The Things You Do When You're Bored

A Lesson Before Flying: Part Two

2006-08-04T12:18:00.000-07:00

Also available here.

When we last saw our intrepid reporter--me--he had just pulled back on the yoke of the Cessna 172 and taken to the sky. I am on an introductory flight lesson; we have already covered the plane in theory, now we're putting it through its paces.

I am flying with Regal Air, a flight school out of Paine Field in Everett. My instructor is Matthew Jolley. A long-time lover of flying, Jolley maintains a steady roster of students and often compliments his teaching with charter flying. He is calm and easy-going, the perfect combination for instilling confidence in his students, or in this case, me.

In the email detailing my flight lesson, I'm told that I may receive a call to reschedule if the weather is at all questionable. As a student pilot, I am not allowed to fly if I can't see where I'm going; only pilots with an instrument rating--i.e. the ability to read and understand all the dials in the airplane's dash--can take to the skies during inclement weather. Luckily, I awoke to an azure sky, cloudless in all directions. A perfect day to learn to fly.

Now we are heading West, traveling at 3,000 feet over islands and inlets, towards the ocean and quickly away from the runway that sent us into the air.

The headphones we wear are tight and relatively sound-proof; the lack of noise makes the experience even more wondrous, stripping the mechanical elements away and leaving only the elated feeling of flight. Jolley's voice crackles in my ear.

"Make a medium-grade bank here, and head towards Mt. Baker," Jolley instructs me. We check over, under, and around the plane for possible obstacles--following visual flight rules--and seeing none, I initiate the turn. The plane shifts easily into its new heading, and I feel like I might have what it takes to be a pilot.

Of course, getting one's license is hardly as easy as making banking turns. In addition to all the other requisite skills--taking off and landing, for instance--students must also complete at least 40 hours flying time, with at least 10 of those done solo.

Prospective pilots must also pass a physical, an FAA knowledge test, and a 90 minute flight test. Then, and only then, will you be issued a license.

In case you were curious, the FAA does issue plastic licenses similar to the ones you receive at the D.O.V. Currently, they are multi-colored, understated, with the pilot's information and rating printed over a picture of the Wright Brothers.

When flying, the pilot is required to carry his license along with the plane's title and certification of airworthiness. Should a pilot get ramp-checked, the FAA's version of a police pullover, penalties could be enforced if they weren't carrying their papers, much like you would if you were caught driving without your license, insurance, or title.

"We've only had that happen once here at Paine Field and the pilot asked for it," says Jolley. "Our resident FAA inspector was explaining ramp checks, and this gentleman wanted to know how likely it was to occur. The inspector asked if he'd like to be ramp-checked, and he did, so they went out and did it. It really only comes up if you're behaving strangely, recklessly, or illegally."

We are behaving like none of these things. I follow Jolley's instructions, completing another set of turns back towards Paine Field. Jolley thankfully takes over this part of our flight, explaining his actions as we continue to descend, steadily losing both speed and altitude.

Finally we land, none the worse for wear, and once again, I weave us back and forth across the center lane, the toe brakes still a mystery, as we return to our parking spot. The plane is secured, and my first flight lesson comes to a close.

It was an amazing experience, one I would recommend to anyone without reservation. Should you want to continue on after the introductory lesson, you can earn a Private pilot license with as few as $3,000 in costs and 40 hours of training and practice flying. Even a more typical 50-70 hours in the air can cost as little as $4,000 - $7,000 depending on your needs and the school you attend.

Better still is that a Private Pilot certificate is good for life and purchasing an airplane is optional. More than half of all pilots rent planes, for as little as $89 per hour including fuel.

What you do after you earn your license is up to you; you can make local sightseeing flights or learn to fly aerobatics for competition or even work your way up the licensing ladder until you're qualified to fly commercial commuter jets.

Your choices are as open as the skies. Come fly them anytime.

...

If you'd like to learn to how to fly, or just want to know more about becoming a pilot, then visit the Project Pilot website at www.projectpilot.org or visit Regal Air's website at www.regalair.com

Definitions: Rafters

2006-08-02T13:14:00.000-07:00

Rafters - rAff-TERSE - noun:

1. Lofty goals, dreams, aspirations, ideas, etc. "Miranda, don't even mess with that man. His rafters ain't half as high as yours."

2. Something, usually a piece of anatomy, that is abnormally tall or foreboding. "You see her forehead? She's got rafters, man."

3. To be chemically altered. "Jesus, Steve, the room is spinning. I'm so fucking raftered."

Died crying like a bitch

2006-07-31T07:40:00.000-07:00

I don't cry often. I used to tell people that I was born without tear ducts, which was true, but then I got the surgery to repair and replace them. The first few days after I got back from the hospital, I cried at most everything. Steak for dinner? Tears. Time to go to work? Unstoppable weeping. Spooning my girlfriend? Broken sobs and sniffles.

Then, after about a week, it stopped. Finally comfortable with my new-found ability to cry, I no longer needed to. Since then, I haven't really indulged. So I was probably just as surprised as the overly touchy man in sweats sitting next to me on the bus when my eyes began welling and I felt that familiar clot in my throat.

And what brought me back into the land of emotion and feeling? Aaron fuckin' Sorkin.

A genius writer, Sorkin is best known for his screenplays (American President, A Few Good Men), his drug use (cocaine, mushrooms) and his television shows (Sports Night, West Wing). Of those six things, I've always been partial to West Wing.

West Wing was a weekly one-hour drama with a subtle undercurrent of snark and empathy that dealt with the President of the United States, his advisors, and his trials and tribulations. For four seasons, Sorkin wrote the majority of the episodes and occasionally directed a few.

During this period, the show was untouchable. Snappy banter, political discussions, and weekly plots that not only resolved in an hour, but often advanced the story arc of one or more characters. That's an impressive, nearly impossible feat to accomplish, and although it's completely unfair, you can't help but wonder how much of Sorkin's success depended on his drug use.

See, Sorkin had an affinity for narcotics that not only bested him, but eventually costed him his involvement on the show. Wikipedia puts it politely:

Sorkin was arrested on April 15, 2001 after guards at a security checkpoint at the Burbank Airport found hallucinogenic mushrooms, marijuana and crack cocaine in his carry-on bag. He was later ordered to a drug-diversion program.

During The West Wing's fourth season, major shake ups occurred. Some fans believed the show had lost its way, an opinion that was not helped when series star Rob Lowe—initially slated to be the central character but given less and less screen time as the show went on—chose to leave the series. Soon after, Sorkin and fellow executive producer Thomas Schlamme left the show in a dispute with the network.

It was inevitable that as soon as the driving creative force left the show, the spark would follow. And it did. And I stopped watching regularly, often catching up on missed shows via Bravo's marathon West Wing Mondays. But even at my most lax, the show still meant something to me.

Detractors of the West Wing often call it liberal porn, prime mastubatory fodder for Democrats in both its intent and execution. I disagree. What I saw the show constantly aspire to be was hopeful. It was about a group of people who cared, cared deeply, and worked hard to make the right choices for the right reasons. And as our actual governing body led us further and further into bleakness, the show eventually became a beacon indicating how far afield we had traveled.

I'm probably not alone in thinking this, especially if you're one of the few who have bothered to read this far, but the characters on the West Wing were not just people I empathized with, but people I wanted in charge. They were the epitome of an idealized government, and I think that's where the "liberal porn" label came from.

But we seek idealization in most aspects of our lives, from role models to art, so why should politics be exempt? It's the same reason I dislike people razzing celebrities for their opinions. To be sure, they are coming to the table from a unique vantage point, but that shouldn't immediately negate their concerns nor should it taint their actions (Sean Penn's douchebaggery aside). If they want to speak, let 'em speak; we're a democracy, it's free speech, and last I checked there weren't limits on it (with obvious exceptions).

So here was a show that showed how it could be, and I respected and loved it for that. Then I moved to Seattle and decided against cable. I knew the show was ending--it had been in its last throes for a while--but I wasn't there to watch it go.

Thankfully, there's a little website called Television Without Pity (TWOP). Offering snarky recaps of popular tv shows, it's a great place to catch up on back episodes, which is how I ended up crying at my desk at two in the morning.

If you were a regular West Wing viewer, you can skip this paragraph. The virginal West Wing viewer, however, should continue on. Earlier this season, Toby, one of the president's senior advisors, divulged state secrets to a newspaper in order to help some astronauts who were stranded in space. Toby had a brother who was an astronaut, back before he killed himself rather than face cancer. Toby also has two young children, one of whom is named for a secret service agent who was killed while protecting the president's daughter. Santos is the incoming president, Jed Bartlet is the outgoing president, and Josh was a former advisor to the latter and current chief of staff to the former.

Confused? Sorry. That's about as good as it's going to get.

This is how TWOP recaps the last scenes of the last episode:

Jed tells Debbie that he's finished, and she asks him what he's doing with the final pardon warrant. Jed claims that there's still time, and she calmly tells him, "Not much." And that's so much less about the clock than it is about her sense of how much Jed is wrestling with himself over Toby's pardon. But he claims to have two hours and nineteen minutes, and she tells him he really has two hours and eighteen minutes.

C.J. enters, and is surprised to see that Jed has not already left for the Residence to get dressed. She's holding Mallory's present and she hands it to Jed, who expresses disappointment that Mallory didn't stop to see him. Debbie's getting frustrated, and tells Jed that he only has sixteen minutes to get ready. Jed: "I'm a fast dresser." Debbie: "Not that fast." She snatches the gift away from him and tells him that she'll see that it's waiting for him on the plane.

C.J. notes that Jed's note to Santos is on the desk, and you can tell that she sees Toby's warrant there, as well. But she restrains herself from saying anything about it, and I think that's a lot less to do with her sense that the President should make that decision than it is about the fact that she's wrestling with herself over Toby's pardon. After a bit, Jed tells her, "It's been a pleasure, Claudia Jean." C.J.: "The pleasure's been all mine, sir." Lord, she's beautiful. She walks out. Jed, looking like a scared old man, sits down, looks to the heavens, sighs, and signs Toby's pardon. And then he stands up and raps his hand sharply on the desk, almost like a judge marking the end of a hearing. He picks up the pardon and walks towards Debbie's office.

(...)

In the Oval Office, Santos thanks the Joint Chiefs for their input and tells him he'll speak with them tomorrow. The military types all leave, and Josh, Sam, and Bram enter. Santos tells them that the military wants ten thousand more troops in Kazakhstan. Sam and Santos talk about whether or not it is good idea. Josh slowly smiles at Santos. Santos asks what he's smiling about, and Josh tells him, "You look good back there." As though Santos hasn't heard Josh say that a million times before. And then Ronna steps in to bram Santos away to the Residence so that he can start getting ready for all of the balls. He's clearly feeling his power, because he tells Ronna to tell Helen that he'll be up in fifteen more minutes. Sam and Bram leave. Santos looks at Josh and asks, "What's next?" They both sit, and Josh starts briefing him on some other issue.

A flight attendant walks through the former Air Force One and knocks on a door. Jed tells her to enter. It was so nice of the government to let him keep the plane. She's there to tell him that they'll be landing in a while. Jed stands up, and we see that Abbey is in the room. Jed puts something in his briefcase and finds the package that Mallory left for him. He unwraps it and opens the box. It's the napkin on which Leo scrawled "Bartlet for America" on that day so many years ago. He takes the framed napkin, hands it to Abbey, and sits beside her. She asks him, "What are you thinking about?" He looks out the window and tells her, "Tomorrow." We cut to an exterior shot of the plane. Credits.

And then we cut back to me, tears welling up in my eyes as I read those last words over and over again. And I guess what moved me is a combination of factors:

1) It's the end. There will never be another episode, and all we know of these characters now is all we will ever know. Just like on any good long-running tv show, the characters became something more than fictional, more than creations. They became friends. Dependable, honorable, witty, these were people with whom I subconsciously wanted to know while consciously aware that it was impossible. By ending, the show forced a reconciliation between the desire and the knowledge, and the result was a palpable sense of loss.

2) It was a fairly shitty season. More attention was paid to the new characters than the old, and the storylines vascillated between retreads of previous episodes and hackneyed, cloying plots. But instead of bowing out shamefully, powered only on fumes, it really feels like John Wells (the executive producer) gathered the writers together and said: "Make it count." And then they did.

3) It ended on a hopeful note. An elder statesman exits stage left, another steps in stage right, and although that's all we see, we know that--in this version of reality, at least--someone is going to keep on trying doing the right thing. And goddamn if that doesn't make me balance some hope against the sadness on the ending measurement.

All I have now are the show's words, which is what I'll leave this with:

Leo McGarry: This guy's walking down the street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep he can't get out. A doctor passes by, and the guy shouts up, "Hey, you, can you help me out?" The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a priest comes along, and the guy shouts up, "Father, I'm down in this hole. Can you help me out?" The priest writes a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a friend walks by. "Hey, Joe, it's me. Can you help me Out" And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, "Are you nuts? Now we're both down here." The friend says, "Yeah, but I've been down here before - and I know the way out."

