New Words

In honor of All Hallow's Eve, a scary looking feature story just hit newsstands—penned by yours truly. Actually, I wrote two of the four features in the below issue of Transworld. Not bad, eh? Next time you find yourself next to a magazine rack, don't be afraid to take a peek ...

I blew up shred locales around the greater Salt Lake area in Boomtown. Listen I was just doing my job, but sorry in advance if your secret spot's all blown out now!

Death On Wheels

I'ma head down to this tonight, and you might want to think about doing the same. Andy assured me that it would be wicked, and judging from the snippets I've seen, it will indeed. Besides, you'll be keeping it local and keeping it real and what-have-you.

Good Things

Leaf stamped cement. Yep, you rake everything away and what do you find? A network of shadows, leaves has-been, ghostly afterthoughts. It’s because the icy autumn rain causes each leaf to surrender its soul, and then here it is, emblazoned on the concrete for eternity. Or at least the next couple weeks.

When you’re trying to take a picture of your pet, and suddenly they stop squirming/skittering off and stare sweetly up into the camera, like they somehow decided that maybe just this once they’d throw you a bone.

Lance, at the skatepark. You see, he’s not a man of the parks—more of a street soul, but sometimes I make him come. We inevitably end up at Mini West Linn, where there are very few people—usually none. And then, well, then it all happens.

John Adams—a three-disc series starring Paul Giamatti. Unexpectedly fascinating. You see, he was a revolutionary leader. He was America's first ambassador to England. He was the first vice president and the second president of the United States. What have you done lately?

The Magnetic Fields. It’s hard to believe I never got into them in the 90s when everyone else did, but so be it. A decade later, I now find this jangley art-punk stuff especially charming, perhaps because I recently discovered how many songs are about cowboys, trains, and truck stops.

Nowhere, Nothing

I usually try to give some direction to this thing. Talk about something specific that’s made an impression on me. But work’s been cutting into my chill time lately, and while I can’t really complain, I can't focus, either. Too much time typing and not enough time living has a way of getting me down. I want to travel. I want to chop wood. I want to read twenty books at once. I want to bake French bread from scratch. But all in good time.

Anyway, apologies for a meandering post. Let’s see, stopped by the Baghdad for the premiere of the new Transworld movie Get Real and chatted up my old pals Joe Carlino and Evan Fever. It was good to see snowboarding up on the big screen—winter awesomeness executed to the time of  well-played tunes. Speaking of which, been listening to lots of Edwarde Sharpe and the Brian Jonestown Massacre ever since. Also, I liked Sammy Luebke’s part—all those silent powder descents, and Scott Stevens’ technical wizardry, the fellow's coordinated.

Evan and Rian, in red.

Lance punched a window (for fun, not for anger)—but you know how in the movies, they always wrap something around their fist beforehand? Well, he didn’t. Yikes. What else? Oh, we turned the heat on for the first time the other morning. I love that new heat smell—it’s like wood shavings meets toasted bread meets a memory of me curled up behind my parents’ woodstove eating Cheez-Its when I was six. Yeah, winter’s coming. It’s coming.

A strange gourd I procured on Sauvie Island. Photo: Lance

Cougs, riding dirty on Traci's motorbike.

theyah's a new ramp in town

I received a phone call Sunday afternoon from Brooke Geery, and then a text message. It read: “Going to skate Mike and Maegan’s new ramp with Jay Owens.” Like any normal person with working brain cells, I made haste to my car and automobiled to the aforementioned location. It’s a lovely piece of land in NE Portland, big trees yawning over an expanse of grass and, obviously, a mini-ramp. Oh, and there’s a house there, too—small, newly stuccoed, and smelling of fresh-cut wood. Inside the house lives Mike, Maegan, their rabbit, and one or maybe two fat lazy awesome cats.

Sometimes skateboarding requires taking a rest in the flatbottom. Brooke knows.

A picture of my backside, courtesy of Ms. Geery.

But back to the ramp, and the fact that Jason Owens was in town all the way from Chicago. Yep, Derek and I were witnesses at his VooDoo Donuts wedding all those years ago, and I haven’t seen him since, really. But all of a sudden, there he was a two-minute drive from my house. After we exchanged our usual barrage of sarcasm, as well as discussing a few good albums, Jason not only did the front smith, but also the front smith revert, and a number of other maneuvers that are impressive for anyone who claims to “never skate anymore.”

Jay's a bearded man these days.

October sun set over I-5. Pretty colors, no?