Schnitz'ed
Last night, I went to watch Jose Gonzales play at the Schnitz, AKA the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall. I'm not a rabid fan—I don't know much about him. Still, I was charmed by the show. That guitar of his wafted up through the hall like a summer breeze. Plus, what is it about the Swedes? Love the way they talk English—they make it sound better than we do. Yes, love their sweet lilting accent and their friendly, funny little unassuming ways.
This happened to be my first time to the Schnitz. It's a Portland landmark, a regal type of place built in 1928 where symphonies and philharmonics and such play. I felt really good sitting up there in the nosebleeds, cozy and comfortable et cetera, bathed in the soft warm light and surrounded by all the filigree and other shapes created for no other reason than to be beautiful.
Did y'all know, by the way, that the place first opened as a vaudeville movie house? Not very bourgeois, huh? I support watching smut in a theater of this caliber.
Gets You High
Busy as heck around here. Lots of work. For money. Typing words to tell stories that help people sell things. It's what I do when I'm not doing all the other things that don't make anybody any money, least of all me.
Aaaanyway, about last Thursday: the sun came out and it was sincerely warm, summerish even. The fine weather was palpable everywhere in the building—people were floating around flushed, the victims of spring fever. Work became impossible. We sat on the building stoop in shafts of sunlight listening to the sitar players riffing in the park. Life was grand.
It's funny. You can do a lot of things to try to control your mood. Exercise. Nutrition. Diet and discipline. Drugs, alcohol, or lack thereof. But none of that stuff really gets me high quite like the first serious blue day after months of bonafide darkness.
4 Things
Retirement ramp: What happened was, I'd been missing my old mini ramp a little bit. I didn't tell anyone, though. Within a week, the universe, along with Colin, Johnny, Niki and Deva, had delivered a lovely used ramp to my residence. Life is, was, and will continue to be a mystery!
Purple cauliflower: New from the farm stand, an immense head of cauliflower in a dignified Easter purple. Blah-white doesn't do this vegetable justice—white things are usually bland, devoid of awesomeness. The new hue (they had orange ones, too! but purple = more fun) made my meal of roast butternut and steamed, deepest-green spinach look not unlike a Matisse painting.
Me And Earl And The Dying Girl: I'm gonna argue here that this movie is a lot more oddball funny (and much less dramatic) than the trailer makes it look. Still, it does make you feel. If you like laughing and also don't mind feeling feelings, watch this movie. Sidetone: I enjoyed all the warm faded greens going on in this film. Nice to look at and such.
Spring, springing: Just the tiniest little bit. We'll take it, though.
Food, A Love Affair
Of course, there have been years when I've devised an escapist's strategy to the Feb. 14 holiday, but as a rule, I'm not, like, afraid of Valentine's Day. There's always shit to love! And after this weekend, a weekend fraught with rain and traffic, the thing I really remember loving most was the food. Sustenance, both mental and physical. Warmth in the cold. Etc.
For instance, I ate a life-changing jalapeño corn muffin on a dark afternoon. Later, in the middle of a deluge, I ate pan-fried potstickers that, when poked with a chop stick, billowed volcanic clouds of steam.
At a festive gathering, I ate 2 too many chocolate peanut-butter balls and drank several stiff, rose-colored drinks—they had the unlikely monicker of "dirty Shirley Temple" and came from the unlikely source of my favorite straight-edge girl.
Under the watchful nose of Lefty, I baked highly edible dog treats from scratch with nothing more than oats, flour and some peanut butter. And after walking the circumference of Mt. Tabor with my two favorite men, I fell aseep watching Ice Age 2 and then ate a giant steak made not of something once regal and furry but, instead, of cauliflower. Don't laugh! It was rich with miso paste and slathered with a leek compote. Red hot with sriracha. Seared and then roasted. Yep, both whisking and zesting were involved in this meal. I've long maintained that if a man is willing to whisk AND zest for you, ah well then that is love ...
Lookout Below
I've almost never felt happier than I did on that first night spent rolled up inside a sleeping bag on a tiny bed in a fire lookout atop a towering mountain down south past Bend. This is because I was incredibly warm and comfortable, I was tired from wallowing 4 miles straight up in the deep snow with a heavy pack (an act that I would call mountaineering, but I know if I did real mountaineers would pat my head and say, "Hush"), I was among several people that I liked very much, and I was there in the cozy dark surrounded by 360 degrees of windows that held nothing but stars.
This fire lookout: it's a toy-sized hut built at the very top of the world. The idea is that from there, you can see everything around you, and when a wildfire starts—you can spy the column of smoke, sleuth it out on a topo map, and then quickly report it to the smoke jumpers. This is in the summer, mind you. Isn't it quaint that they still spot fires that way? Very antique.
Aaanyway, my bed was pushed up right against the window. Laying there staring out, I didn't see any mountains or rivers or majestic fields—or any land at all. We were up in the sky! I just saw stars, a senseless pile of them. And after drifting off, I awoke again hours later with the Big Dipper right in front of my face. A cosmic surprise and whatnot. In the interest of finding a "happy place" where one can seek shelter and zen-like peace, I think that this moment shall be mine and I'll close my eyes to return there again and again, then, now, forever.
Lefty and I woke up like this.
The sun poking out up at the top of the world.
Morning coffee has never tasted better than in this little ole cabin all filled up with sunlight.
See, errybody got to protect their feet up in the high alpine.
Exploring the morning after we got there meant doing this ... for fun!
Golden hour, way up on high. Nothing to do but watch the sun drop and the storms roll in.
Ah, this was Nate gearing up for our expedition. A rollie and a full wine-skin = hipster backcountry kit.
Did I mention we did a wee hike up Smith Rock on our way down to Bend? We did. Views on views.
Taking pictures of people taking pictures of sunsets.
The Great American West, guys.