It rained today. Jedda the pup doesn’t like the rain. She was born in a heat wave, house trained on the hard summer dirt. Now she’s a warm-weather princess in a fur-feather boa—and I’ve never had a dog before who gave two-shits about the weather?
In the last weeks, the fall light has warmed to perfectly golden brown. I’ve been tired, I’ve had a cold, I’ve spent my nights mostly inside on soft surfaces, wearing soft things. As the days get shorter, like moth to flame, I go in search of mental coziness. It’s a gauzy-plush free fall into a nest of comfort media—which for me is rugged-beautiful adventure documentaries and old-person arts-and-entertainment podcasts. See below!
FREE SOLO: Newsflash—Alex Honnold free-soloed up El Cap in Yosemite. This documentary on Honnold’s adventure, while ostensibly about the man and his rock, for me was really about relationships—and the ways they hold you back.
GIVEN: A beautifully framed piece about nomadic surf travel through the eyes of a toddler. Let’s all quit our jobs and roam wherever we wish and most of all—never wear shoes again.
FRESH AIR WITH ADAM COHEN—LEONARD COHEN’S SON: Terry interviews Adam about his dad Leonard. Adam isn’t an easy interview—his brain’s wired differently like his old man’s. That makes this talk richer, more thought provoking, more full of a cool kind of sad beauty.
En route to finding rest after the long summer, here’s what I’ve been doing:
In the last heat of the lingering harvest, I rode up Powell Butte at sunset. There was only enough time to catch my breath and score a peek of the salmon pink sky before riding back down ahead of the falling darkness. But, in September, the night falls too fast. I ended up in the blackness on a forest trail.
I celebrated my birthday by doing absolutely nothing special, except acknowledging the passage of time, and how some things (like skateboarding) get harder but are somehow more important than ever to keep doing, while other affairs (like not taking things personally) get easier and make growing older truly sweet—which is why I’ve never once, not ever, wished I was younger.
I went to Idaho with pals and reconnected with my love for skate tourism. Jedda the pup came too and proved herself a naturally talented road tripper.
My big sister came to town. She wears all black all the time, and so it was only fitting that we took her out to explore hills cast in black by forest fire. It was unseasonably dry and hot. We cooled quenched with tall beers.
On a stormy Sunday night, I watched a movie called Hold the Dark, and although it wasn’t at all cold in the house, I shivered with the deep bone chill of the Arctic, and the scenery and the story made my head spin, and I dreamt of it that night, and I’m still wondering about it now really.
Bone Tomahawk: A western told in a new strange voice. The most gruesome. The quietest. The scariest. The subtle/funniest.
King In The Wilderness: I make no claims to the rite of Martin Luther King Jr. history aficionado-dom but did watch this film and felt punched in the gut because he is, newsflash, a human.
Isle Of Dogs: The “new Wes Anderson movie.” A little piece about dogs and people and power and love and all that that encompasses—which is everything. Let it wash over you. Watch the toylike critters come alive and try and fail like we all do. Wait for the theme song “I Won’t Hurt You,” which is very weepy/beautiful, to link up with your pulse. It’s cool.
Arthur Miller: Writer: On the one hand, it’s a doc about an iconic writer, the voice behind Death Of A Salesman, a victim of the Blacklist, the one-time husband to Marilyn Monroe. On the other hand, it’s a doc about a daughter interviewing her dad and trying to unravel the family truths we all struggle with and search for and never really find. “Art is long. Life is short. I forgot the latter.”
The House: I theorize that if there’s a comedy featuring the world’s favorite funny actors that plops into your streaming service without having first taken your notice in the theater, it’s gonna stink. This important Will Ferrell/Amy Poehler film did not.
I wanted to like the above short vid about pro skater Nora Vasconcellos, but kinda didn’t. Mostly because of how much its narrative was about what some iconic white men think about her skating rather than actually about her skating. (Elissa Steamer was briefly interviewed but had nothing to say about Nora specifically.) Also: it’s 2018 do we really still have to make movies about “what it’s like to be a girl in skateboarding”?
I guess so. Sure, a men-curated movie for the men-dominated culture—it makes sense. But is it progressive? Is it revolutionary? Is it punk rock? No. It would be cool to get away from that “female skateboarder” thinking and celebrate (and support) Nora, and all the rest of us, simply as “skateboarders.” That’s what we are?
