“June 30: Renée bakes a prune pie. An experiment. I read Burton on ‘Heroical Love.’ The days sail by with alarming speed; why this headlong descent into oblivion? What’s the rush? Sinking comfortably into the sloth and decay of my middle middle age, I am brought up short nevertheless, now and then, by the alarming realization that all men, so far, have proved mortal. Me too?”
Songs for Sunday, in bed, with a laptop to warm the legs.
1. Scott Walker, “30th Century Man”
2. The Magnetic Fields, “Torn Green Velvet Eyes”
3. Bob Dylan, “I Want You”
4. Cave Singers, “Cold Eye”
5. The Smith Westerns, “Be My Girl”
Traveling is good for the soul. As is the drive from Reno to Mammoth Lakes. Three hours of rolling sagebrush, gnarled trees, and purple peaks. However, beware of the law enforcement. Although California had to issue IOUs for their tax returns this year, they have plenty of money to post highway patrol every ten miles on remote highways. But now that I think about it, that’s how they make all their damn money. They made some off me! 65 mph in a 55 zone. Your welcome, Arnold! Don’t spend it all in one place.
Wheelies and linking turns with Fast, Welhausen, and Hamilton. It’s great, you ride up on a chairlift and then slide down on the snow.
Mammoth is an active super volcano. You can smell the sulfur on the way up the gondola.
Joe Carlino made it his business to learn how to make caesars last time he was in Canada. Vodka, Clamato (tomato juice + clam juice), horse radish, etc etc … I don’t know what-all. Annie tried to get Joe to teach her, but he claims, “It’s a lot of ingredients you havta just feel out …” I took pleasure in the tangy deliciousness and tried not to think about the clam juice.
We lurked. We talked about how to do what we do better, and we made big plans. Lots more work coming down the pipeline. Lots more items to be put on a massive list and then crossed off.
The road back to Reno. More glassy mountain lakes with 14,000-footers off in the distance. More birds of prey on fence posts. More cops.
Portland to Reno to CA395 South to Mammoth Lakes. My head is spinning from the altitude already. Big editorial planning meeting on the horizon, to determine the shape of my life over the next few months. Where will I go? Who will I interrogate? What will I type? These fates will be shaped in the following days.
November in Oregon. It’s cold, it’s dark, it’s not for people who are feint of heart. Have been reading North To The Night, about sailing to Antarctica and getting iced in. Canned food. Months of darkness. Bitterest cold. Things like this. And on the player? Willie Nelson & Ray Price, the song “Naomi” by Neutral Milk Hotel, The Album Leaf, and lots of Mogwai. Also, a little friday afternoon painting project, involving coat hooks and dusty paint cans from the garage. A fine way to spend a wet, cold afternoon when the day crumbles into darkness at 4:30 p.m.
It’s easy to get dragged down by how dark and cold it is this time of year, so when time and money allows, I try to get the hell out for a few days. Last week? I met my family down in Belize, just east of Guatemala, where they were snorkeling and roasting pool-side. I’ll give it to you straight—that shit was awesome. Sweet soft air. Blue, blue water. Steamy tropical storms. Mojitos like a mouth full of sunshine. But what was the most amazing was just getting out of town, a break from the routine, a journey, a taste of the big wide world. Love it.
The barrier reef welcoming party: a nurse shark and a bunch of grouper.
Me and my big sister.
The mini nephew. He wore my sunglasses and ate peanut butter and jelly for every meal. I started reading to him from Zorro and he was transfixed by the swashbuckling adventure. I edited out the part where Bernardo’s mom gets gang raped and murdered.
Look at me! Such a vacationer. I don’t fuck around when it comes this stuff.
What happened here? Fresh watermelon juice in the mornings (heaven!), fried abalone and Belikin beer in the sultry afternoon, when tropical rain made a curtain around our palm frond shelter.
Melissa and her little man.
Nice life.
Bon voyage!
Central America was under the influence of hurricane Ida … but I didn’t know that when I flew down there last Tuesday. It was a close call. See it lurking out there over the open water like the edge of all existence? The typical vision of paradise … nah. However, the tropics are still tropical, even when the rain hits heavy and hard, falling straight down and causing palm fronds to give way.
In Europe, Halloween is little kid shit. You dress up until you’re, like, twelve so you can trick or treat. Then you graduate into adulthood, and much like with the Easter bunny, you’re just too old for that BS. Not in Portland, my friends.
In an alternate dimension, Axl Rose and Marilyn Monroe drink tall boys at the Sandy Hut.
When I called home to Colorado on Saturday to see what mini-nephew Patrick was dressing as for the evening (Batman!), I mentioned my costume to my mom. “Oh, are you going to a Halloween party?” she asked. What my mom doesn’t understand is that the entire city of Portland is a Halloween party, and if you don’t dress up—at least smear some damn fake blood on your forehead—you are a lame sloth not worthy of existence in this fair city. Or so it seems.
Billy, dressed as a favorite household item—duct tape! Or something.
No, I didn’t have a party to attend, per se, but over the course of the evening we went to two bars and a live show, and there wasn’t a single person in street clothes. In fact, as we waited at a stop light on 28th and Glisan, mustard and ketchup waved to us from the sidewalk, and our drinks at the Sandy Hut were served up by Gem from Gem and the Halograms. I chatted with the possessed chick from The Exorcist for a while, while Axl Rose bought me a beer. Charles Manson was playing Buck Hunter in the corner. King Diamond met up with us at the Doug Fir to watch Red Fang play, where, ironically, I even saw Fang the Cat from the 511 house hanging out. Oh, and forget chicks dressing up as “slutty whatever” for Halloween. The new trend I’ve noticed is guys dressing up as slutty chicks for Halloween. An interesting development.
I don’t know about you, but the movie The Exorcist haunted my childhood. Catherine was trying to talk to me about real estate for a while, but I couldn’t follow what she was saying because she was too damn scary.
Red Fang, bitches!
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