.Sherowski Daily.

Watched Buy The Ticket, Take The Ride the other night. You seen it? Another take on the world of Hunter S. Thompson. I’ve read most of his stuff, and for what it’s worth, I like it. So conversational, and full of a kind of eloquent sarcasm. But I dunno. What was he? Lunatic genius? Sane voice in a mad world? Lame caricature of himself? Everyone’s got an opinion. What I took away from the movie was his charisma—what a huge impact he had on many people both famous and talented. Everyone from Johnny Depp to Tom Wolfe to Sean Penn was fluttering around him like moths round a flame.

And then he went out via shotgun à la Hemingway. That’s it. He titled his suicide not “Football Season Is Over:”

“No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax—This won’t hurt.”

Did it? guess we’ll never know…

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You ever have that feeling that no one hangs out anymore? But you can’t blame anybody, cuz neither do you? For some reason, though—only when you’re out of town, there’ll be barrage of fun-sounding BBQs, rad river floats, wild party nights, et cetera. Then you’ll get back and be like, where is everyone, and … crickets.

Anyway, for the first time in a long time, the Koerner-Ansons threw a cookout thingy, and I was in town, and all the homeys came.

Noot was there herding and guard-doggin’.

The firepit session ensued—warm, festive, and kept the bugs away.

P.S. This is from my garden today. The echinacea’s out.

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Hi. It’s been a while. Not because I’ve been boring, but because I’ve been doing construction. Peter Sherowski is in town. That’s my dad, you know. He comes out once a year to TCOB at 57th street. It’s usually a good time. Lots of power tools, all-day manual labor, chiseling, painting, calking, sawing, cool margaritas at dusk, things of this nature. Above, you’ll see a new gutter system we installed, leads down to a rain barrel. Exciting. Harvesting inclement weather. I’m doin it.

Also, new windows. A big job, chiseling out the 100 year old original windows. I’m saving them out in the back alleyway, actually. Not sure why, maybe build something with them. Kinda cool to think about all the history those windows have witnessed.

And we renovated my basement. For those of you who know what it used to look like, namely Traci—my former roomie who lived in its squalor for two years—well, holy shit! Pepto-colored carpet: gone. Fresh coat of paint on the walls. New light fixtures. Plexi glass off the porthole, replaced with a shiny new window. It’s swank down there. You know, for a cave, anyway.

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Went to the Clinton Street Theatre last weekend to watch the Portland “premiere” of Machotaildrop—this sort of mysterious art film made by some Canadian skateboarders.

It’s about a boy, and an aging pro, and some wolf men, and a mansion inside a cave. I don’t really want to recap the movie or something, you should just watch it—although be warned, the lack of bangin’ action seemed to disappoint a few tall-boy crushers in the crowd. No death metal, etc. It’s a real movie! Think A Clockwork Orange. Think Rushmore. Think Charlie And The Chocolate Factory. Think Thrashin’. A bizarre mixture of sweet, funny, strange, and sad. I liked it.

I found out that the guys who made it, Corey Adams and Alex Craig, won a short film contest put on by Fuel TV, and the prize was a million-dollar budget to make a movie. With that mil, they made Machotaildrop. Wow. Rad. I paid ten dollars to watch this movie. I hope all ten went to straight to them.

Here’s the trailer:

Machotaildrop – Trailer from friendlyfire on Vimeo.

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I’ll be honest. I’ve traveled a lot. It’s what I do. I don’t know.

In recent years, I’ve professed to being “over traveling,” but upon further examination, I don’t really think that’s it. I’m over excessive traveling. I like being home and knowing I’ll be home next week. You can develop, not quite a routine, cuz that sounds depressing, but more like a natural pace. And I live somewhere nice, so being here is nice.

But still. One does get the call to roam, the wild hair, the need to see places unseen. Life is only so long, I gotta know what the earth beholds before I die, right?

With that said, I give you my current “to go” list. Kinda like a “to do” list, but for journeys instead of chores. (thank you Google Images for the below destination pics)

The Grand Canyon: I’ve seen it from the plane, but that’s like saying I had a layover in the Grand Canyon airport. It doesn’t count. Need to go to the edge, hike down to the bottom, and climb back up again. A journey through time, I’ve heard.

The south of France: More specifically, Provence. Been craving baguettes, dusty roads, and lavender fields.

Tofino, B.C.: I’m intrigued by Vancouver Island. Never been there, myself, but have heard tales of it’s wild, rugged awesomeness from friends to the north. Soon, for this one….soon.