I’m psyched that Adidas has a woman on their global team now. But IT’S ONLY ONE. One skater. One movie. Should we take our meager offerings and be happy with them? No. If we continue replicating the hegemony through skate movies, skate ads, skate product—and all the rest—by focusing the apex of accepted skate awesomeness on the opinion/control of men, then we continue to limit skateboard society from growing and evolving. Toward community. Toward creativity. Toward even more future awesomeness.
And any woman who rolls 4 wheels will tell you the patriarchy is still thriving out there in skate-land. From pointed disrespects coming out of bro culture and the boys’ club to softer daily annoyances, like the amount of times I get asked by men things like, “How long have you been skating?” Do any of my tight skater boiz get asked that? No. The condescension comes through loud a clear.
Anywayayayayay, I am happy for Nora out there getting that money, getting that movie, getting to skate for a living and getting to be herself … whatever that looks like—cool, creative, weird, talented, female, free. Let’s keep it going. Let’s skate as much as possible. Let’s have the most fun possible. Let’s collaborate to smash the state and create room for groundbreaking new possibilities, like, say, the expectation that women could fuel skate culture as much as men do.
Austin, TX: I went to Austin. It was cold and I got a cold. My intention for the trip, to skate/drink margaritas/wear short sleeve tee shirts, was shipwrecked by sickness and the evil, piercing temperatures. “Unseasonable,” locals called it. Still, I was charmed by the city, by its accessible tacos for every meal and the cheerful custom neon announcing every business. People say it’s like a “hotter Portland.” I don’t know about that. Austin has an altogether different feel. It’s rambling, winsome. It reminded me of the plains cities I hung around in my Coloradan youth, where dust was part of the decor and the streets were built wide so the tumbleweeds could roll on through.
The Fredericksburg, TX park—built by Billy & Cathy.
Me and Amanda at an Austin watering hole. We’re cool and we party.
Dark On Netflix: Crikey! It would be too reductive to call this show the German version of Stranger Things, so I won’t.
Snow in the city: I threw out kale seeds and then it snowed over the chartreuse sprouts. Later, the rain melted the blanket of snow away. There were the sprouts! Little fists of defiance pumping up toward the sky.
A new mountain bike: In December Mark gifted me a two-wheeled steed in honor of the winter Yule. I’ve been craving a method to get way out into the backcountry and feel like come summer I will do many horrendous climbs and long loaping descends on this bike, and it will calm my troubled spirit.
Annihilation by Jeff VanderMeer: I only read sci-fi when it comes recommended from my big sister, as she has immaculate taste in the genre. When this book arrived, I knew I must read it and did so in a matter of 3 days. It takes you inside a dreamworld flowing with the odd and creepy, never painting the full picture but instead a vague outline, remaining mysterious, knowing all the strangest things are cooked up by your own imagination. The book is part of a trilogy, and spoiler alert—they made a movie out of ’em starring Natalie Portman. Better get reading!
60 degrees on a Saturday: You wake up inside a house with glowing windows. The day shines with opportunity. Go out and do stuff, or sit at home, it doesn’t matter. Life is better in the warmth and light.
Rebecca Gates from the Spinanes: Me, Colorado, died red hair, corduroys and a cardigan, listening to the Spinanes in between Geology and German class. Fast forward 20 years to Oregon, and there’s Rebecca on stage in front of me playing soft-as-velvet acoustic guitar in a halo of purple light.
A winter solstice party in the sky: Sunday evening in the dead of winter is more like Sunday afternoon. What a fine time of day to walk the dog, though. On the way to the schoolyard the sky cracks into a magenta golden dream, like alpenglow, like cotton candy, and then on the way home it’s dark. The Christmas lights twinkle cheerfully as you walk by and peek in people’s windows, watching all the small, graceful moments of their quiet indoor lives.
Marc Maron’s WTF interview with Sam Beam: I’m still thinking about this conversation Marc Maron had with Sam Beam of Iron & Wine fame. What a gentle, funny human. What warmth. In my mind, he’s a bearded buddha, living like he does off in the woods of Carolina with five kids, a bunch of banjos and a head full of dusty tunes. He has the secret. He laughed at every single interview question—even the ones that weren’t funny. “You can’t be too serious about it,” he said. “It’s only life.”