President Josiah Bartlet: "We hold these truths to be self-evident," they said, "that all men are created equal." Strange as it may seem, that was the first time in history that anyone had ever bothered to write that down. Decisions are made by those who show up.

President Josiah Bartlet: Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful committed citizens can change the world. Do you know why?
Will Bailey: Because it's the only thing that ever has.

Flying: The Official Report

2006-07-28T11:39:00.000-07:00

Also available here

A Lesson Before Flying

We--the flight instructor, my photographer, and I--are nearly half-way down the runway before I realize we're about to take off. The four seat Cessna in which I'm sitting hums in response to the controls; I pull back on the yoke and we become airborne, easy, like a rigid mylar balloon let loose into the sky.

Below us now are islands, at our right is Mount Baker, and off in the distance, only slightly obscured by haze, is Seattle. We hold steady at 3,000 feet, the world serene. And you could be next.

Since 1997, the number of licensed pilots in the U.S. has increased by about 6 percent, and from 2003 to 2004 the number of student pilots rose 1%. In addition, the Federal Aviation Administration predicts a dramatic increase in both student pilots and licensed pilots in the next 10 years.

But if you're anything like me, you'll probably have never considered a pilot's license, thinking it difficult to obtain due to money, opportunity, availability, or even ability. As someone who needs corrective glasses, I assumed that I wouldn't even be able to pass the physical. In truth, a pilot's license, while harder to get than your driver's license, can be earned faster than a college degree and cheaper.

Project Pilot--the company that set up my lesson--is an umbrella organization that contracts with flight schools across the nation, connecting students to schools while providing information and resources for anyone interested in learning to fly. Among them are tips for finding a flight school and instructor, as well as their database of more than 3,500 flight training facilities in the U.S.

When I check, there are nearly 30 schools within 30 miles of my location. The choices are daunting; not knowing one from another, I decide on Regal Air, based out of Paine Field in Everett.

Thankfully, it turns out that Regal Air is a well-established school with a fleet of airplanes available for rental and lessons, from a Piper Seneca I to Cessna 152s. The plane I will fly is a Cessna 172, under the watchful eye of instructor Matt Jolley.

In the email detailing my lesson, I'm told that I may receive a call to reschedule if the weather is at all questionable. As a student pilot, I am not allowed to fly if I can't see where I'm going; only pilots with an instrument rating--i.e. the ability to read and understand all the dials in the airplane's dash--can take to the skies during inclement weather. Luckily, I awoke to an azure sky, cloudless in all directions. A perfect day to learn to fly.

Since 1985, Regal Air has taught students all the necessary skills to pilot an aircraft. They employ 14 full-time flight instructors, each with an extensive knowledge of planes, craft, and safety.

Matthew Jolley has taught here since 2001, after returning to his childhood love some ten years prior. The son of a Navy man, Jolley often saw the comings and goings of military air traffic, and it stuck with him. He pursued other opportunities before deciding to follow the air.

We meet Jolley inside Regal Air's offices; he is of medium build with an easy smile that he flashes quickly as we shake hands. The lesson begins not inside the plane, but under fluorescent lights.

The first stop is the weather center, a big-sounding name for a computer pulling data from the internet. Drawing on feeds from both commercial and government sources, the weather center can show you a thunderstorm in Illinois or the FAA weather report for your airfield, a nearly incomprehensible assortment of letters and abbreviations.

"We don't usually need to use this here," says Jolley, looking at the report. "Paine Field is wonderful for that. I can walk outside and see fifteen miles in any direction. If it's cloudy in the East, we'll head West. If it's going to storm, I'll know."

The weather report is always the first stop for the student pilot.

"Students rely on VFR--Visual Flight Rules--when flying," says Jolley. "While they are in the air, they are constantly looking for other aircraft while making sure their flight path is clear."

Much like on the road, a good airplane pilot is a defensive, aware pilot.

We pass by the Frasca 131 Flight Simulator, where students can hone their instrument skills after their instructors pull up a single approach from the thousands they have available. The simulator can approximate any approach for any airport in the nation under any type of weather condition.

Jolley shows us the garage; it is brightly lit, clean, and currently home to a Cessna 152.

"Every 100 hours, our planes are brought inside, opened up and checked from top to bottom," says Jolley.

All of Regal Air's aircraft are maintained by FAA Certificated Airframe and Powerplant Mechanics and Inspectors employed by Regal Air. All maintenance is completed to approved FAA standards and regulations, which means it is performed in a timely manner by mechanics that are already intimately familiar with each airplane.

The plane currently undergoing maintenance has its cowl--the metal sheeting covering the engine--removed. Two mechanics are moving about efficiently, testing and double-checking for cracks, imperfections, and needed adjustments. It will take them about a day to completely check the craft and give it a clean bill of health.

Every inspection, flight, and change in instrument readings for every airplane is carefully logged inside its own little zippered black binder. The binder also contains the owner's manual for the plane--a well-thumbed, dog-eared book filled with charts, schematics, graphs, and more math than I've seen since high school--and a set of silver keys.

Jolley pulls the binder for the plane we'll be using and double checks the logs.

"Before we take-off, I want to make sure we won't overfly a required inspection by either date or flight hours," says Jolley. "That way we're safe and FAA compliant."

Our Cessna is fine, so we adjourn to the outdoors.

"We'll be taking [plane number] N5512E," says Jolley as we walk. He points to the plane, the lettering huge on the airplane's tail. "The numbers didn't always used to be that big. The FAA actually mandated the size increase. Now if you buzz the tower or land and immediately take-off again, the FAA will find you."

In case you were curious, the FAA does issue plastic licenses similar to the ones you receive at the D.O.V. Currently, they are multi-colored, understated, with the pilot's information and rating printed over a picture of the Wright Brothers.

When flying, the pilot is required to carry his license along with the plane's title and certification of airworthiness. Should a pilot get ramp-checked, the FAA's version of a police pullover, penalties could be enforced if they weren't carrying their papers, much like you would if you were caught driving without your license, insurance, or title.

"We've only had that happen once here at Paine Field and the pilot asked for it," says Jolley. "Our resident FAA inspector was explaining ramp checks, and this gentleman wanted to know how likely it was to occur. The inspector asked if he'd like to be ramp-checked, and he did, so they went out and did it. It really only comes up if you're behaving strangely, recklessly, or illegally."

Out at the plane, there is a comprehensive check list; we make sure all the flaps work, and are properly bolted and hinged; that the tires and brakes are operational; confirm the fuel tanks are full and the gas--100 octane, low lead--is free of sediment; and a dozen other things are as they should be before we even get inside the cockpit.

The check list continues inside. There is surprisingly little lingo to learn. There is the yoke in your hands and toe brakes at your feet, instruments in front of you and a voice-activated boom mike placed close to your lips. After priming the engine with fuel, I turn the ignition key four clicks to the right. The engine turns over and the propeller kicks on loudly.

While on the ground, the yoke does nothing. The propeller still pulls the plane forward but you steer with your feet, braking on the side towards which you would like to turn. It's an unusual skill to master. Jolley directs me to taxi out to the runway and I feel immediately inept.

"Follow the yellow line," Jolley says in my headset. "It's not like on the road. Here you want the yellow line to go straight down the middle of the cockpit."

Instead of going straight down the middle, we zig-zag back and forth like a seismometer needle. Eventually, we even out and turn onto the runway.

"Ready?" asks Jolley. "Keep the white line in the middle."

He increases the power to the propeller and relaxes the toe brakes. The plane sprints forwards.

"Now, pull back on the yoke," says Jolley. I do. The plane's nose edges upward.

"And you're flying."

...

This is the first part of a two-part story. Read the second installment next week here in the Beacon.

For more information, visit Project Pilot's website at www.projectpilot.org or Regal Air's at www.regalair.com.

I flew a plane today

2006-07-20T18:46:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the jobs I have kick me strange perks. Case in point.

From vox, with love

2006-07-19T11:32:00.000-07:00

Who is your favorite Muppet? Why?
QotD submitted by knitwitology.vox.com.

Sgt. Floyd Pepper

Sgt. Floyd Pepper. Easily. 'Cause he was, as part of a cast better crated, effortlessly cool and laid-back. Plus, you knew he could bring the funk when he wanted.

And, it seems, that you can buy an articulated action figure of the mustachioed bassman, which makes no sense to me. Why not a plush toy for the kids or--I don't know--a puppet for the nerds who can't work up the nerve to actually talk to other people.

I'm not going to lie to you; I used to harbor aspirations of being a ventriloquist. I also practiced magic. The torn and restored rabbit kind, not the wiccan devil-summoning kind. You can probably imagine how supremely unpopular I was in grade, middle, and high school. And yet I was happy. You know why? Puppets.

That's actually untrue. I'm sorry. The actual reason I wasn't terminally suicidal in school was because I choose to be intentionally oblivious of the sheer number of people who wouldn't be caught dead in my company. Of course, this is all in retrospect. At the time, I was a clarinetting magic-making puppeteer, a fucking king-maker.

Anyway, I had--have, actually, as they're probably in a box somewhere--two ventriloquist dolls: a cheap Charlie McCarthy knock-off that my mother purchased from the J.C. Penny catalogue one Christmas and a dog puppet that tried so hard to distract from his and my uncoolness that it wore hot-pink tie-dyed clothes and sunglasses.

My conscience is clear on Charlie McCarthy. I got it as a gift. You get lots of things as gifts that you don't actually want. Calendars, for instance. Please give me no more calendars. I neither want nor need a one-a-day calendar of pithy Tim Allen sayings or a glossy wall-hanger of the best in black and white roadside cafe photography.

But the dog. Oh, the dog. I wanted it bad, but you've got to understand the circumstances. I was 13 years old in the Mall of America, the biggest shrine to commercialization you're going to see this side of television. My eyes had grown numb to the spectacle of six floors of stores upon stores when, suddenly, I happen upon this kiosk manned by a bored high-school graduate and a talking dog.

Marketing wonks will quote you statistics and data compiled from double-blind studies and focus groups, but I'm going to lay it out easy for you: if you want to catch the eye of the ever-valuable tween-aged boy and girl, all you need is a talking dog.

I realized, of course, that the dog couldn't actually talk and resembled more an albino sloth with an arrestingly '80s sense of fashion than a mutt, but I was smitten. Here was my chance, I thought. Here was my chance to finally get some of that popular mainstream attention. Thank God that failed.

God, the more that I think about it, there's a good chance I brought one or both of those to school at some point. Strangely, I never had trouble with bullies. I think they felt sorry for me.

Eventually, I stopped talking without moving my lips, dropped the clarinet, and picked up the bass. And it's much easier to play when you don't have your arm up a big floppy dog sock.

- Tyson

Bernoulli's Jelly: It Gives You a Lift

2006-07-14T01:24:00.000-07:00

You're looking out the window as the airplane accelerates. The ground is a blur of detail. You are waiting, waiting for wheels-up, waiting for the twinge of momentary weightlessness to seize your stomach. This is what flight is.

The date is July 14th. In exactly six days, I'll fly an airplane. Not fly on an airplane, but actually pilot a vehicle capable of traveling at speeds in the mid-range triple digits.

When I was in college, I lived in the dorms for a while. It was a sad situation for many reasons, not least because I was a junior and the only drinking-legal student in my building. At the time, I was in a relationship on the decline; a high-school couplehood that couldn't withstand the change. Her name was and is Lui.

Lui attended a community college one hour away, and would commonly come up to spend the night, only to leave early the next morning to make it to her 8 a.m. class. One day we were arguing; she left late. Twenty minutes later, I got a call.

Hello?

She's crying.

Where are you?

Turns out she was on the side of the road, midway to school. In an argument-fueled, sleep-deprived fugue she had decided to make it to school on time. In order to do that, speed limit laws were summarily dismissed as arbitrary, too limiting, and too low.

So, uh, how fast were you going?

The State Police often, on the route from Bellingham to Seattle, hunker down on the overpasses, hoping to catch some unsuspecting motorists overclocking their engines. The speed limit along this stretch is 70 miles per hour. Lui was doing 103.

103!?

103 miles an hour automatically qualifies as reckless endangerment, an offense for which the police can direct you out of your car over bullhorn, handcuff you and place you in the back of their squad car for arrest.

Thankfully for her, she had, at that point, kept a clean driving record. The officer, kindly, did not arrest her and wrote instead a ticket for $531.

My point in telling you this is that 103mph is seventeen mph away from the top speed of my truck and seventeen mph above the fastest I've ever driven. In one week, I'll be piloting a craft capable of topping my best by a factor of six.

I've invited my friend Kate along to take pictures. She wanted to know if it would be loud. The answer is yes, it will be loud, especially when we crash into that mountain.

There is little in my past as a driver of land-bound vehicles to recommend me to the air. I've hit a support column in a parking garage for God's sake. But somehow, with little more than an email and a promise, I can get behind the controls of my own personal death-jet.

How cool is that?

