Off The Grid
As a kind of antidote to my urban wanderings in NYC, I went off the grid this weekend for one long day on the Olympic peninsula. This involved a walk in the rainforest, which involved a field exploding with forsythia, sneaking through a paper-thin slot canyon, and a pale green pool that was the very definition of stillness.
The walk had a point—we were looking for a "big rock," a sacred spot to the local tribe. Maybe you can only see it if you really believe, though, because that rock turned out to be pretty hard to find. Only half of us actually beheld it, and me, being a believer—in life, in mystery, in things we cannot see—was one of them.
Here's to sacred rocks, and repelling down them with a beer in yer pocket.
NYC Mega Post
Flew 3,000 miles east to New York City this past weekend. I needed it in a bad way, getting out of town. Hung out with old friends—land pirates, most of them. Had a shitload of fun meeting new people and seeing new things. Dollar pizza slices. Rooftop rock shows. Heat and crazy humidity. My fill of skate missions; never wanting for laughter. Always, always looking for a good place to pee, hopefully indoors, hopefully not just having to crouch on the far side of a car and street pee but willing and able and hey that's how they do it in New York City.
First day, we skated through Brooklyn, bombed the Williamsburg bridge into Manhattan, pushed into oncoming traffic, pushed through side street gridlock, Nassau, Broadway, Wall, et cetera, et cetera, moved faster than the cars, snuck past bumpers, constantly pushing, miles and miles and miles. The perfect way to see the city—the grime, grit, and beauty. Ended it all on the East River ferry headed back to Williamsburg, standing there tired as dogs watching the city sink into the sunset and drinking tall boys in the wind.
Williamsburg, I liked it alright. I know Portland has its own high-grade infestation of cookie-cutter hipsters, but the Brooklyn hipsters—mom jeans for the girls and beards for the boys—they were out in numbers and kicking down a kind of "I live in New York" coolness that Portlanders just can't pretend at cuz I mean fuck, we live in a little ol hippy town in the woods.
As mentioned elsewhere, I have new buds from New Jersey and had to go see their towns and the rad spots that they've built. We drove west Newark-bound through the Holland tunnel to Shorty's—a renegade tranny-land inside a decaying warehouse, and then on to Junk Spot in Jersey City—a slab of cement sprawl turned magical DIY skatepark. The guys behind these zones, they're a cool crew of builders and rippers who just did shit themselves. Found a little patch of land, built a little beauty in the wasteland. In general, that's the kind of kinetic self-made creative energy that I'm most inspired by.
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Aaanyway, New York City—walked a hundred miles, drank 18 cups of coffee a day, spent a crap ton of money and didn't regret a single cent. Love all of those people and love that town—see you again soon, I hope!
New Jerseys
As you may know, I used to travel all the time. Europe, B.C., Vermont, India—every week, somewhere new. That's not me anymore—different job/different life. But! I love when people travel to me.
This past week, some guys from New Jersey came through town, and I let them stay in my basement. I'd never met these people—friends of friends, you see, but they pulled up in a killer old Buick and we were all immediately buds.
Like any consummate host, I showed ’em all the spots. We skated, hiked, wandered. We ate. We drank. We made a backyard fire. They did all the dishes and gave Lefty more attention than he's ever known. They also, while I was at work on 4//20, made this funny little feature film on location in my yard.
As a rule, I love East Coasters. Salt of the earth, funny, hard boiled. I also love the rite of the traveler—how you can meet new people and feel like you already know them, bond over a couple days or a car ride, be instantly old friends. If you've never left your town or your life, if you've never stayed on someone's couch or let them stay on yours, well then that's one of the best things you're missing.
Lefty's new squad. Thick as thieves.
Showed ’em some Oregon magic.
Hung around the fire pit while a sliver of the moon hung in the Western sky.
They really know their way to a girl's heart.
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Friday Afternoon
I am not extremely wise, but I know enough to know that nothing productive ever happens on Friday afternoon. It's been a long motherfuckin week, and you're always in this addled, noncommittal headspace that isn't conducive to doing any kind of work at all.
My new thing, then, instead of sitting there with my hands hovering over my keyboard, is to launch off on a walkabout.
Because it's good to walk. Walking, like all the other slow things in life, is meditative. As is staring over the precipice of a towering cliff. As is the wind from an oncoming storm. As is the lacework of yellow flowers in the fields. As are the birds slipping through the tall grass and following us with their songs.
Eugene-Ing
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.
Above par vegetarian hangover breakfast at Morning Glory.