Joan Didion: After watching the Netflix documentary about her, I was inclined to reopen Slouching Toward Bethlehem and spend a night reading wisdoms like this: “I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind’s door at 4 am. of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends. We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget. We forget the loves and the betrayals alike, forget what we whispered and what we screamed, forget who we were. I have already lost touch with a couple of people I used to be …”
Portobello rueben at Capitol: On a Tuesday night of no particular import we went out for bar food at Capitol on Broadway. It wasn’t our first choice, but Shan Dong was full and I refuse to wait for dinner in town of 10 bajillion restaurants. So. Amidst ladies dressed in shimmery skirts and men in dapper coats, I ate the reuben of a lifetime. Beet and cabbage slaw, hearty mushroom meet, crisp rye. Thank you, world! Thanks December. Cheers Portland. Sometimes, you just get it right.
Stranger Things, season 2. I know you’ve heard of it. It deserves to be heard of. It deserves to be watched amidst bitten fingernails and tea spilled on the couch when you jumped at the scary thing that jumped off the screen at you. Those little humans—kids, I think they’re called—can really act.
Hot pokers in my back: The unsolved mysteries of a sharp, lingering pain just beneath my left shoulder blade. The last time it bothered me was in the midst of a total life melt down. Engagement, failing. Business, all consuming. Weather, wet and bitter cold. Unsurprisingly, a tarot card reading revealed the source of my back pain to be emotional—the earthly place where I held all my twisting woes. Spoiler alert: I made it through. My life didn’t end. My back felt better—so slowly I barely noticed. That was 5 years ago. Though the hot poker is back, the woes are not. I gave up tarot readings and bought a foam roller.
Depth Perception: I didn’t not like this new snowboard flic by the Travis Rice machine. I had a good time watching it, mainly for all the pillows and powder riding, and also the skit featuring my favorite little Canadian cabin in the woods. The same cabin where—see below—I spent one peaceful, quiet, ultra-starry night of summer slumber.
Black hits. When I bought my house 11 years ago, the trim was painted a festive teal. I hired Neil Dacosta and his lass Sara Phillips to paint over it with an understated white—and do classics accents of deep red. Recently, I realized I could—nay, must do something different. And so I went to Home Depot and bought a pint of black to refresh the accents. What I like is the way black isn’t even a color. It doesn’t add anything to the mix—it just emphasizes things, like putting eyeliner on all your windows. Here they are!
Old Country mornings. Townes. Emmy Lou. They are very recommended for breakfast listening on cool-to-cold mornings with fall light coming through the windows (when the NPR membership drive and other horrors of the world have taken the op for soothing news radio off the table).
Harvest moons. Not the Neil Young album of the same name. The real thing—our planet’s satellite. I can never really get over the moon. It’s strange light and mysterious vibrations. What pulls the ocean, pulls us in seen and unseen ways. Or at least that’s what the folk revivalists tell us. Regardless, you can’t not gasp at that big ol’ pumpkin-sized moon hanging over the horizon.
Dove Vivi. Under the influence of cornmeal crust pizza and a glass of red, on maybe the last truly warm night of the year, you can discuss anything. Friends. Work. Blatant gossip. Philosophy. Rock and roll. Television. Death. Birthdays. Future plans and regrets. Etc. At the end, when there are 2 pieces left but 4 people around the table, you cut each piece in half, so that everyone takes home a morsel of the sacred evening.
Driving at sunset. To be out moving through the landscaping at at time of night when you might otherwise be bound—couch-bound, restaurant-bound, bar-bound et cetera. Here, amidst the softy, glowy light, the music sounds better, and hope is renewed.
THIS episode of Snap Judgement. Two first-person tales that I’m still thinking about. Life and death. Star-shaped acid tabs. Ghosts, parachutes and marshmallow skies. Let ’em rip and let me know what ya think.
Tapenade. Bagels. Bowtie pasta. Put it on anything. Have I told you about my love of olives and other briny fruits of the warm, sun-washed lands?
Big West Linn with buds. If you live and skate in Portland, then you know that West Linn park was returned to its almost former glory with some patching and fresh coping. I hadn’t been out there since back in the day, which is to say back when we all skated there a lot because it was new and legendary and there were so few other places, besides. These days, I keep it to skating “small stuff.” However, we went to West Linn on Sunday and I had an amazing time. There on old familiar ground, the memories the and muscle memory returned. I took it easy. Cruised. Pumped walls and peered up at the coping. Thanks world. Thanks skateboarding. You’re just what I need sometimes.