It does raise some questions, however. For instance, what good is our security--or, if I might indulge in some banal buzz-wordery, our homeland security--if someone with no specific credentials can earn their pilots wings in an afternoon?

Earning ones pilots wings, by the way, is nothing--NOTHING--like earning ones red wings. Nothing to get red-faced over, but still.

So, with six days left until I fly, I've decided to get my worldly affairs in order. I don't have a lot, but there's enough worth worrying about.

For instance, all of my musical equipment will go to Kat. All of the rights to my songs, writings, and other assorted whatnots will go to Sally. Sally will also get first pick of my CDs and vinyl--thats right, baby, my mint copy of Mel Tillis In Concert is all yours. My computer should probably be destroyed, along with those binders of CD-Rs in my closet, just to avoid any lingering questions or scandal. Anything left that isn't scavenged by my family or various friends will go to the Goodwill.

Hmmph. Well, that was strangely easy. Maybe I'll go listen to later-era Paul McCartney now.

- Tyson

Definitions: Shaker Sure

2006-07-14T01:22:00.000-07:00

Shaker sure - colliquial phrase - to be fervent in your convictions. A strong endorsement.

"Gerald, are you positive you locked the door?"

"Sssh, Sugar, I'm shaker sure."

"Oh, Gerald."

Song: Angel Lust

2006-07-11T12:25:00.000-07:00

The time is now midnight oh three. I have been awake for just a shade over 34 hours. I'm tapping out. As you might guess, I'm pretty fuckin' tired.

But I didn't want to leave you with yet another puny paragraph post, so to this brief update into my somnambulism, I append this week's song.

Enjoy!

Angel Lust

They wait without complaint, compliant,
somewhere between fear & defiance.
Their faces are hard & vacant;
their eyes cold & ancient.
They walk, 20 to a chain--
murderers sentenced to hang--
but once in sight of the gallows,
they moan as their footsteps slow.

(chorus)
No one waiting for our sorry souls
but the grand god devil below.
We have killed, we have maimed,
but ours are not the only souls the devil's claimed.

There's a right hand twist to the twine
& the noose knot is soaking in brine.
It's eight tall steps to the top,
a short climb with a quick drop.
The reverend gives a wan smile.
He smells of funeral pyre.
The rope gives a startled cough
& the wood whines when they could not.

(chorus)

Definitions: Mounting a Cat

2006-07-11T12:22:00.000-07:00

Mounting a cat - colliquial phrase - Something that is difficult to do, i.e. eating your own cooking or beating up a dock worker. "Hey, Jasper, can we get some help? We're mounting cats over here."

Sometimes I forget the possibility that I'm tragically unpopular

2006-07-11T10:32:00.000-07:00

So, over the weekend, Sally and I threw the lamest party ever. There have been others, easily, that ended more melodramatically, perhaps even cinematically, but none more lame than us.

See, Sally and I have been house-sitting for her sister, who is away with her husband in Thailand right now. We thought, "what better time for a house party, than when it's at someone else's house? What better time and manner to celebrate life than with plausible deniabilty and alcohol?"

We purchased a keg, we made snacks, we sent out invitations, and then we waited. Patiently. Oh, so very patiently. And, really, that's all that happened.

The only people who came were Megan and her roommate, and I think if we had not seen them earlier in the day they might have had other plans.

If you've never seen a house prepped up for a party that will never arrive, then you don't know sadness. Say what you will about the holocaust, but at least those camps were full of people. Munched upon snack trays splayed across the counter. The slow settling of ice around the keg. The most depressing game of beer pong EVER (seriously, four people around 12 plastic cups of beer on a ping pong table does not a party make). Bare floors that reflect the funky beats from the stereo towards the ceiling and back again. Nothing moving, nothing happening, the house static, waiting desperately for dynamicism that was never to arrive. Morose, Sally and I got crunk and passed out in front of the tv.

In an effort to redeem ourselves, we decided to try again the following day. I'm happy to report that people actually came to this party, and a good time was had by all.

Last night, I was watching television with Sally. An uncommon occurance, as we don't actually have cable at our apartment. More specifically then: we were trying to sort out the snow from the show, while the ever-efficient Super Nanny sorted out the family affairs of the inept and naive.

The thing I don't like about Super Nanny is that a lot of people aren't aware of the various machinations behind the scenes. See, Jo, the super nanny in question, isn't actually British. She's actually a midwestern actress who stumbled onto the gig after trying out for a crest commercial (she didn't get the part, obviously).

While her accent on the show is completely fake, Jo does such a good job that it's almost imperceptible. The best part is that when they script the out-takes, they often have her British accent hinder the pronounciation of American words. Hijinx ensue. It's not funny so much as it is an absolutely amazing acting job.

The part that bothers me though is that the producers of the show strive for versimillitude; aim for capturing the action instead of creating it. And yet none of Super Nanny's actions or advice is spontaneous. All of it is pre-scripted and vetted by three nationally recognized psychologists before going to air, so as to protect the network against lawsuits.

That willingness to bend the truth is one of the reasons why I don't miss television anymore. The other is commercials. I don't know how, but I used to passively accept commercials. I'd watch them, or not; maybe change the channel, maybe watch it all the way through if it were sufficiently entertaining. But I never really thought about the ways in which they were selling to me, what premises they were forcing me to accept, and how incredibly gauche the ads were willing to be in order to sell a product.

For instance, M&M's. Sweet candy that melts in your mouth, not in your hand. See? Didn't even have to think about it. Perfect marketing. Anyway, they have this commercial where a group of burly, sweaty men are tucked in a well-lighted ship galley, rowing. Up in front are the two spokecandies, red and yellow, rowing. The punchline? The galley slaves sing "Don't rock the boat baby."

First off, the Hues Corporation wrote a shitty song that somehow managed to get airplay and worm its way deep into your subconscious. So deep, in fact, that if you were to stand up right now and sing the chorus, at least one other person will stand up and exclaim: "Oh, fuck! It's in my head. My head!" and then pass out. So, pretty deep.

Secondly, it's a racist joke. You know why? Because all the rowers are white. Because you'd never--NEVER--see that same commercial with minority rowers. I don't want to say that M&M's are promoting slavery while at the same time mocking the terror and awfulness of the trade in order to sell delicious candy-coated chocolates, but if not me, who?

- Tyson

I'll probably take hell for this

2006-06-30T10:21:00.000-07:00

Don't tell Sally, but I've been thinking about kids. Having some, I mean, and, perhaps even more specifically, becoming a father. At this time, I'd like to let people who may not have yet met me know that I do not want children at any near point in the future, and that goes double for those who do know me, and/or know my parents. Let's leave them out of this, shall we?

The past month or so, I've been thinking about what an awesome father I would be. Don't you think? I'm animated, absurdly child-like in my own right, and have small fingers (Just kidding, you NAMBLA-pambies).

It's strange, though, for me because when I think of parenting, I think of comedians. Which isn't to say my parents weren't wonderful--they were and are--but more to say that my parents never formally codified their teachings. Their parenting curriculum was more by implication than explication. So when I think of parenting, I think of people like Patton Oswalt, Sarah Silverman, and Bob Saget.

I'll repeat that. When I think of parenting, I think of Patton Oswalt, Sarah Silverman, and Bob Saget. Here's why:

Patton: I'm going to be a fucking awesome father. You know why? Because I'm going to the lamest father ever. Phil Collins' No Jacket Required is going to be the most contemporary album I own. And I'll rave about it too: "Hey, have you listened to this? This is some good stuff."
"Fuck you, dad!"
And I'll smile to myself because I'll know I've raised a fucking awesome kid.

Sarah: You know what babies love? Ethnic jokes.

Bob: In comedy circles, there's a famous Saget story about the night his first daughter was born. After a very difficult birth, during which Sherri Saget and her baby almost died, a friend showed up to find Mr. Saget looking utterly destroyed, unshaven, unrecognizable, but holding his newborn. "Oh my God, Bob, she's beautiful," the friend said. "For a dollar, you can finger her," Mr. Saget replied.

Anyway, I find it interesting that when I think of parenting in the abstract, I default to comedy. But when I think of parenting in the concrete sense--the day-to-day care, the worrying, the mess, the push and pull of differing temperaments--I think of my parents, I think of loving something unconditionally, something that can and will hurt me at some point, and I think of waking up every morning contented and eager, waiting for the day to bring me an experience for which I have no training. I think of waking up, as I did this morning, wrapped up and around my girlfriend, warm, safe, and right.

I have a belief, deeply held, that I rarely bother to explain to people because I don't want them to think I'm crazy, or some hippie-dippy new age asshole that's perennially out of touch. I believe that if you have a question, be it nebulous or directed, if you have a question, the universe--your surrounding environment--will give you the answer.

Case in point: Ask Metafilter is a community website where members can ask questions of members. Queries run the gamut, from "How would I find a Japanese language "camp" or intensive school in the greater New York metro area?" to "How long can a reasonably healthy human survive without water?"

The other day, the question was "If you could tell a soon-to-be dad anything, what would you say?"

A smattering of answers:

Buy 1000 marbles and put them in a big glass jar. Every Saturday morning take a marble out of the jar (after your child is old enough to avoid the choking thing, you can give them to him/her). That is about how many Saturdays you have to spend with your child before they are off on their own. It's a great visual reminder to take advantage of the time you have together. You will be astonished how quickly the marbles disappear.

When you fall asleep late one night on the couch and the baby rolls off you and falls to the floor, don't freak out. Almost everyone drops the baby once.

Do not underestimate the amount of time a baby requires, from both of you but especially the mother. Take how much time you think it will require, then double it. Now, think about that, and double it again. That's how far off your current thinking is. The quote I remember is "How much time does a baby take? All of it."

in the delivery room: stay away from the vagina. childbirth a miracle!! a beautiful thing!!! amazing to behold!!! but dad, you don't want to visualize mom's ladyparts when they are at their structural extremes.

And, again, I'm not about to be having babies--hell, I won't even suffer a dog in my apartment--but it's nice to have some perspective and advice tooling around in the ol' subconscious for future reference.

But the scariest part of fatherhood, to me anyway, is the instant revision of your deadlines, your internal calendar that tells you what should be done by a certain date. For instance, I work at a weekly paper. I have weekly deadlines. I deal with life more or less a week at a time. The date is constantly a surprise to me, because it makes sense to think of life in seven day chunks.

What is a baby? It's a project with a deadline date eighteen years in the future. It's difficult for me to fathom that. If I had a child, right now, today, by the time the due date arrived (har!), I'd be 41 (23+18=?). That's middle-age. By the time you're 41, you should have had all your adventures, sown all your seeds, settled down, and come to terms with the fact that all your songs are in your past. But maybe I'm looking at this from the wrong side; 41 is a starting point, a place of renewal, a great time to schedule your mid-life crisis.

My problem, I suppose, is that while I enjoy taking the long view and planning for the long term, I have no stratagems, no coping mechanisms for a time period nearly as long as I've lived. What's even scarier is that I know of very few people who do.

Maybe I'll have a baby and buy a Ferrari at the same time. I'll never drive it (the car, not the baby) and I'll barely make ends meet, but by the time the baby's gone on to college, or juvie, or Iran, or wherever babies go, it'll be completely paid off.

Of course, by that point cars will probably run on hope and Unicorn tears, and my classic Ferrari will probably be on some eco-terrorist strike list, so I'll have to hide it in my garage, sneaking black market diapers in to clean it with while I down enough tylenol with pine sol to make me think I'm driving South, a cigarette in one hand and a flask of hard A in the other. Anyway, I just don't know if I'm ready to own a car like that. It's quite a commitment.

- T

Song: Oh, Comely

2006-06-29T13:03:00.000-07:00

From Pitchfork:

"hello again.

"for the past few months ive been putting together the pieces of everything ive written in the past three years and its been a revelation. whenever i had the time ive been writing melodies and keeping them in my head for later, and songs just accumulate, im not waiting as some have said. i still dont know how we're going to put it all together, the songs will have more noises and collages in them. because of that we dont know whether this will be korena pang or neutral milk hotel or michael bolton but that doesnt really matter. names are just a box we put things in to separate them, and we're figuring out what box these songs go in.

"we dont have a timetable for releasing the album yet, so dont get your hopes up for new songs now. if you want more "aeroplane" just ignore all of this, the songs are songs but they're longer and more free. when jeremy came down after his tour we just spent days playing noise while screaming and it was incredibly liberating.

"it has been so much fun that we will for sure be playing a show or two, probably more. freedom is a wonderful thing but at a certain point you need the routines of normal life. ive had that for a while but i realized last year at the show with the livys that the best sort of normal ive ever had was on the road with my friends. getting to gigs late with cars coughing and trombones smacking on doors, the giant egg leaks over the masses, the yolk sustains us, we eat whites for days. it can never be the same but i need to get as close as i can to that again.

"so thats all. everything is happening soon, this is the year.

thanks for listening. jeff."

