What I'm Thankful For
It's the last week of November of the year 2015. How bored would you be if I talked about some things that I'm thankful for?
Not having to travel on Thanksgiving: A friend's Instagram post from an airport reminded me how little I want to get on a plane right now. Yes, yes, I'll spread all of my belongings on a conveyer belt and walk through the body scanner in socks, but only for the winter holiday. For Thanksgiving, I'll stay home and be lazy, eating in celebration of autumn with all it's crunchy leaves and it's cold.
My house. Everyone needs a spot they can go back to and recharge. Find comfort, find silence and solitude in the noise. I like the energy in my place—the house is definitely not haunted. No cold spots, no shadows, no bumps in the night. Nothing but good vibrations on 57th Street.
A few good friends. Friends take time and energy, and you can't be friends with everyone. This is okay. I don't need a bajillion friends. What I do need, what I'm actively trying to proliferate in my life are fun, joy, and meaning. If you check one of these boxes for me, then let's do this. If not, I'll see ya around.
Snow on the mountain. Not really for snowboarding, just for, you know, being there. For making the peak a pure white. For the promise of moisture, which is really the promise of life and the assurance that Oregon isn't, as was previously thought this past summer, about to dry up and blow away like a little ole tumbleweed.
First Snow
After a happy youth spent bumper-car-ing between snowbanks in Colorado, I have fallen out of touch with driving in the snow. Won't do it. Don't really have to. Sometimes, though, it sneaks up on you.
What happened was, Trish and Cairo lured me off the couch to hike up Larch Mountain. It was your average astronomically rainy Sunday. We thought we were prepared. We had an umbrella, a carload of people, and a carload snacks, along with a plus-sized dog to eat if things got really bad. What we couldn't predict was that on the way up the access road, the temperature would dive 15 degrees in as many minutes. No one saw the big fluffy flakes coming. No one thought they'd do anything more than harmlessly melt against the wet, dark road.
Now, snow is very beautiful. It makes the branches hang heavy. It collects the light. Everything is well defined, except for the treetops, which are buried in cloud ...
But eventually my tires stopped doing that thing they're supposed to do—making the car go. We peeled out a little, we floated around a corner on prayer alone, and when the road tilted slightly in the direction of a ditch, that's exactly where we went.
Getting stuck can be fun when you're only stuck for a little while and don't have to call a tow truck. It reminded me to buy new tires. It reminded me that the future is unwritten. It reminded me to always have at least one bad ass in the crew who will just fucking take charge and handle it—whatever "it" may be (thanks Mark!).
This is what the Columbia River Gorge looks like in November, and I ain't mad at it.
We found a new hike at a reasonable elevation. The fall colors were just fine.
Another day, another boring waterfall.
Favorites 11.10.15
The palette of November: The sun's always hiding behind purple-grey clouds and then piercing through all last minute, putting those lit-match orange trees into high relief. We can't pretend it's not pretty.
Old friends from other places moving to town for a month: Worlds collide. Your old friends become your new friends. Instead of flying across the country for a jet-lagged visit, you can walk down the street and visit them for a cup of coffee. A cup of coffee!
Not having hives: In a random turn of events, last year at this time I was in the depths of an illness brought on by lead poisoning. Maybe you didn't know? I was probably trying to be brave or some shit when I saw you. Anyway, after a year and a half, after a crap load of doctors and a crap load stress, I no longer have dark circles under my eyes or full-body hives. I am backing this!
The season's first really dark, damp Sunday doing nothing at all: Last weekend winter became real. The cat laid on the couch all day, while the dog laid on the floor. I stayed home and cared nothing about the cold or the rain. I read and watched movies for hours, I didn't give a shit. It was impossibly cozy. By the end of January, we'll be anciently tired of ourselves—but for now, things are just fine.
Asziz Ansari's show Masters Of None: Me and everyone I know—even, let's be honest, you.
The Halloween Report
In honor of an important holiday, dressed up like a jedi princess and went to a legit costume party. Short Round from The Temple Of Doom was there, along with several bearded ladies and a contingent of potted cacti. Keg beer was guzzled, and everyone danced to Drake.
Frantically bailed water off my back patio to keep the basement from flooding. It's good exercise!
Floated down to Burnside on a river of rainwater and watched approximately 4 and half minutes of the 25 Year Anniversary. A metal band riffed. A guy destroyed his knee. A mortar exploded. Then we wandered off into the deluge.
Spent most of Sunday moving very little and eating whenever possible, including a biscuits and gravy brunch on Belmont Street with Trish and Cairo. It's motherfuckin' November!
That time Leia and Short Round kicked it.
Burnside 25 Year tarp city.
Office partyin' on Friday afternoon—a very Nemo Halloween!
Joyful reunions.
Been Watching
Last week was the kind of week where you watch a bunch of movies. Chappie: Like Neill Blomkamp's other movie District 9, Chappie is set in South Africa in the dystopian future. And crikey! I liked it. It's funny, sad, gripping—with an ending that's both redemptive and sinister. Sci fi is a go for me. Sure, it's about the future and robots and shit. But really, it's about us.
Crimson Peak: In homage to All Hallow's, watched this one on the big screen. It's a good ol' fashioned ghost story. (In the spirit of honesty: I believe in ghosts.) This one's a Guillermo del Toro joint, so it was more creepy than terryifing—but I still got skeeered. The film was beautiful, too, each scene like a painting.
The Departed: It's the other Whitey Bulger movie. Made by a fellow named Martin Scorsese back in 2006. I watched it ’cause every time I'd say I saw Black Mass, someone from Boston would be like, "I liked The Departed better." Now that I've seen both, I do agree. It had, among other things, a wicked good soundtrack.