True Story
Remember when I knocked my phone off the kitchen counter and it fell slowly but steadily towards the cold tile floor? And remember how I knew without even looking at the phone—just by the sound it made hitting the floor, that the screen would be splintered in a million tiny daggers? And remember how I was like, oh well, I'm just gonna hold out with a busted screen until my upgrade comes through?
No, you wouldn't remember any of that because I was alone when it happened. But my point is that this was way back in April.
And my upgrade finally came through today. In other words, I just got a motherfucking iPhone. The first of my young life. It's shiny. I like shiny things. But I don't know anything about it. I'm gonna turn it on and hope it just goes.
Mini-ramp-ism
There was a time when I and everyone I knew had a mini ramp. They were branches spreading out from the great skate tree, and like little birdies, we hopped from one to the other over the course of an afternoon.
But times are kindadifferent now. I have my own indoor concrete skatepark and an office next door that I work furiously from. My garage mini was disassembled and raided for parts, the Coulon's mini was dismantled to make room for a workshop, the Dudebarn is all but unskateable after many seasons of rain, the Koerners moved, etc etc. Things change, you know.
Anyway, last night we skated till exhaustion the above ramp in the yard of Molly and Louis. I was reminded how much I do love the backyard mini ramp as a thing, as an activity, as a concept. Gathering, eating and drinking, learning new tricks, relearning old tricks, falling down, laughing, crying, pulling splinters out of your elbows. All the good things.
Molly's backyard is a little oasis of awesome. Pole beans and rows of spritely carrots, tots staggering around with plastic shovels clenched in their fists, French bulldogs slobbering on everything, and, of course, the skateboarding.
Woke up late and sore this morning to the sound of a light summer rain and was relieved that I didn't have to do anything but sit in a chair and type. Life is good.
Five Weeks
Keeping close to home for the next five weeks. Developing a little ritual, involving hard work all week, and long evenings outside watching the light fall. Fridays are my favorite, as that is my (one) day off. Wakeup whenever, iced coffee all day, roaming around the city spending money at will.
Farmer's market stuff.
Pet pig at the market. Cute, in its way, but I can't see having those little hooves clopping around in my home.
Iced americano number 3 of the day, ordered in the shadows of a dream catcher.
Regal Cougs, contemplation in the shade.
Camping: the Good and the Bad
Hi. Just got back from Oregon mountain/river country. Here are some thoughts about the lovely thing that is camping.
GOOD
Cooking: Sure, you can throw a can of baked beans on the coals and then later slurp it down, but I like to pack in a ton of reeeeally delicious food and then take my time preparing. Food is a huge comfort in the wilderness, especially if you’ve hiked to the point of physical exhaustion. Also, due to lack of TV and other time wasters, you have PLENTY of idle moments once camp is made to simmer up something good. It’s an art, cooking over the open fire or on a Coleman stove—learn it!
Campfires: The campfire is more than just a pile of incinerating wood. It’s warmth and comfort. It’s a gathering place for discourse and camaraderie. It’s a void where you can stare, solitarily, and contemplate what’s inside yourself.
Mornings: Mornings are my absolute favorite thing about camping, hands down. Waking up with the dawn, the way the forest smells all wet with dew, the richness and snap of hot camp coffee, a fire to fight off the chill, the sounds and smells of breakfast floating through the campground, the way the sun feels when it hits your back for the first time that day. Magic—all of it.
BAD
Sleeping: I usually spend the daytimes of camping trips in a haze of cottony sleep deprivation. This is because overnighting on an inch thick pad with nothing ‘tween you and the savage wilderness but a thin layer of ripstop nylon is, for a light sleeper like me, next to impossible. If you’re car camping, air mattresses are a go until they get a hole and then you wake up wedged in between gnarled tree roots and the heavy body of whoever you are sharing the tent with. Not fun.
Being Scared: Lance and I backpacked in a couple miles and set up camp. After dinner and fire, we were inside our sleeping bags tittering like chipmunks about stupid jokes when suddenly something whacked the side of the tent. I have no idea what it was—it sounded like a psycho killer had thwacked the tent with the dull end of his machete. We were both instantly and oddly terrified. And shining a dollar-store flashlight out into the pitch dark didn’t help—it just brought to mind desperate scenes from horror movies. Now, in the daylight, in the city, we can laugh about it—but at the time … pretty skeeeery.
Bathroom Things: Sure, guys can whip it out and take a leak wherever they want—and ultimately, it’s not so bad for us females to tip toe behind a tree and do the same. But when it comes to OTHER bathroom things that need to get done—things involving toilet paper and small, furtive holes being dug and then quickly filled back in with dirt and leaves—doing this in the outdoors just, well, sucks.
Good Busy, Bad Busy
A while ago I wrote about how great the summer was simply because you could do a bunch of nothing, all snoozy style, in the sunshine. That was, like, a lifetime ago, and a whole different person writing that. Because I haven't had a spare sec in the past weeks to sit my keister down, much less fall asleep in a pool of sun and start drooling on myself.
But. Busy is good, right?
Skate camp at Commonwealth! Skating, sweating, and more skating, bookended by a series of minor catastrophes where we scramble around putting out fires until the veins in our foreheads are ready to blow. Small business life!
About a half hour of peace, working in the shade.
Long days and longer nights. Alex's birfday session at Commonwealth.
Straight up pooped.