The Jeff in question was supposed to be Jeff Mangum, long loved Elephant 6 singer/songwriter for Neutral Milk Hotel. I'm fairly vocal about In the Aeroplane Over the Sea being one of my favorite albums, and I, like many many others, have been waiting in vain for new material from NMH or Mr. Mangum.

Unfortunately, it turns out the above post is a hoax, which just kills me.

From Pitchfork (again):

Robert Schneider (Apples in Stereo) posted the following on E6 Townhall today:

"dear friends--

"i had not commented on this thread because i wanted to hear back from jeff mangum directly about it-- i sent jeff an email quoting the initial post on this thread yesterday, and he just replied:

'hello robert-i am sorry to inform you that this is not my post. could you please inform the good people on the e6 list that this is not my writing? thank you robert. much love-j'

"this came directly to my email from jeff's email account-- the post attributed to him is 100ALSE, sorry to bear the disappointing news-- it was a very beautifully written fake post!

"you are all beautiful and brilliant kids, it would do the whole world a great deal of good if you took all this great energy and excitementyou have been passing around here, rolled it up with your anger and disappointment into a big wonderful pissed-off ball, and recorded a bunch of kickass songs!!! please go right now and make something special, do something great, retaliate against the mediocrity that engulfs us!!

"don't just do it for me, or jeff, or elephant 6 (although it would please us all immensely) do it because the world needs it!!

love,
robert schneider"

I can't even begin to imagine the amount of pressure to follow up an album of that magnitude, but I will continue to fervently hope that someday Jeff will be up to the task.

So, in honor of NMH, I give you the lyrics to Oh, Comely, one of the all-time great songs by NMH or anyone else, for that matter.

Oh, Comely
Oh comely
I will be with you when you lose your breath
Chasing the only meaningful memory you thought you had left
With some pretty bright and bubbly terrible scene
That was doing her thing on your chest
But oh comely
It isn't as pretty as you'd like to guess
In your memory you're drunk on your awe to me
It doesn't mean anything at all
Oh comely
All of your friends are all letting you blow
Bristling and ugly
Bursting with fruits falling out from the holes
Of some pretty bright and bubbly friend
You could need to say comforting things in your ear
But oh comely
There isn't such one friend that you could find here
Standing next to me
He's only my enemy
I'll crush him with everything I own
Say what you want to say
Hang for your hollow ways
Moving your mouth to pull out all your miracles aimed for me

Your father made fetuses
With flesh licking ladies
While you and your mother
Were asleep in the trailer park
Thunderous sparks from the dark of the stadiums
The music and medicine you needed for comforting
So make all your fat fleshy fingers to moving
And pluck all your silly strings
And bend all your notes for me
Soft silly music is meaningful magical
The movements were beautiful
All in your ovaries
All of them milking with green fleshy flowers
While powerful pistons were sugary sweet machines
Smelling of semen all under the garden
Was all you were needing when you still believed in me
Say what your want to say
Hang for your hollow ways
Moving your mouth to pull out all your miracles aimed for me

And I know they buried her body with others
Her sister and mother and 500 families
And will she remember me 50 years later
I wished I could save her in some sort of time machine
Know all your enemies
We know who our enemies are

Goldaline my dear
We will fold and freeze together
Far away from here
There is sun and spring and green forever
But now we move to feel
For ourselves inside some stranger's stomach
Place your body here
Let your skin begin to blend itself with mine

Definitions: Callipygian

2006-06-29T12:15:00.000-07:00

(Tyson's note: usually I make up the words and definitions for these entries, but I'm lazy and the following word makes me happy because it exists. Enjoy)

Callipygian - adj - having shapely buttocks. "Dude, did you see that new hire, Bruce? He's fine like summer wine. Like some sort of callipygous Greek God."

Pronunciation: "ka-l&-'pi-j(E-)&n
Variant(s): or callipygous /-'pI-g&s/
Etymology: Greek kallipygos, from kalli- pygE buttocks

I have the hiccups

2006-06-27T11:36:00.000-07:00

Here's the thing about me and hiccups though: I get them rarely, but once I do, they're mine for the day. Which means when I start violently hiccuping at nine in the morning, as my co-workers silently laugh at me from behind their vaunted cubicle walls, I know--with every random spasm of my diaphragm--that I'll have to deal with this until I fall asleep at night.

Don't get me wrong. It's not an unending spell that consumes my waking hours, but instead a series of spells that begin and end as if on a whim, disappearing into the ether only to return moments, minutes, hours later with renewed vigor. I hate hiccups.

Sneezes on the other hand are wonderful. It's like a quick reboot to the system, a quaint little bug-fix, that makes you feel like everything's allright with the world, unless, of course, you're hiding in the wall from a serial killer with five close friends and one hanger-on and survival depends on your silence.

It was a busy weekend. I traveled up to B-ham to hang with Oliver and Co.-- making some music, eating some breakfast, braising in the hot noon day sun. The usual.

There was more, but my hiccups are back and I'm irritated. So I leave you instead with yet another entry into my "Defeat the Spam Filter" file.

From: "Bosmat Isham"
Date: June 21, 2006 10:40:36 AM PDT
To: xxx@xxx.xxx
Subject: oubos good
Reply-To: "Bosmat Isham"

Hi

Save over 50% on your medications with our online STORE

he begged them. I fear that dragon in my marrow. I like this silence
far less than the uproar of last night. Shut the door before it is too
late! Something in his voice gave the dwarves an uncomfortable feeling. Slowly Thorin shook off his dreams and getting up he kicked away the stone that wedged the door. Then they thrust upon it, and it closed with a snap and a clang. No trace of a keyhole was there left on the inside.

Why must spammers always default to Dwarves? There's plenty of other stock fantasy characters. Where the hell are the centaurs and the space aliens?

- Tyson

Savory Monday Post

2006-06-19T14:39:00.000-07:00

Nothing much of note lately, except:

I saw The Unknown on Friday. The Unknown is an old silent movie starring Lon Chaney and Joan Crawford. He's an armless knife thrower, and she's his assistant. She also happens to be terribly afraid of men's hands. It seems like an easy match, but unfortunately nothing is as it seems. The movie was pretty kickass, but it was the live instrumentation by Portastatic, which made it, if I might so shamelessly ape, "flippin' sweet."

Some of you might be aware that I'm in a band that we call Fiddler to the Czar (or FT2C if you're nasty). The other member is Kat, and she's awesome. So awesome in fact that I might have to resort to the Keanutalk dialect to properly describe her: whoa.

Anyway, we've got seven songs finished, and I've got another six in the queue, so I'm thinking the first album's going to be ok. But for our next project (maybe), I'd really like to score a movie. I wanted something old and silent, and Kat suggested The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. An excellent choice, all the more so because it's only 50 minutes long, AND it's available online here.

If I might jump back to The Unknown for a second, I want to quote from this page:

Chaney, like Flanagan, became an artist through direct early contact with infirmity: his mother was sickly, but more significantly, both parents were deaf, causing young Chaney to develop a repertoire of facial and body tics and gestures to communicate with them. He made his first films in the mid-1910s, and by 1920 he was already creating roles that required him to be armless, legless, crippled, or otherwise deformed. In The Penalty, he plays a criminal seeking revenge against society because a surgeon botched an operation, resulting in the loss of his legs. Ever the meticulous realist in matters of pain, Chaney created a constricting harness that forced him to walk on leather stumps.

Chaney's backstory was not one I knew, and it's not something you need to enjoy his work, but it definitely adds a very subtle quality to the performance.

Thursday, I saw Built to Spill. I love Built to Spill. I respect Built to Spill, but I've seen 'em three times live and they've never done right by me. And so it went again.

I don't really understand it. BTS--or, more accurately, Doug Martsch--has written at least two great albums (There is Nothing Wrong with Love and Keep It Like a Secret), and a dozen or so wonderful songs sprinkled throughout the remainder, but this newest album, this You in Reverse, seems to be the paltriest offering Martsch has mustered in quite some time. Only "The Wait" manages to capture the mystery and melody of BTS' back catalogue, and it's the last song on the album. It's disappointing, all the more so when at Thursday's concert the band choose to cleave heavily to their newest meal ticket. Only "Car" and "Broken Chairs" were brought out of retirement to cap either end of the show and coat it in a veneer of excitement. I guess what I'm saying is that BTS is a band better enjoyed altered and I most definitely was not. (And, obviously, some will disagree with me)

That brings up a related point: centerfolds. The High Times centerfold is better than the Playboy centerfold. I'll say that again: The High Times Centerfold, a high dpi rendering of quality hydroponic marijuana bud, is better than the Playboy centerfold, a high dpi rendering of impossibly gorgeous women.

The reasoning is threefold: first, Playboy models are photoshopped. Ain't no two ways around it. Sure, some models are going to need less post-processing work than others, but rest assured EVERYONE's gonna get touched up.

Two, porn is free on the internet. Did you know that? It's absolutely crazy. Sometimes you don't even have to be looking for it, and then BAM! Porn, right there in front of you, staring soulfully at your groin as your mother walks in the room and right out again. Oh, Jesus, where's the tissue?

And, finally, Three: you know the High Times staff smoked the shit out of the centerfold as soon as they were done taking pictures. That's not going to happen with Playboy. There's nothing comparable to passing to the left when it comes to women. No one, at the end of a long day of taking pictures of pretty women for Playboy, says: "all right guys, let's light her up. Come on, get in here, there's enough for everybody."

But wouldn't it be really hot if they did?

I spent yesterday with my family--sort of. I slept in until three, woke up, realized that there was no way I could be in Marysville by six, called and said I'd be there for dinner at seven, checked my email, surfed the web, played some music, took a shower, checked my mail again, did the dishes, finally rolled up to M-town to buy my father a gift card (from Home Depot. And lest you think I'm an insensitive son, I also burned him copies of the first two episodes of the Bob Dylan radio show, which, if you haven't heard it, you should), and then finally got to my house at 7:30.

I got to move furniture into my old room, which my parents have now converted into a guest room. They're systematically erasing me from the house, leaving only the god-awful high school/middle school/grade school pictures on the walls to remind others that some fat, mullet-haired nerd once lived here. God, how sad. Good thing this is on a blog.

I also wrote this article, which reminds me of this story that happened long ago that I now share with you.

When I was in grade school in Illinois (the town I lived in was called Normal, fyi), my brother's first grade teacher, Mrs. Jones, was flying cross-country. Sitting next to her was this big black man, rather quiet, but continually being interrupted by people coming up and asking for his autograph.

Mrs. Jones, ever the inquisitive one, asked who he was. "My name's Aaron Neville," he said.

"I'm afraid I don't know who you are," replied the terribly unhip Mrs. Jones. Which worked out just fine because instead of reciting album titles or awards he'd won (tedious!), Aaron decided to sing to her to prove his story. And so he did, and Mrs. Jones' heart grew three sizes that day.

I'm going to go do something something.

- Tyson

Definitions: Going to See the Rabbits

2006-06-14T14:47:00.000-07:00

Going to See the Rabbits - Colliquial Phrase - Smoke break; possibly illicit, either in timing or materials. "Hey James, June and I are going out to see the rabbits. You want to join?"

Song: Star, Dave, The Thumb and The Horror

2006-06-09T12:41:00.000-07:00

Star, Dave, Thumb, and The Horror

Verse:
(F# minor groove)
Dave's middle aged
Star's 20-something, single
He's a software pirate
She's a part-time ninja.

He studies unix
at a school in East Brooklyn.
She uses chopsticks
for reasons I can't mention.

Chorus:
(A/E/F#m)
Together they fight crime, liars, and crooks.
He does soduku and she reads gardening books.
Dave's the brain and Star's the brawn.
I wrote the lyrics, but this is their song.

Bridge:
(F#m/A/Bm/E/F/F#m)
One day a villian
came maiming and killing
through southern Oklahoma.
Making sausages of savages
with spicy sauces from cabbages,
everyone called him "The Horror".

Too soon The Horror
pulled up in Tulsa
in a lowered '76 caddy
with his henchman named Thumb
who carried a knife but no gun
on burned-out brakes and a failing tranny.

Verse:
In a dusty pre-fab home
on a dead end street
at the edge of town--
no handprints in the concrete--
Star and Dave finally met
the Horror and the Thumb.

Star took the muscle,
while Dave chased the boss
into the basement.
The Thumb knew he was lost,
and with a quick snikt
of Star's knife, he succumbed.

So too went the Horror,
and Star couldn't believe her eyes.
"How'd you do it?" she asked and he answered:
"I had 50 cents and every Horror has its price."

Chorus:
Together they fight crime, liars, and crooks.
He does soduku and she reads gardening books.
Dave's the brain and Star's the brawn.
I wrote the lyrics, but this is their song.
I wrote the lyrics, but this is their song.

--
Written during the recent Eels concert. Ridiculous to the Max! And please everyone (i.e. Kate), don't chap my hide for the dangling modifier.

FT2C Forever,
- T

Definitions: Brim

2006-06-08T11:31:00.000-07:00

Brim - V, N - Colliquial - to keep under one's hat, to keep something a secret. On the down low. "Don't you worry about that rash. It's brimmed, baby!"

