A Skate Trip, A Song, And Spain
Just got back from a fast trip to Windell’s to skate the brand new stuff before summercamp starts this weekend.
And it's profoundly fun.
Just officially finished yesterday, and there’re so many things to do. Transfer pockets. Surmount step-ups. Plus, banks and hips and the mini-est of mini spines. I have twenty new spine tricks I wanna try to unleash. And lots to learn up there about just riding your board—bombing around fast and finding the lines, not just back and forth on the mini ramp, which is where I always end up in my lazier moments. But anyway, Billy’s a master park builder and this is his, well, his tour de force. A masterpiece. Big things on the horizon for him and Six Feet Under. More to be disclosed on the subject at a later date. And as you can see, our session got interrupted by the life-giving June rain. Blrrrrggh.
With that said, nothing to do but come back home, take a seat on my front porch, and play this song. 2-03 Joe Tex, These Taming Blues
“All nine kinds of rains, all five kinds of thunders and eighteen white horses won’t none of ’em come to me….” Phosphorescent goodness.
And last but not least, my family is currently soaking up some sunshine in Spain right now, and so I'm re-posting these photos I took in Barcelona last winter, a dedication of sorts, to my family—all far from home, and to Spain. A direct quote from correspondence with my moms, “It always takes a day to get comfortable with the city but we have it now. I am having a different rosé with every meal just to branch out and the cheeses are so good.” Man, love me some Barcelona....
memorialize this
So the long weekend's still echoing around, making it kinda hard to work. Actually, I did work this weekend—not the sit-inside-on-the-computer stuff, but the maintaining-a-house-in-the-modern-world stuff. Like, I took apart the lawn mower and sharpened the blades (it's an old school push mower, no motor, just a handle and turning blades, which cuts the grass slowly, all in a whirr and clatter). I also put up some crown molding, which involved exact measurements and using a savage power saw—an experience both terrifying and exhilarating.
But none of that matters. What's important are the parties. Right? Ashley came home after weeks abroad in Sri Lanka and other steamy locales, so we all convened at the Red Flag to say hello, which quickly turned into good-bye, cuz I guess she's already back on the road again. I drank table wine and listened to Sasha outline her upcoming road trip to Skateopia in backwoods Ohio with Traci, the dogs, a few other lady skaters, and a filmer from MTV. Can you imagine? Sounds like first class reality TV to me. No, really, just you wait. Sasha's observations on visiting Ohio: "I know everyone's just gonna think I'm a lesbian and that bums me out."
The Zumiez Couch Tour hit town on Sunday, which—who gives an eff? Except that I really did, because Tricia is in charge of the Couch Tour live webcast, so it simply meant that she was in town. We met up for a cocktail cruise aboard the Portland Spirit on Sunday night—a soggy trip down the dark waters of the Willamette. There was an open bar, thank you Zumiez, and we asked the bartender what his speciality was. "Rum and coke," was his curt reply.
Above, Lisa and Tricia, soaking in that damp, dark view, along with the engine exhaust. Below, open bar antics with Regis, Casillo, Danny Kass, Chris Prosser—basically, all the usual suspects.
And that's not all. Yesterday, a family reunion. I have a small family, so I really wouldn't know what goes on at these things, but being that it wasn't my family (Lance's, actually) it was so great to just kick back and watch everything unfold. All the faces, how you can see the family lines—the noses, the brow-line, the laugh—and all the relationships, both tense an easy. An awesome time for human observation.
Lance and his 13-year old half-brother Brittan, who is an absolute doll.
Crazy Heart
I think I just saw the sun. I’m not sure. It might’ve been just a lighter corner of clouds, like an area in between purple puffs. But it might’ve been the sun, too. I mean it’s almost June. Crazier things have happened, than the sun peeking out, just a little bit, to dry things out.
So I watched Crazy Heart the other night. Have you seen this? So good. It’s terrible to watch at times, and also transcendent. And just like real life—Spoiler Alert!—he doesn’t get the girl. Love, love Jeff Bridges. Due to not having cable, I haven’t seen his Academy/Golden Globes awards acceptance speeches—but heard they were amazing and smart and sweet and all that awesome stuff. He is great.
Also, loved the scenery in this movie. The desert. Between that and watching the recent Georgia O’Keefe biopic, I’m all about going to Santa Fe, soaking in the bone-dry sunlight, and contemplating life amongst the prickly pairs.
Happy Birthday Bob
Felicitations are order. May, 24, 1941. That’s 69 years ago today that Bob Dylan was born. Not much to say but, you know, Happy Birthday. Not any easy life, surely, but a rich one. He’s the kind of storyteller you wish you could be. Masterful poetry. Quiet intelligence. And a penchant for minding his own damn business. Anyhoo, I leave you with my current fave, written in 1974.
Standard Fare
So, standard fare for mid-May—torrential pouring rain and bad attitudes. Even the newscasters are complaining about weather. Friday: ladies' gathering at Mio sushi, then off to watch Skirdoosh, a "video by Steven Reeves." It was all smith grinds, shots of Jim Beam, skateboarding in the living room. Good stuff.
Saturday: Twilight Rummage Sale at the Elk's Lodge. Drink a Miller Lite and ping pong around buying .25 cent stuff. Scored the below treasures for only a few bux. Oh, and an old-school recipe box, and the movie Stranger Than Fiction.
And really, that's all. I promise.