good intentions

I give you a mixtape, or playlist as they're now called—just a few things that've been playing around here lately, something nice to go with the season's first nighttime bike ride, on a red ten speed, at midnight or so, along 45th street towards home, air chill and washing up over you like you're riding down a cold river.

fanning out

Morning! It’s the day after I watched an episode of Ghost Hunters and then got scared shitless when Cougs started tapping the aluminum siding outside my window at 4 a.m. like some creep, instead of just meowing to be let in like a normal cat would. But I digress.

So remember a while back when I said I was traveling for work and that I’d tell you more about it? Well, I got invited to judge a snowboard contest, the Roxy Chicken Jam—a women’s pro event in Mammoth. It was hard work, but good work. I have a new respect for people who do this for a living. So hard to compare, and so many variables to take into account. Ugh. When we heard people bitching about our results, I figured I’d have probably said that same thing if I’d just been idly watching, but until your sitting in the judges seat, you just never know….

The judges panel: Mauricio, me, Mr. Brushie, Rachel, Pheobe off in the background, and Chris's lady Kasia...

One of my fellow judges was none other than Jeff Brushie. And I am a fan. Always was. When I was fourteen I had the Burton “Don’t Forget to Brushie!” poster on my wall—at that time he could crush the entire world with one stylish frontside air. These days? Such a nice funny respectful fellow who drives around in an RV just for fun and has a lovely family. It was an honor to sit next to him on the judges’ panel and I’ll admit, I fanned out—but not obnoxiously, quietly, and respectfully, you know.

Brushie back in the day. Style for miles.

April showers, april visits, april asparagus hash

April is an interesting month. Not winter anymore. Not summer yet. Spring, I think they call it. Cool rains soak all things, and then the sky blues deeply and the sunshine’s like a shot of straight happiness to your chest cavity. That’s how this weekend worked, at least.

Claudia, Java, Carmella, and Jardine. With a bounty of southern cookin'.

My good friend Jardine visited—she’s been a road warrior around the greater Northwest area and touched down for five days in a nest of gearbags in my basement. She was patient with me being busy as hell and patient with the cats having 3 a.m. standoffs over the prize territory that was her air mattress. We ate many amazing meals, including one at The Screen Door with asparagus hash from heaven.

What else?

Been watching: The Breakfast Club. (RIP John Hughes.) It’s been a while, and it really hit me this time—this is a dark movie. Sixteen Candles? Funny. The Breakfast Club—kinda depressing. High school’s a pressure cooker and I wouldn’t go back there for a million bucks.

Been reading: Everything Matters! An intriguing coming of age thing about the apocalypse with a twist on “omniscient narrator.”

Been listing to: Lucero, "The Prayer." A nice pause to your day—weeping fiddles and a sweet prayer from the throat of Ben Nichols.

Riots In Kyrgyzstan

Just found this article in my inbox from Newyorktimes.com: "The authorities in Kyrgyzstan declared a national state of emergency on Wednesday after large-scale antigovernment protests broke out around the country and riot police officers fired on crowds in the capital, killing at least 17 people." Just over a month ago I was wandering around those streets with a vodka buzz. Crikey! I hope my new friends are safe. Azamat? Samuel? You out there??!

Via Newyorktimes.com.

en francais

There was a time in my life when I read the classics, and I still do when I have the time, which happens to be, like, never. But. Anyway. My seventh grade French teacher, Miss Cartmill, made us read Alexander Dumas’ The Count Of Monte Cristo—or, Le Compte De Monte Cristo, as we were required to call it. We read it en francais, which leads me to believe that it must’ve been some extremely abridged version of the real work. Otherwise, how could we possibly have navigated its depths? I mean not only did we suck at French, we were stupid seventh graders. But read it we did. I vividly remember Miss Cartmill saying the female lead’s name, Mercedes, over and over—“Merrre-saaaayd-es,” we had to repeat after her to get with the proper French pronunciation. To this day, I can’t think of that book without thinking of this.

We also read a French version of Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables, and my parents took me to see the play once in Toronto, where I promptly fell asleep.

Recently, though, I stumbled upon modern movie adaptations of both stories—Goeffry Rush, Liam Neeson, Uma Thurman, etc etc. And you know? They were both tremendous. You can't really fuck up such great adventure stories. They’ve got everything—betrayal, murder, scandal, redemption, love, and triumph of the spirit. Classic human shit, ya know?