To The Aspen

Peter Sherowski came through town this weekend. That's my dad, for those of you who don't know. He fixed our truck, built a fence, bought us fish and chips, and then promptly split. The whole thing has me in a little bit of a tailspin this morning, missing my family and missing Colorado. The Northwest is my home, but that doesn't mean those wild peaks whipped by the thin dry air aren't still living somewhere deep inside me.

Anyway, here's a nice little passage about one of Colorado's most exquisite elements—the aspen tree:

"The trees heralded spring as it was about to appear, their small gray-green leaves shimmering in the sun. In midsummer their leaves were exquisite, for they were attached to their branches in a peculiar manner which left them free to flutter constantly; the slightest breath of air set the aspen shaking so that at times the entire north wall of the valley seemed to be dancing. It was in the autumn, however, that the aspen came into its true glory, for then each leaf turned a brilliant gold, so that a single tree seemed an explosion of vibrating loveliness."—James Michener

exit through the gift shop

I watched this a while back and simmered on it for a bit. While I'm ambivalent about "street art" as a movement, I like feeding new information into my brain. And I thought the movie wasn't really about street art, but about the nature of popular art, and how the things that you really care about in the beginning always die at the hands of mass culture somehow. But you can't be all, "I liked Nirvana before they were cool!" Because no one likes that asshole. It's a bit of a Catch 22.

Anyway, I liked Bansky immediately—he's got great critical brainwaves. Shepard Fairy seems a little wound up to me but maybe that's what it takes. Mr. Brain Wash can suck it.

FOJ

On the one hand, I can't believe we're half way through July already. On the other hand, it seems like summer's just barely cracked open in our pan. But I did swing on a rope swing into devastatingly cold water under a Fourth of July sun, if that's what you're wondering.

Yeah we swam in Hood River and emerged like icecubes, the water being snowmelt directly from the volcano, and then we drank Bullet Bourbon on Lisa's deck. So much fresh food was on the table that I was kinda embarassed about the simple dogs and buns I'd brought. But whatever. Someone set down a pan filled with fresh apple crumble and I drank one more potent drink and then it was lights out—figuratively and literally.

Wish you were here.

Huckleberry milkshakes—think we didn't?

Lisa and Jeff's exceptional farmhouse.

"Farm fresh."

I caught Lance in the raspberry patch.

Little Lefty loved his time as a farm dog—chasin chickens and poopin wherever he might please.

He found a safe spot to sleep off the day.

Little E., dipping into Tricia's purse. Klepto?

Secret Beach

We were about to go to the coast, but instead we jumped on a mission to this secret beach on the Sandy for Justin's birthday. You drive up a road into the country until you feel impossibly lost, then follow a wagon trail into the woods—which dwindles down to a single-track hiking path and the jungle presses in from all sides with cool, wet breath. Then suddenly you emerge on this excellent little beach fringed by a swimming hole with a set of rapids on either side that you can ride down on, say, a tube, over and over agin. Yep, secret beach—if you're nice to me, I'll show you sometime.

Lefty loves his uncle Justin.

Hipsters in paradise.

Second day at the river in his little life. So tiring.

For Lance

It's July 7th. It's early. It's quiet. I have something to say: Happy Birthday to my one and only. We've done all the hard things together this year and not very many easy ones, and yet ... that's okay. Because something good still feels like it's about to happen. You know?

Here's something nice for him and for you.