Montenegro: I don’t care if it’s run by the Russian mafia—looking at this fucking place. Maybe rent a sports car and pretend I’m in that James Bond movie or something.

Ashville, N.C.: Don’t ask me why, but I’m curious about North Carolina. Went there once, near Wilmington, and attended a lovely southern wedding. But what about Ashville. I think it’d be just like Portland—only, hotter, with a graceful Southern pace.

Redwoods Nat’l Park: Big trees. Older than time. Take me to them.

Portugal: Europe’s final Hail Mary before the Atlantic spreads out towards North America. And have you ever heard Portuguese? A marvelous language.

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I retreated to nature for the weekend. There was something strange in the air—just needed to get out of town. Fritter around in the woods and contemplate.

Hiked along a trail beneath the canopy. It smelled so good in there. Clean, you know?

Emerged into the sun and scaled a rocky ridgleline…

To sit perched atop a precipice with our legs tingling from the height. The wind howled, and a flock of birds whipped around us catching the currents. Below, the Columbia slowly flowed west.

There’s something about evening light in the summertime, isn’t there? It’s thick, like honey.

A fire, to cook corn on the cob—and later, to read by.

By noon the next day, we were tasting pear and cherry wine along highway 35…

And gaping up at the backside of Mt. Hood, which looks not unlike the Matterhorn.

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On Thursday, it was 100 degrees. People all over the Northwest found themselves at rivers and ponds and other water bodies. In fact, we had a little thingy for Lance’s birthday at a spot on the Lewis River in Washington. Bit like Shangri La, really.

On a day when upper lip and stomach sweat prevails, even when you try to move very little, there was nowhere else to be besides … right there. Cathy knows.

Koerner uses SPF 30, but still, the farmer’s tan seems to triumph.

Also, due to the heat that followed the rainiest June in, like, forever, mosquito larvae hidden in gutters and birdbaths and other standing water all over Portland hatched and suddenly detonated on unassuming human creatures. Accustomed to getting one, maybe two bug bites over an entire Portland summer, we were slaughtered—and now look back on last summer and all the summers before as a time of amazing innocence. Ah, the good old days.

That’s Lance and Cody swimming back from riding the rapids above. Cody pulled himself out of the water and puked. Apparently it was pretty hectic.

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Paul Baribeau – Chelsea Hotel No. 2 from If You Make It on Vimeo.

Hi there. A present for you. Paul Baribeau singing Leonard Cohen’s “Chelsea Hotel.” In fact I did just post something about LC the other day, but these posts are unrelated I promise. A happy accident of sorts. Love Paul, and this song. In fact, if you know me, you know I have a small tattoo that pays tribute to lines from this song …

“And clenching your fist for the ones like us, who are oppressed by the figures of beauty, you fixed yourself, you said, ‘Well never mind, we are ugly but we have the music.’”

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I watched this the other night. I’m not sure it should’ve been made into a movie, but I’m still thinking about that. The book, written by Cormac McCarthy, was dark genius, and it has a honored place in my library. Not something I’d really like to read again, mind you know—too bleak and exposing too much savage about human nature. So I was in no hurry to see the movie. I knew I’d get around to it eventually, but not in any rush to revisit the subject of the apocalypse. But anyway, it’s quite true to the book. I don’t know, though, you miss out on the lyric beauty of the the words, how it’s a long poem that spills over the pages and you want to rush ahead but at the same time you have to stop and savor certain lines due to their inescapable perfection. Anyway, yeah, I’m still thinking about it all, but like I said, I watched it. Have you?

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Hiya. Can’t talk long. On a shaky wireless connection at the Denver Airport. Just thought I’d say something quick about  my week in Colorado.  Partly for summer vacation in the high country.  Partly as moral support for my big sister’s art show. It was all sun burns, 5 p.m. cocktails, no showers,  thunderstorms,  and marvelous  fresh food—which, as it turns out, is a combo I’m gonna be going for all summer.

Cool nights follow afternoon boomers.

My mom’s roast potatoes.

Some of sister Melissa’s paintings. Smoldering, no?

And here she is, the lady of the hour…

Stacie was there, too, just like the good ol’ days!

They have these all over town. My sister dropped by to fill her “prescription.” I had to stay in the car.

My parents are the masters of urban gardening. They have an entire farm on their side of a half-acre duplex lot.

The greenhouse, plus shade potato and lettuce gardens.

Farmers market goodness…

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