This comes absurdly late.

2006-06-06T15:07:00.000-07:00

This was the article that ran in the Edmonds Beacon to announce my ascendency to editor. Please note that the Beacon has never actually had any crosses burned in front of of its offices.

Publisher Paul Archipley has announced a changing of the editorial guard at the Edmonds Beacon.

Tyson Lynn, a graduate of Western Washington University with a major in English and a minor in Communication, is the new editor.

Al Hooper, who asked to be relieved of the editors role, will continue with the Beacon as editor emeritus a four-dollar term for police, news and feature writer and general factotum i.e., gopher.

Tyson Lynn will do a splendid job, says Hooper. Our Edmonds contacts will find him very likeable. In that sense hes not really an editor type at all.

Publisher Archipley adds, It will be nice to have someone in that position who doesnt inflame the readers baser instincts. Maybe now the cross-burnings in front of the building will stop.

Before joining the Beacon, the new editor wrote for periodicals like The Cascadia Weekly, Skratch Magazine, Seattle Sound, Resonance, Contrast Magazine, Nadamucho, Disheveled, M F, Tablet, Splendidezine, and the Bellingham Weekly.

He maintains a daily blog, plays guitar and washtub bass, and interns in the audio production department at KEXP-FM.

Tyson Lynn can be reached at editor@edmondsbeacon.com.

Also available here.

Goddammit!

2006-05-23T11:51:00.000-07:00

This sucks. That is all.

Thankfully, this time there was a witness who got the license plate number of the perp, so I've already filed a police report and an insurance claim.

It's all taken care of, but why oh why must I be the one who gets hit?

There should be some sort of moratorium, duration of at least one year, wherein you can't be hit and run twice. Actually, that should be valid for any crime. No double rapings, kidnappings, muggings, etc. etc. in the space of one calendar year. Once is all you get, so don't get greedy.

- Tyson

Friday File

2006-05-19T09:14:00.000-07:00

Don't have much time for anything else, so once again I give you spam I've received. Please provide your own commentary. FROM YOUR MIND!

From: "riakeye terrell"
Date: May 15, 2006 2:18:24 PM PDT
To: "deja lucinda"
Subject: Where there is love, there is pain

Bonjour,

comisarovnety[dot]com
----
"Oh, nowhere specially. I promised Sviazhsky to go to the Society of Agriculture. By all means, let us go," said Levin. "Very good; come along. Find out if my carriage is here," Stepan Arkadyevitch said to the waiter. Levin went up to the table, paid the forty roubles he had lost; paid his bill, the amount of which was in some mysterious way ascertained by the little old waiter who stood at the counter, and swinging his arms he walked through all the rooms to the way out. Chapter 9 "Oblonsky's carriage!" the porter shouted in an angry bass. The carriage drove up and both got in. It was only for the first few moments, while the carriage was driving out of the clubhouse gates, that Levin was still under the influence of the club atmosphere of repose, comfort, and unimpeachable good form. But as soon as the carriage drove out into the street, and he felt it jolting over the uneven road, heard the angry shout of a sledge driver coming towards them, saw in the uncertain light the red blind of a tavern and the shops, this impression was dissipated, and he began to think over his actions, and to wonder whether he was doing right in going to see Anna. What would Kitty say? But Stepan Arkadyevitch gave him no time for reflection, and, as though divining his doubts, he scattered them. "How glad I am," he said, "that you should know her! You know Dolly has long wished for it. And Lvov's been to see her, and

There's something delightfully strange about quoting Russian literature to bypass my spam filter.

It's my mom's birthday today. She's 102.

- Tyson

Poem: Stephen Crane

2006-05-18T11:55:00.000-07:00

In the Desert

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said: "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter - bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."

- Stephen Crane

Definitions: Dwarving

2006-05-17T12:40:00.000-07:00

Dwarving - verb - colliquial. To get small, i.e. drug reference. "I'm dwarving so hard right now!"

The Word

2006-05-17T11:03:00.000-07:00

What a busy week. For reasons unknown, my social calendar has gone stratospheric, and I'm just riding the cosmic rays.

Last week, I saw The Bad Seed at Central Cinemas. What a dirty, slimy film. I don't mean dirty in the prurient sense, but in that "I just watched something I can't unsee" sort of way, like the time you watched the entire Faces of Death series at your friend's house because you were too drunk to leave, but too wired to sleep.

The Bad Seed is about

Christine Penmark, a young mother who is horrified by her daughter Rhoda's misbehavior. Influenced by a landlady's dalliance in psychiatric theories and a chance visit from her father, Christine begins to recall her own childhood, which brings back memories of times before the people she remembers as her parents adopted her. She eventually figures out that she was actually the sole surviving daughter of "The Incomparable Bessie Denker," a well-known (fictional) serial killer. Bessie Denker's career is based very roughly on the real-life careers of Jane Toppan and some other "black widow" serial killers, and the description of her execution is based on that of Ruth Snyder.

Rhoda is portrayed as a sociopath, although the term was not in use at the time of the book. Like her real grandmother, she has no conscience and will kill if necessary to get whatever she wants, whether that be a penmanship medal she felt she should have won, the silence of a janitor who knows more than she wants him to, or an opal pendant. By the time Christine manages to put the truth together, Rhoda has already killed two people. She depends heavily on charm, and can easily charm adults---other children can sense something wrong with her, and fear and are repulsed by her.

Once her mother has come to the correct conclusions, she has to wrestle with a terrible dilemma. As young as Rhoda is, there are no guarantees that any arrangements made to confine her will prove permanent, and there would be a huge glare of publicity. At the same time, Christine knows full well that Rhoda will certainly kill again, and again; her grandmother is thought to have begun her career very young, by "accidentally" putting arsenic on bread she knew her brother would eat, and went on to kill over twenty people before her career ended.

The subject matter is more or less generic these days, what with The Good Son or Heavenly Creatures (FYI: did you know that one of those girls the latter movie is based on grew up to become an author, write a series of books, tour the country, and get interviewed by me? Strangeness. She is, as you might expect, rather reluctant to talk about her childhood, a fact all the more compelling considering her books have a sense of the murderousness to them.)

What makes the movie "icky" is the complete blatantness of its subtext. Class, sexual hegemony, and Freudian undertones are writ large across the actions of the actors, just in case you missed it. Not that I don't understand. The film's from the 50's. You can't directly discuss the consequences of Freud's theories in mixed company; society would never allow it. Instead, let's just have characters get far more comfortable with others than they should.

Case in point: the mother of the murderous little girl is creepily familiar with her father; stroking, patting, pawing, and all the while making gin and tonics that somehow get quaffed in under 30 seconds. And as for the little girl, everyone touches her, holds her too close, makes writhingly itchy comments about how "every good girl loves her father" and other such things, but in such a way that you feel like perhaps the filmmakers meant it in a way more real than fictional.

Then there's this:

What will you give me for a basket of hugs?
I'll give you a basket of kisses!

Saccharine the first time around. Kinda strange the second. Downright disturbed the third.

That was Thursday. Friday Kat and I were to play a house party. Then we didn't. Instead we ended up at a birthday party on Broadway, getting trashed, and having a blast. Oh, good times. Should you check Flickr there might be pictures.

Saturday, I woke up to a beautiful day, which I then spent over at Kate's, hanging out, watching people grill huge racks of ribs (with Kate's fucking amazing sauce), succulent burgers (by Jeannene), and compare gin with dandelion juice. Afterwards, I caught up with Sally, who had been getting her fill of babies in Tacoma, and we headed up to M-town to catch up with my home-town peeps.

Sunday was Mother's Day. Did you honor your mother? I know I did by taking her money in a quaint game of 31.

Monday was more or less a long day at work. I skipped out on the Robbie Fulks show, 'cause I was just ready to sleep.

Same thing yesterday. With a couple of notable exceptions. First, went over to Kate's to record some of my friend Fred's songs. I even got to add some piano, which was a special treat for me since I can't really play, but love the sound.

But before that all went down, I interviewed Fiona Apple. Oh, you better believe I did. I got fifteen minutes with everyone's favorite chanteuse, and it was simply magical. That interview will be part of the upcoming July cover story for Seattle Sound. Respect, bitches!

And that's it. That's all. I'll be up in Bellingham on Friday for Megan's birthday. If you want to hang out, give me a call. Otherwise, I'll catch you all on the far side of the mountain.

- Tyson

Weezy, Sneazy, and Jack

2006-05-12T11:46:00.000-07:00

This is the complete text of a spam I received the other day:

feeling very sick and ill from spider-poison, and from hanging most of the night and the next day wound round and round with only his nose to breathe through. It took him ages to get the beastly stuff out of his eyes and eyebrows, and as for his beard, he had to cut most of it off. Well, between them they started to haul up first one dwarf and then another and slash them free. None of them were better off than Fili, and some of them were worse. Some had hardly been able to breathe at all (long noses are sometimes useful you see), and some had been more poisoned. In this way they rescued Kili, Bifur, Bofur, Don and Nori. Poor old Bombur was so exhausted-he was the fattest and had been constantly pinched and poked-that he just rolled off the branch and fell plop on to the ground, fortunately on to leaves, and lay there. But there were still five dwarves hanging at the end of the branch when the spiders

And then it just ends. Also in the email was a link to a pharmacy express website, but I'm not entirely sure what one has to do with the other. Maybe they're suggesting that dwarves are more susceptible to common colds and virii, which seems like a weird claim to make.

I mean, the dwarves--and I'm talking about the ancient race of dwarves here, not those who walk among us today--worked deep in the earth, mining precious materials that they could hoard and/or build into intricately crafted shields, swords, and chainmail. They're certainly not the sort to take a day off because Boromir's got the sniffles.

Actually, I'd like to think that even contemporary dwarves have the option, when they come of age, to move underground and mine for a living. Say, at the age of 18, you receive a form in the mail. You fill it out, you work in the mines. Simple as that.

Maybe the spam's making a sly analogy, with the dwarves standing in for your white blood cells. Sure, they're currently overrun by spiders (read "germs"), but as soon as they take their magical elixir, or find the white wizard, or whatever it is that ancient dwarves do, they'll bounce right back and vanquish their eight-legged enemies.

Because nothing says "Get Well Soon" like five dwarves fighting deadly arachnids.

Or maybe they figure the only people likely to order prescription medication over the internet are of the shut-in fantasy reading sort, and a story fragment of a spider grudge match is all the impetus they need to order asthma medication.
I wish I knew.

- Tyson

Poem: Open Mic

2006-05-11T14:54:00.000-07:00

Last night my friend Kat and I did something wholly unexpected and totally out of my comfort zone. We played an open mic.

Thankfully nothing bad happened. There were no stonings, no flubbed lines, no moment where I realized suddenly that I had no pants on. I did spend most of the time on-stage nervous as a motherfucker. So I guess there's that.

Anyway, we were only allowed a two song set, so we had to cut our last piece out. I don't have titles for things, because I like to give my songs a complex. But this is what we didn't play.

Unhinged eyes
of lullabies
in an empty bed
curled like fiddleheads.
Exhalations of staggered cells
daggered crescendos and dark, stagnant wells.
Wooden horses, leather saddles,
silver frames, and rubber ratttles.
Mottled wood
carved by memory
holds you strumming
outside of me.
Startled shoots love
broken stemmed knuckles
caught up in catgut
strung like sweet honeysuckle.

Definitions: Collared G's

2006-05-10T11:47:00.000-07:00

Collared G's - noun - preppy thugs. "Did you see those Collared G's? With their popped-up polos and do-rags? Ridiculous, trendy, and dangerous?"

Police Beat for May 9th

2006-05-09T13:55:00.000-07:00

5/1
Day Shift
Dispatch received a call of a female dropping a load of bricks in the intersection of SR 525 and Harbour Point Boulevard. An officer checked, only to find no bricks in the area.

Officers responded to the 12700 block of 60th Ave. West to assist the fire department with some trees that were on fire and possibly spreading to the residence. The fire department extinguished the fire. The residents were burning weeds with a propane torch and the fire got out of hand.

5/1
Night Shift
Anonymous caller phoned for parenting advice. Officer called and provided.

5/2
Day Shift
An adult male in the 2600 block of SR 525 called to complain about loud music and horns coming from the nearby school. The officer informed him that it was the school band practicing in the parking lot as they do everyday.

A passerby on a cell phone requested officers check on three males painting gang graffitti on a sign in the area of SR 525 and Harbour Point Boulevard. The officers responded and the males were part of incarcerated trustees who were cutting weeds in the area. The trustees were under the supervision of the Department of Corrections. The officer did find a small amount of paint on a sign. The inmates agreed to clean it up.

5/2
Night Shift
Officers responded to several reports of a large group of juveniles fist-fighting in the park. Officers found a group of kids play-fighting and videotaping the fight.

A caller reported a truck stopped in the intersection of 6th Street and Cornelia with its lights shining in their window. Officers found the driver stopped in the street, talking with one of the caller's neighbors. There were no problems.

