-Laid in bed with my eyes open for a full half hour before I got up. (I work afternoon/evenings, mornings are my motherfuckin leisure time).
-Listened to Kurt Vile, “Freak Train.” (I mean I’m beyond caring if you like what I like, but this song’s more mood than song. Like a middle finger for the world that you can stick in your pocket and pull out when needed.)
-Hoops at Laurelhurst park. (I’m the wackest of the wackest white chick to ever step to the court. My dog steals the ball from me. I made two shots in a row and felt the need to gloat in triumph.)
-Read from Nancy Milford’s biography of Zelda Fitzgerald: “F. Scott, in an immaculate Norfolk jacket, gesturing nervously with a cigarette, Zelda brightly at his side, her clean wild hair brushed back from her face. But it was not her beauty that was arresting. It was her style, a sort of insolence toward life, her total lack of caution, her fearless and abundant pride.”
I like how Lefty rarely plays at the dog park—just stands there wide-eyed watching everyone else rip around—but the second Rusty Scott walks through the door, it’s all cheek nips, slobber wheels, and squeals of joy. What gives?
Feeling crispy from hosting multiple nights in a row of events at the park. I like socializing, but when forced do it too much I throw reverse and become an edgy bitch. I like drinking, but I don’t like it when an entire subculture seems to depend on it. I’m only saying this because I just mopped half a keg of heffeweisen off the floor of the front office and am feeling slightly un-psyched. But this song is helping, you know?
As someone who has flown at all times and in every possible condition, I can say with certainty that the absolute best time to fly is 11 a.m. on a sunny weekday. You breeze through the metal detector in a set of striped socks, you amble onto the plane with a toasted sesame bagel, and you’re asleep in a pool of sunshine before you hit 10,000 feet. Good stuff.
I’m curled up in a nest of crumpled receipts right now, basically in self-employed-contractor tax hell. However, I’m stoked on this movie I watched the other night. Hanna—a sort of Darwinian thriller with luminous colors, sets, and sounds. Plus, Kate Blanchett. If I could be any actress it’d prob be her because she’s complex and bad ass—more than just a set of tittays.
When I was just a little bear cub in the mountains of Colorado, I had no idea that I’d someday grow up to live in one of the year-round-awesomest and yet life-givingly-dismal-and-mold-farming-during-the-winter cities in the country. But here I am—Portland. And around about February, escape becomes advisable—nay, ESSENTIAL, to mental survival.
So … after gambling all my remaining frequent flyer miles, I was in Aspen at the home of one T. Byrnes putting on my snowboard boots after almost way too long. We rode Ajax through cold and ice, and then aprés-ed at Little Nell. Too much fun to elaborate.
Gondy laps with Trish—they’re good for one’s spirit.
Ricky’s room. You know yr ballin when you have your own cider-making station.
For those who don’t know, the term “aprés” is a French euphemism for “drinking after riding.” It’s a nice way to end up in your snowboard clothes past dark.
This ain’t vintage—the spirit of the poma lift is alive and well at Snowmass.
A 22-foot vert ramp made out of snow. Scccarrry.
One of those moons that makes you shoot a blurry pic with your cell phone while driving 80 on the freeway.
We sold our ’77 Sierra Camper Classic the other day. Asking price: $875. Buying price: $500. That’s life. The heater coil was revealed to be bad, along with a slow leak in the rear right and so on ad infinitum. She’s 34 years old, friends, and that’s how it goes.
Not to anthropomorphize the thing anymore than I have to but it went to a farm, not to a junkyard, and that’s nice to think about—the old truck hauling manure and sleeping out under the stars.
I just finished reading this baby. The premise is that a shipping container traveling form Asia goes overboard with 28,000 rubber bath toys, and these self-same toys travel thousands of miles on complicated oceanic currents, washing ashore everywhere from Alaska and Hawaii to Maine, Nova Scotia, and the United Kingdom.
I foolishly thought this to be an adventure travel tale of the kind I like to read, but slowly, over the course of many pages, I began to aprehend Moby Duck as a somber book about the savagely polluted state of our oceans, about the mythical indestructability of plastics, and about how when you throw something away, there just IS no away. It’s not a feel-good story necessarily, but I mean as humans in charge of our own destinies, we should know this stuff.
Anyhoo, chew on this: The top trash items most frequently found in the ocean: