee, and then sitting on the sidewalk with your back against a warm brick wall to drink it. Talking. Waving at friends in their cars who don’t see you but that’s okay—you just let ’em drive on by.

•Not going home on Sunday night even though you’re spent. Instead, staying out late to watch Trash Island play. Feeling them play, really—the show being so fucking loud that it rattles through your rib cage.

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Best Laid Plans


Fresh starts are the best thing on earth. Burn it all down. Reemerge all phoenix like. You need an occasion for them, though. New Years? That shit’s as arbitrary as the next.

I like to start a new psychic cycle when I set up a fresh skateboard. It doesn’t happen that often—I’m not out there breaking boards, ya know. But when it does, I look at that old deck and can summon all the crap that went down over the course of me riding it. Trips I went on. People I fell for. Laughs I had. Ways I got my ass handed to me. Life’s a mystery. We don’t know what’s going on here. All we can do is grip a new board and throw another penny in the well.

Last Week’s Report

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Last week was a bust—I got sick and did only half the work I was trying to do. Sweat and shivered all of Monday night. Stayed home Tuesday and let my hair turn into nest for small animals. Didn’t care.

In the case that you’re concerned, I’m better now, ’cept for a lingering cough. The phlegm—it abides.

In other news, the cherry trees have popped and the sunlight’s streaming down all the time and you’re always finding yourself in these situations where you’re hanging out in your shirt sleeves doing summertime-style shit with cumulonimbus clouds of pale-pink flower petals floating in the trees above you.

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Been Thinking


Did y’all notice the rain’s back? It’s okay. It’s only February. It’s only water. Last week’s epic global-warming weather, though, or the February fakeout, or whatever it was, got me thinking about this one camping trip last summer and how I want to go back to there. Soon. As soon as possible, really.

The spot’s at the beach up on a little hillside—a hideaway from such things as people and wind. To the west: the Pacific ocean and then Japan.

It’s where we staggered up a dune and watched the sun disappear. It’s where I tucked my tent into this magnificent tree grove and then popped my air mattress on a branch. It’s where we abandoned the fire to roam the beach in the dark, discovering how bioluminescent algae made our steps glow in the wet sand. It’s where I kicked the dog out of the tent due to mouth breathing and he never even wandered off—just lay there on guard all night as dictated by the primal purpose of his species and breed. It’s where, the next morning, we woke up thirsty and hungover—but then pooled the rest of our water to make everyone a cup of coffee.


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