5/3
Day Shift
Officers responded to Paine Field Boulevard for a report of a deer near the roadway. With the help of Public Works employees, the deer was directed towards a wooded area away from the road.

5/3
Night Shift
A caller in the 7300 block of 48th Ave. West reported receiving a phone call from an unknown person that called her by name. It appeared likely the call had been made by a telemarketer. The officer discussed ways for the caller to reduce the number of sales calls.

5/4
Day Shift
Officers responded to the 2600 block of SR 525 for a disturbance call. A male in a nearby condo was shouting obscenities at the marching band as they practiced on the field. The officers contacted the resident and warned him about disorderly conduct.

An adult male in the 11100 block of Chennault Road requested contact regarding a missing person. Upon arrival, the caller told the officer that his 24-year-old autistic son had left with his mother. He said his son was "highly functional" and went with her of his own free will. The officer explained that he was not missing.

An officer responded to the 1500 block of Debrelon Lane for a noise complaint. The complainant said that a nearby construction crew was playing their stereo extremely loud and the officer would be able to hear it when he arrived. He couldn't.

5/4
Night Shift
A caller in the 10500 block of 47th Place West reported finding a large bone in the nearby ravine. The officer checked the area and determined the bone came from a deceased deer.

Officers received a call from an adult woman in the 12300 block of Harbour Point Boulevard reporting that a male had been knocking on her door for several minutes. It turned out to be a neighbor trying to return a set of keys that the caller had left in her outer door lock.

5/5
Day Shift
Officers were dispatched to the 4400 block of 106th Street Southwest for a prescription forgery in progress. Officers contacted the woman, who admitted to forging the prescription for pain medication. She was booked into the Snohomish County Jail on prescription fraud.

5/5
Night Shift
A caller reported that her boyfriend cut his wrist. The boyfriend got on the phone and said the cops would have to shoot him. Upon the officers arrival, the boyfriend was located up in a tree and refused to come down. Eventually, the officers coaxed him out and transported him to nearby hospital for evaluation.

5/6
Day Shift
A caller reported to 911 that a "Mama" possum had died and two young possums were "mourning" the death. No counseling was provided for the two young possums.

5/6
Night Shift
Officers responded to a complaint of several loud males partying in the 9700 block of 58th Place West. While investigating, officers stopped a car that drove quickly down the street with a headlight out. Officers discovered the driver was a minor driving after consuming alcohol, and the passenger in possession of marijuana and scales. Both juveniles were referred to Juvenile Court and released to their parents.

A caller reported that his six-year-old son was playing away from his house in a nearby yard when a male grabbed him by the back of the shirt. The boy screamed and the male let him loose. A passerby heard the scream and saw a man leave the area. The passerby obtained the license number of the car and a description of the man. Under investigation.

5/7
Day Shift
Officers responded to the intersection of Harbour Point Boulevard SW and Possession Way for a large tree that was blocking Harbour Point Boulevard. The tree was too large for officers to move, so the Mukilteo PublicWorks was called while officers closed the roadway and set up detours.

Officers responded to the 600 block of 3rd Street for a caregiver having problems with an elderly patient. Upon arrival, the caregiver said the patient had left on foot but had since come back and there were no problems.

5/7
Night Shift
Complainant in the 700 block of 5th Street saw subjects in the neighborhood jacking up a car. An officer found they were adjusting the suspension. No further problems.

A caller in the 4500 block of 73rd Place SW reported having repeated problems with a neighbor "revving" his engine as he passes the callers' house. The officer gave the caller information on how to obtain an anti-harassment order.

Directions

2006-05-08T15:53:00.000-07:00

I've seen a lot of movies recently. More than I've had the pleasure of seeing in the past few months, all in the last week or so.

El Mariachi, Thank You for Smoking, Mission Impossible 3, The Big Lebowski, and Almost Famous.

All of them were good, some better than expected (Mission Impossible 3? Who knew Phillip Seymour Hoffman was such a badass?), and others better than remembered (God damn it, Cameron Crowe, I want your career).

Anyway, it seems like I should have been doing more than I have been, and perhaps I have, but when I look at the previous week, all I have is a handful of two-hour snapshots of witty, attractive people I don't know, but wish I did.

In actuality, life has been fairly busy. Kat and I are busy prepping for our first open mic, going down this Wednesday. We'll be playing two of my songs, plus a cover of Neil Young's Motion Pictures. I'm not one to toot my own horn, but I think we sound pretty good; plus Kat plays bells, melodica, and saw, so it can't be that bad, can it?

Probably, yes. Besides, I don't know yet where the open mic is, but I'm sure details will be forthcoming.

Also on the musical tip, I did some engineering (some very simple engineering) over the weekend for a friend. We made a go of multi-tracking the whole thing, separating each element into its own little apartment, but after four hours we came back to the first take we did, with everyone live and bleeding, and decided that was the best one we'd done. So, cheers, I suppose, for learning experiences.

I just bought my tickets for Fiona Apple and Damien Rice on July 3rd at the Chauteau Ste. Michelle. It's gonna be an absolute blast, provided it doesn't rain, and there's going to be a good crowd going. Join us if you can!

In other party news, Lisa will be throwing a party this Saturday at her house. If you need directions, I can put in touch with someone who's much better equipped than I.

I get people lost coming to my own place; lets not test my memory of a house I haven't been to in a year.

- Tyson

Question no longer

2006-05-05T15:46:00.000-07:00

Perhaps you've noticed--I instituted a new blog schedule. Mondays were a weekly recap of my madcap adventures, Tuesdays are Mukilteo Police Beat, Wednesday is Definitions, Thursdays are poems/quotes, and then came Friday.

Fridays were supposed to be questions to my faithful readers, to you, after which you would respond joyously in the comments, and an up-with-people vibe would grow, our community would become tighter, and I'd get some advice on things that were troubling me.

And maybe I'd ironically quote kum-ba-ya, and we'd share a half-smile and sidelong glance, secure in the knowledge that we understood each other.

Instead, the comment section remained as barren as my mother's womb.

Now I'm not blaming you. You had things to do, people to talk with, places to go. It's understandable. It's human nature.

Instead, I blame myself. I was too proud, too eager, too ambitious. People told me that I was angling for a fall and I didn't listen. I thought I knew better.

And I was wrong.

So, I want to apologize to you, the reader, for engineering a question that specifically targeted you, forced you to think and then act. No one should ever have to endure the stress of answering a question, or a query, an interrogation, a grilling, an inquisition, or the third degree.

It's simply not fair, and it's not right.

Fridays should be about celebration, about community, about agreement. What better day then than Cinco de Mayo to kick us off? As old mistakes are forgiven, let us start a new tradition: a day without borders, without questions. A day we can gather here under the Myspace gonfalon and simply be.

And should I give you a look that says "hey, how are you today?", you can close your eyes, shake your head, and I'll understand.

- Tyson

Poem: Pomo Hobo

2006-05-04T10:42:00.000-07:00

Small Earth

Beneath the deep golden knot
of stars, Simon waits. He watches them
seethe. He lays in the grass, the sky
above him. His attention turns
from the celestial bodies and the dead
Douglas fir at his feet,
hung like a welt, to the white
austere chapel at his side.

He no longer makes wishes
or waits for answers.

The sky is larger
more mellifluous
and unfathomable
than the small earth.

--

Small Earth, Pomo Hobo
check their rendition here: http://www.myspace.com/pomohobo

Definitions: Monkey's Grip

2006-05-03T11:00:00.000-07:00

Monkey's Grip - adj, noun - Strong or strong person. "He's a motherfucking monkey's grip."

Police Beat for May 2nd

2006-05-02T17:05:00.000-07:00

4/24
Day Shift

A caller in the 10200 Block of SR 525 reported her new, white Mercedes Benz had been stolen within the past three minutes. While officers were enroute, the caller realized that she had "mis-parked" her car and located the vehicle.

4/24
Night Shift
Officers were dispatched to the 3700 block of South Road for a report of flames coming from the chimney of a business. The flames were part of normal operations at the business.

4/25
Night Shift
Officers were dispatched to Lower Edgewater after receiving a report of a parachutist coming down quickly in the area. It was determined to be a paraglider landing along the waterfront. He confirmed he was not having any problems and had landed safely.

4/26
Day Shift
Officers responded to the 6000 block of Chennault Beach Drive for an 85 year old female who had called to report that someone was in the house that she did not trust. Officers arived and contacted the woman, the woman's son, and a care taker who were also at the residence. It turned out that the caller did not like the care taker and wanted a different one. There were no problems.

%%%

A 16-year-old male came into the police department to report receiving e-mails from an unknown male who wants to "hook up" with him. The juvenile reported that the male just recently sent nude pictures of himself. The juvenile did not know the male and deleted all e-mails and photographs. Case is under investigation.

4/27
Day Shift
An adult male requested assistance after a teenage male in the 12300 block of Harbour Point Boulevard exposed himself to the caller and his wife as they walked by. The teenager then waved at them. Officers contacted the 13-year-old, who admitted to pulling his pants down to people walking by as a joke. He was warned about his actions.

4/27
Night Shift
A caller reported a male smoking on the wrong side of the sign at the library. When she confronted the male, he became "mouthy". Upon the officer's arrival, the caller had already left the scene and the male had boarded his bus. No further action taken.

4/28
Day Shift
A caller in the 11100 block of Cheannault Beach Road reported that her 78-year-old mother was missing. The mother, who does not speak English and has memory problems, had left about five minutes prior without shoes. She was eventually found in the clubhouse at the golf course. The officer gave her a ride home.

4/29
Day Shift
Prices, Tempers, Rising
A clerk in the 3800 block of Harbour Point Boulevard SW reported that a customer was yelling at her about the high price of gasoline. He also knocked over some candy in anger before leaving.

4/30
Day Shift
An officer was dispatched to a parking lot in the 2600 block of SR 525 after receiving a report of cars pulling teenagers on skateboards. The teenagers were contacted and warned.

4/30
Night Shift
A gentleman in the 1800 block of 19th Dr. reported harassment from an escort he brought home last night. Under investigation.

%%%

An occupied Corvette parked in a lot in the 10200 block of SR 525 for an extended period of time prompted a check from officers. The driver had been shopping in the store and was preparing to leave.

A frock and a push-broom

2006-05-01T16:01:00.000-07:00

There was a time, a time called "Thursday", when I thought I would have nothing to talk about in this, my upcoming blog. Oh sure, there'd be my usual ramblings, misdirected non sequiturs, and latent homosexuality, but nothing big, nothing brave. Nothing to hang your hat on.

And then came Lair of the White Worm.

From the link:

This is a kitschy, sexy and funny movie. Ken Russel (the director of Whore and Track 29) is at his best. Taboos are endless. Scottish rock, demon worship, S&M and the defiling of Christian icons. Amanda Donohoe is luscious as the blood-sucking, dildo wielding Priestess of the Worm.

Catherine Oxenberg is a perfect blonde damsel in distress and Hugh Grant is at his sexy, bored playboy of the manor born. The production value is not the greatest but there are moments when the not-so-special effects lend an air of underground theater to the proceedings.

All of that is true except Amanda Donohoe being a "luscious" priestess. At one point in the movie--just before she's charmed by a wayward scout's harmonica (why? because she's also a snake. duh!)--she's in a bikini and latex thigh-high boots.

I've never been more unaroused by a woman since I saw my grandmother in her control-top pantyhose, sporting a frock and a push-broom.

The movie is absolutely ridiculous--hilariously so--and yet somehow manages to introduce taboo after taboo, only to shatter each with something greater and more disturbing.

Case in point: a vacuous virgin is abducted for a human sacrifice. Whenever she comes into contact with the High Priestess' spit (yes, really), the virgin sees visions of the mass raping of nuns and the crucifixion of Christ. Even better is that these visions have been filmed against an acid flashbackdrop and HAVE ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH THE FILM.

So you see that and you think, no way they're topping that. Then, as the high priestess is hanging above the titular white worm relying on nothing but her spindly, sinewy fingers to keep her safe, one of the "heroes" comes along and gets her to fall by SAWING off her hand.

Even better is that the majority of the film is shot like an '80s Disney horror film, has a young Hugh Grant surreptiously eyeing the exits in every scene, and purports to be an adaptation of a Bram Stoker story.

Suffice it to say: I think this movie is amazing and encourage everyone to see it as quickly as possible.

PLUS--it was showing at Central Cinema, with which I am now in love. Come for the horrible movies, stay for the beer and awesome pizza. And $5 tickets? Oh hell yes.

Over the weekend, I dealt with the remnants of my quarter-life crisis, grew a little as a person, and drank some wonderful Gewurztraminer. Thanks Carolyn! Also watched About a Boy and Magnolia, both of which, surprisingly, were better in memories than in review.

Today, I've realized that I probably need more than an hour's training to take over as editor, but I'll be damned if that's going to stop me. The Edmonds Beacon this week? One word: magical.

And before I go, the Chateau Ste. Michelle has officially announced their concert line-up. Tickets go on sale this Saturday. More information here, but all you need to know is Elvis Costello and the Imposters, Fiona Apple and Damien Rice, and cheap wine on a summer's day.

I'll see you all there.

- Tyson

Questions: What's your future like?

2006-04-28T12:24:00.000-07:00

Right now I'm in the process of figuring out my one and five year plans.

What can I say? I'm a planner.

It's been a harder slog than I expected, mostly because I'm not entirely sure what I want to do with my life, which makes planning a little difficult. So I figured since I'm on a roll this week anyway, why not pose a question to the assembled?

People love surveys, and I love comments on my blog, so here it is, in a few parts:

1) Where would you like to be in 1 or 5 year(s)?
2) What would you have to do to get there?
3) And--why not?--what's the best piece of advice you ever heard regarding your future?

Post your answers and give me guidance!

- Tyson

Poem: Bukowski

2006-04-27T11:47:00.000-07:00

"roll the dice"

if you're going to try, go all the
way. otherwise, don't even start.

if you're going to try, go all the
way. this could mean losing girlfriends,
wives, relatives, jobs and
maybe your mind.

go all the way.
it could mean not eating for 3 or 4 days.
it could mean freezing on a park bench.
it could mean jail, it could mean derision,
mockery, isolation.

isolation is the gift,
all the others are a test of your
endurance, of how much you really want to
do it. and you'll do it despite rejection and the
worst odds and it will be better than
anything else you can imagine.

if you're going to try,
go all the way. there is no other feeling like
that. you will be alone with the
gods and the nights will flame with
fire.

do it, do it, do it.
do it.

all the way
all the way.
you will ride life straight to
perfect laughter,
it's the only good fight
there is.

(from "what matters most is how
well you walk through the fire" by
charles bukowski)

Definitions : Circle Purge

2006-04-26T12:26:00.000-07:00

Circle Purge - Noun, Verb - A group bullemia event. Or, to get bullemia in a group.

For example: "Charlene, Carey and I went to that fancy new Moroccan restaurant, ate way too much, and then went home and totally circle purged." or "I'll tell you one thing: Thanksgiving is just a circle purge waiting to happen."

Police Beat Omnibus

2006-04-25T14:26:00.000-07:00

As part of my duties at the Beacon, I get to write the Police Beat. I'll start posting the best ones here weekly, but this is a nice selection from the past month.

Enjoy!

3/28/06
Day Shift
An officer responded to a report of a bird stuck in a fence in the 8300 block of 45th Pl. West. Upon arrival, the caller and a neighbor had freed the bird and it hopped away.

3/30/06
Night Shift
A caller reported that a male was hiding behind a car in the parking lot on the 700 block of Front Street and he appeared suspicious. Upon the officer's arrival at the scene, he contacted a male who was standing next to his own vehicle eating some food. Nothing else appeared suspicious.

3/31/06
Day Shift
An officer responded to a report of juveniles loitering in the parking lot on the 11000 block of Harbour Point Boulevard. The officer located five kids who said they were waiting for rides. They agreed to wait on the sidewalk.

4/1/06
Day Shift
Officers responded to a disturbance between a mother and her 13-year-old son on 11700 SR 525. The son had been out all night without permission and the mother had decided to have his hair cut as a form of punishment. The son objected. They decided to leave without the haircut.

4/5/06
Night Shift
An officer was dispatched to an area check on 40th and SR 526 for a machete wedged into a stop sign pole. The officer determined the item was a piece of old, dull, rusted metal and disposed of it. There was no damage to the stop sign.

4/7/06
Night Shift
Officers were dispatched to 84th and SR 525 after receiving a report that a cab passenger was refusing to leave the Cab or pay the fare. Upon the officer's arrival, the passenger said she wanted the driver to take her to Lynnwood and not Mukilteo. The driver finally agreed to take her to Lynnwood.

4/8/06
Day Shift
Put on a happy face.
A passerby requested an officer check on an "8 year old boy" who was walking near Harbour Point Boulevard and SW/SR 525 and looked "sad." The officer contacted the boy, who was actually 12 years old and was walking to meet his mother. He was not sad and had no other problems.

4/12/06
Day Shift

A caller in the 4600 block of Northport Drive reported that his daughter found stolen property that had been dumped in the wooded area near their residence. The property consisted of some planting plots and a baby Jesus from a nativity scene. The daughter knew to whom the baby Jesus belonged and returned it to its owner.

4/14/06
Day Shift

Horse thieves, cattle rustlers, and people snatchers
A woman in the 8300 block of SR 525 reported that she was being followed. The woman owns a valuable horse and believes horse breeders, driving vehicles with horse trailers, have been following her. She requested an officer stay in the area while she walked the distance from her bus stop to her area of employment.

4/17/06
Night Shift

A caller in the 8300 block of 45th Pl W reported a dark colored SUV parked in her driveway with its headlights on and revving the engine for the past 20 minutes. Officers contacted the newspaper delivery person who had lost their reverse gear. Assistance rendered.

4/19/06
Night Shift

A caller reported that her thirteen-year-old son was being disrespectful. The officer spoke with the son and he agreed to listen to his mom.

4/21/06
Night Shift

A caller in the 8000 block of 48th Place West reported an 11-year-old foster child was attacking her husband. Upon arrival, officers learned the child was eight and nothing physical had occurred. The child just didn't want to go in for the night. The child agreed to go inside and behave.

4/23/06
Day Shift

While on patrol, an officer observed a vehicle parked down an access road West of Cyrus Way. The area is wooded and has problems with trespassing and dumped stolen vehicles. Officers walked the area on foot and contacted a subject masturbating to some pornographic magazines inside one of the abandoned houses. The subject was warned about trespassing.

4/23/06
Night Shift

A caller reported that he got a "medicinal massage" from a female in the 12300 block of Harbour Pointe Boulevard. After receiving the service, the caller did not want to pay the $60.00 fee. The female fled with his wallet. Information forwarded to the Detectives.

April

2006-04-24T22:09:00.000-07:00

"You'll have things you want to talk about. I will too." - Mr. Rogers

I've declared the month of April a wash. I've been behind, got little done, barely made deadlines, hung on by the skin of my teeth, explored the edges of my bank account, written a couple of songs, written little else, and generally watched as the world lapped me and I lapped at the world's bung-button.

The worst part is that I've had many a thing to write about. But it's hard--oh so hard--to catch up on the small stuff when the big stuff is poking at you like an amorous inmate.

Anyway, so as to absolve myself of the need to document the things I've seen and done, the remainder of this post will be an annotated approval list; what I've seen, what I think of it, and why. But in fun, chewy, bitelets. Yay!

Before we get started, a couple of links to crazy, disturbing things. This is the crazy one. This is the disturbing one.

And this is the strangely sexy one. Apparently some scientists figured out the mathematical formula for the perfect ass.

(S+C) x (B+F)/T = V.

Where S is the overall shape or droopiness of the bottom, C represents how spherical the buttocks are, B measures muscular wobble or bounce, F records the firmness, V is the hip to waist ratio, or symmetry of the bottom, and T measures the skin texture and presence of cellulite.

The problem is that it forgets the quarter standard: can you bounce a quarter off it, stack quarters on it, or insert quarters into it. Oh, grade school.

Now on to other things:

Haruki Murakami - Kafka on the Shore / Cache

Obviously, these two could merit their own theses had I the time, inclination, space, intelligence, or sheer force of will. But I don't.

Murakami is a master, and I'm glad I had the chance to introduce him to my small circle of friends before they had a chance to find him on their own. Which they would have. He's simply too good not to be found.

His newest is a burlap bag of enigmas, unexplained story lines that resolve but never arrive. It all feels like it makes sense, but as a reader, you're supplying a lot of the "how." It's aggravating in it's lack of answers, but I'm sure that if I had Murakami's line of thought to guide me through, I probably wouldn't care nearly as much. You don't ask the knotmaker to unravel the knot.

Such is the case with Cache, whose world is squarely rooted in the possible (compared to Murakami's often fabulous vision), but whose central question is even more vexing in its lack of answer, clues, or even a remotely plausible worldview that might explain why two characters who have no way of knowing each other know each other. And if you haven't seen the film, I'm sorry because I know that makes no sense.

Cache is quiet, observant, and still. And, as such, not a terribly engrossing film. But since so much appears and vanishes without explanation, the movie sticks with you far longer than you expect.

V for Vendetta

A good film. Not a great one. Not quite propaganda, but definitely not lacking a view. Things I don't like: the mask, V's acting*, and the ending. Not a one believable.

Here's why I don't like the ending (the other two things are more or less judgement calls. Obvious judgement calls): it would never happen. Not the building being blown up, but the people rising to the occasion. Simply wouldn't happen. A year is not enough time for a populace to say to itself: "hey, you know what? I'm being lied to, and the only way for me to fight back is to appear in public in a cape and a mask, cheering the death of the government."

At the same time, Natalie Portman regains the acting acumen she lost way back when, doing schlock like Where the Heart is and Star Wars: Episodes 1-3. And the soundtrack includes an Antony and the Johnsons song, so all's not really lost now, is it?

*Please note, though, when I say V's acting, I mean the physical movements. The voice was dead on.

Brick

A film noir set in high school, with almost indecipherable dialogue/slang and starring the kid from 3rd Rock from the Sun and 10 Things I hate about you? Sign me up. Seriously. The trailer was overlong, but the look was arresting. I finally had the chance to catch it from the front row of the balcony in the half-empty Neptune, which is how I would suggest you see it as well.

It's an involved film. There are machinations that I'm pretty sure make sense, but more on a gut level than an actual thorough understanding of the film's plot. That, of course, is secondary, this being a film noir and all. What sells the movie is the acting.

The actors are superb, with Joseph Gordon-Levitt leading the pack. He's withdrawn, sinewy, strong. Tenacious. Especially tenacious. All he wants is to figure out what's going on and save someone who's doomed from the movie's outset. And that makes him vulnerable. And that vulnerability makes him cool.

His coolness permeates the entire film, like Steve McQueen or Paul Newman, so even as the bodycount rises to a level Tarnatino would be happy with, you know he's going to perservere.

Plus, the score is amazing. The writer/director's brother did the whole thing, and it's very Tom Waitsian--bruised, lonely, and warm. And to top it off, the main theme is played on beer bottles. Goddamn beer bottles.

Jackie Greene

Kaeli, being the benevolent soul that she is, invited me to this show at the Triple Door. I hadn't heard of Jackie Greene, knew none of his material, and was actually more interested in attending the show because of the venue than the artist. Now, having seen Mr. Greene, I don't know that I'm entirely sold, but I will say without reservation that the man's absurdly talented. He plays a mean organ and guitar.

My problem is that his songs feel very safe, very much the Mountain, not so much college radio. I didn't realize there would come a point when some music simply wouldn't be edgy enough for me, but apparently it's come and gone.

I need to believe that someone up there on stage is taking a chance, that something in the writing process began out of a moment of needing to be heard, that the songsmith is more worried about the integrity of his vision than the chance he might break mainstream.

When I had my rental car, it had no cd or tape player. I was stuck with the radio, and I have never enjoyed silence more. Mainstream radio is flush with bands who are more worried about image than message, ratings over lyrics, merch sales instead of writing a song that means something. And I hate it. I hate it with a fucking passion.

I don't want to leave you with the impression that Jackie Greene is some sort of Fall Out Boy simulacrum--he isn't. Jackie's probably got more talent than the four of them combined. It's just there's little as soulless as the vast majority of top 40 radio. And I want nothing to do with it.

Feist

Somewhere in the great month of April, I saw Feist. Good Lord did I see Feist. One of the top five perfomances I've ever seen, easy. Here's why: brazen guitar stylings, looped vocals, catchy as crabs songs, a backing band of three brothers, barbershop quartet harmonies, and a motherfucking tap solo.

I wish I had taken pictures. I wish I had brought a camera. It was really that good. That's all there is to say. She's coming to Bumbershoot. You better believe I'll be there; you'd do well to do the same.

Fiona Apple

I, unfortunately, didn't see Fiona this month. This is here to tell you that she's coming back to the Northwest. She's playing at the Chauteau Ste. Michelle and DAMIEN RICE is opening for her.

I've just messed my pants.

Here's all the info I know of:

07-03 Seattle, WA - Chateau Ste. Michelle

Mates of State

He plays drums. She plays organ. Together they make really great pop songs, a cute couple, and a beautiful baby. Adorable! I might be running out of editorial gas, but the Mates of State make music for three things, and three things only:

Bunnies to mosh to
Kittens to kiss to
and babies to fall in love to

That's it. Recognize and respect.

And finally,

Ryan Adams

I got in free to this show as I was tabling for KEXP. Unexpected benefits of doing so: got to skip the long bottom line waiting at the door for the general admission seats, PLUS! Sally got us seats in the third row with an amazing eye-view of the stage. We could have been front row easy, but I felt kinda bad about not waiting in line to snake the best seats. Besides, as you can see from my Flickr page, our situation was no slouch.

The last time Ryan Adams came through Seattle, he was touring with the Cardinals. He canceled the second show of the two date set, leaving me and a sold-out venue sad and confused. So you can imagine how stoked everyone in the room was when Ryan finally shambled on stage, high as a Polynesian poppy seed. (lest you think I'm mocking without regard, at one point in the show, he leaned away from the mic and told the sound guy: "don't worry, it's me. I'm high as hell over here.")

Here's the thing: Ryan Adams has a beautiful voice, when he wants to use it; amazing songs, when he wants to sing them; and fans that love everything he touches without regard. I'm glad I got to see him. I'm glad I got to hear him acoustic. It's just a weird relationship to watch play out: Ryan stumbling over things, forgetting which songs he's played, walking offstage without explanation, talking to a picture of Jerry Garcia, and his fans cheering his every move, laughing at every deflection, enabling every action.

That said, he does have an achingly gorgeous falsetto.

So there you have it. The month of April in a nutshell. I also started a new job and moved into a new place, saw many people, and had many adventures. But those are all for another time. Until my next post, which probably won't come until the first of the month, please stay safe, sane, and happy.

And I'll do the same.

- Tyson

A kilo is a thousand grams

2006-03-24T15:39:00.000-08:00

What a wild, busy week it's been. I officially served my last day at T-Scan, the nice, little calling center at which I've been working, and went right the next day into my new position as incoming editor of the Edmonds Beacon. First day, I show up, I get a quick introduction and then I'm told: "hey, governor Christine Gregoire is going to be over at the Museum of Flight, signing some bills into law. Go take pictures."

And I figure, why not?

Here's the press release:

Governor Gregoire Signs Aerospace Business Bill,
Spends Day in Northwest Washington
Bill will keep Washington’s aerospace industry competitive

Governor Chris Gregoire today brought the Capitol to northwest Washington as she traveled to Mukilteo, Bellingham and Ferndale to take action on legislation.

At the Future of Flight Aviation Center in Mukilteo, Governor Gregoire signed into law a bill she requested to provide excise tax relief to aerospace businesses (HB 2466). Governor Gregoire signed the bill after speaking at a ceremony for the delivery of AeroMexico’s first Boeing 777 at the Boeing Delivery Center at Paine Field.

“Winning the next generation of Boeing aircraft was an enormous accomplishment for Washington – winning the supplier base is the next hurdle. This bill is key to that recruitment,” said Governor Gregoire in Mukilteo. “The aerospace industry operates in a global economy and in order to keep our state’s aerospace industry competitive, we must help companies at all levels of the aerospace supply chain.”

Here's the picture we'll probably use in the paper:

Here's what I desperately wish we were going to use:

Like a cousin of Kong, she looks like she's being harassed by the itty-bitty planes. And she's mighty pissed.

Afterwords, I headed back up to my parents' house, where I fell asleep on the floor, having not had much in the way of sleep the previous night. I woke up and had to jam out to Endeavor elementary to cover their production of the Lighthouse. You see, Mukilteo is a small town, but they have pride. For instance, we are currently very proud that our lighthouse is 100 years old as of last month. 100 years ago, someone built something that hasn't fallen down yet. And to celebrate, 4th and 5th graders pay homage in song and original poetry. That's neither a typo nor sarcasm. The production featured original poetry from the students.

(Un)fortunately, I wasn't able to see any of this, because I couldn't find the school. They don't have a sign, it was dark, I ended up arriving late. So now I'm just going to interview the students on Monday. It's all good.

***

Melissa, Aurora, Megan, and Carolyn joined me in the evening. I served as DD, 'cause I didn't really feel like drinking, and we went down to Pioneer Square.

It's Spring Break for most of the schools in the area, a week graciously given to students so that they might reset, relax, and prepare for the upcoming quarter/semester. Apparently, they also use that week to get the fuck out of town.

The bars were dead. Supremely dead. Cowgirls Inc. was the only one who had something going, and they had to screw it up by stopping the music to have a "Hot Girl" contest, with a $500 prize. You'd think that with half a G on the line, girls would be enthusiastic, but the only one who looked like she cared was one of the waitresses/dancers that worked there, and when I saw her later, smoking outside, she appeared to be coming down quickly from the yay. All I know, is that if I were a girl and someone offered me $500 for a few minutes work, I'd give them a walking tour of my vulva.

It's Friday, and I'm happy/sad about that. I've got a shit-ton of work to write, and it's gotta be done by Monday. On the other hand, I got free tickets to the Erotic Arts Festival. And there's not much I enjoy more than looking at naked people.

In other things, I've picked up a couple more freelance gigs. One at Skratch Magazine and the other at Seattle Sound. Guess which of the two pays.

Finally, I've been listening to Ghostface's new album, Fishscale. It's really fucking good. And I'm really fucking white.

Until next week,

- T

Sleepy-time Tyson, now available in Grumpy

2006-03-21T09:54:00.000-08:00

I'm writing this at 5:00 in the morning. By all rights, I should be very tired. I'm not, but I should be. If I had to suss out a reason, I'd say some black magic was in play. The burning kind. Like elven jock itch.

What a weekend. Last week was a blur, just building towards Friday. And then it came, and with it arrived Sarah, an old friend of mine from Illinois, whom I haven't seen for over five years. I don't know that she's changed at all, but it seems I most definitely have. It's all that ocean air and hippie dust.

Friday was also St. Patrick's day, which we celebrated with alcohol. Sarah, Sally, and I were joined by Erin, Alison, and Lui in downtown Ballard, drinking until last call. It was Erin's birthday, which she celebrated by not wearing pants and THEN getting trashed. I offered her a comfy pair of sweatpants, thinking somehow that she had actually managed to forget to put pants on, but it turned out that her lack of pants was a conscious choice. If only I could say the same. If only I could forget that bar mitzvah.

Not much happened Saturday, and Sunday was spent showing Sarah the sights of Seattle. Pike Place. The piers. Greenlake. It was a beautiful day, absolutely perfect weather. Got some good pictures which will go up on my flickr page as soon as I can find the cord that connects my camera to my computer.
This morning I was up at 5:30 to shuttle Sarah to the airport. Hopefully it won't be another half-decade before I see her again. Hopefully I also won't have to get up at 5:30 again to make that happen.

At work I mostly slacked off. I am, if you'll please pardon the pun, completely phoning it in at this point. I've got two days left, and I'm trying to spend the bulk of them doing work for other people.

I'm starting to pick up stories for the Mukilteo Beacon. Tonight it's an open house to announce plans for a new ferry terminal. It's not exactly breaking news, but it pays. Saturday, I'm covering a national initiative at the YMCA. Thursday, it's a grade school theater production.

Other happenings for Thursday include getting my truck back from the shop (finally) and going out dancing with Megan, Carolyn, and a couple friends from Alaska. If you want to get your step on in a sparkly fashion with us, give me a ring. My apartment has already been co-opted as a crash pad, so join in the fun.

Speaking of the apartment, Sally and I are just about completely settled, which I think indicates an impending house warming party. Details intricate and scandalous to be announced at some point in the future.

And one last thing: the new issue of Disheveled is out now. I have the byline on the cover story. If that wording sounds weird to you, there's a reason. But check it out nonetheless. The Rat City Rollergirls are a kick-ass group of gals and they deserve all the glowing press tossed their way. And Disheveled ain't half bad either.

39 winks short,

-T

There is not a part on my body that doesn't hurt

2006-03-20T10:03:00.000-08:00

I am sore as shit.

I can't say how much I lifted over the course of the weekend, but I think it was too much. Of course, most everything I own is now quaintly ensconsed in my new apartment, albeit huddled in the middle of the floor like quadraplegic children.

It feels nice, though, having a place that feels like home. I love my parents, but the move back into their house after graduation was temporary; we all knew it, and I felt it everytime. And when something's temporary, it's very hard to move forward and feel comfortable. There's always a piece missing that itches at you like your conscience after a hit and run.

I'm sorry, grandpa.

But today I woke up, ten minutes to nine, and got to work on time. It was a thing of beauty. I looked like hell, 'cause I didn't have time, nor the inclination, to shower, and really, I make phone calls all day. The company's dress code is really more of a guideline, and that guidline is: don't let your cock flop out. And I can manage that.

We even had our first guest last night. Nathan, my fine man-like brother, dropped by to use the couch after work so he could wake up bright and early and take a final. Of course, you don't need a reason to stop by, you should just make it your duty. We'll be glad to see you, and when you come, bring some food, 'cause we've got nothing but half a bag of Taco bell mild sauce in the fridge right now. It's mildly (HA) disturbing.

Other things we don't have: cable and internet.

So I guess what I'm saying is that if you plan on coming, you better be entertaining. Or we'll eat you. Maybe.

There's still a lot of work to be done, and I'm just the guy for the job.

XO,
-T

I'm tired of talking on the phone.

2006-03-10T15:24:00.000-08:00

I've decided that the Aveo sucks. Although I have been getting kinda spoiled on having a back seat and an automatic transmission, it's not anything I'm going to yearn for long term. My problem is that the car has no ass. They took a regular car and figured it'd work just as well if they cut the trunk off. It doesn't. I drove up to Bellingham the other day and found that the car whistles when you hit 80 mph. I think at one point I actually caught an updraft and flew for fifteen seconds or so.

On my way back down, I had to fill up the gas tank because I was on "E". I figured the Aveo, in addition to being a shitty vehicle, also had shitty gas mileage. Not so. It only has a ten gallon tank. I hate this car.

The problem is that I'm stuck with it until at least Thursday. I checked in with the place that's fixing my truck, and apparently the estimator at Allstate forgot a few things. Like taking out my back window. My driver's seat. My seat belt. All sorts of little things that cost money and take time.

So I won't have my truck this weekend, which sucks as I'm moving heavy things and the Aveo's poorly structured tin frame and jerry-rigged lawn-mower motor can't really help me.

***

I interviewed the lead singer of We Are Scientists yesterday. It was a really great conversation, and I got to end the interview with this series of questions:

Is it ok to punch a girl if she is literally asking for it?

Which is better: the Hare Krishnas or Scientologists, and why?

If you tame a wolf once, is it ok to put "wolfmaster" on your resume?

Once I get around to transcribing his answers, I'll put them up. They're worth hearing.

***

And, finally, I've added a new life goal after watching the season finale of Project Runway. I want Heidi Klum to say to me: "Tyson, you understand women."

Then I could die happy, and Heidi could feed on my marrow or whatever it is that she does.

I'm off to sign the lease, and then start the long, laborious process of moving. Yay!

- T

It's only Tuesday, but I'm declaring this week a success

2006-03-07T20:57:00.000-08:00

Hard-wired into your little reptilian brain, there's a drive to satisfy your basic wants (i.e. food, shelter, mobility) that supercedes, or at the very least co-exists, with your everyday ambitions, desires, and appetites. It's all very hunter-gatherer, and it's always sitting at the top of your spine, itching at the back of your head, nagging your consciousness.

And just like any itch, you've got to scratch it.

So how lucky me that I've managed to scratch millions of years of hard-coded cravings in the space of two days.

My truck is in the shop. Went in yesterday. I had to drive to work in Sally's mom-mobile, a land-locked yacht of a station wagon, perfect for ferrying friends and side-swiping unwary children.

Today, however, I picked up my rental from Enterprise, a cute gnat of a vehicle, the Ford Aveo. It took some time, partly because I woke up late, partly because rental companies are strangely hesitant about handing you a car with 4000 miles on it for a $200 deposit. Even so, I wasn't really prepared for the blood tests and psychological profile.

But I am now mobile again.

On Friday, Sally and I applied for an apartment. Currently, I live in Marysville, a town that somehow manages the delicate balance between pastoral destination for families and soul-killing prison the recently of age can't wait to get the fuck out of.

As a member of the latter group, I've been commuting to Seattle everyday for my job. The commute sucks. Thankfully, I won't have to deal with it again. Sally and I found out yesterday that we passed our credit checks and can move in this Saturday. It's the basement apartment in a tri-plex, two bedrooms, right off Market in the heart of Ballard, all for $800. I'm pretty damn stoked.

I have a place to live.

Three months ago, the Bellingham Weekly closed down after relations between the two co-owners made a bee-line for the border and then, seconds after crossing, took bats to each other's knees. 'Cause, really, who pays attention in Mexico? Not me, that's for sure. Too busy looking for the donkey show.

Anyway, the non-crazy partner has re-started the mag, under the name Cascadia Weekly, and I'll once again be writing for its pages. And that's not even the cool part.

A couple of weeks ago, Sally's sister said the Mukilteo Beacon was looking for writers. Since I'm always looking for ways to fill up the few loose moments in my day, I applied. I interviewed. I was hired today.

Here's the best part: I'm getting paid more to work less at a job I love. Not only that, but in 2-3 months I will shift into my permanent position as editor of the Edmonds Beacon. Fuck yeah.

I'm making good, clean money.

So, as you might guess, I'm doing pretty good this week. Even while writing this, I'm shitting my pants in excitement, or as I like to say, "a personal foul". Plus, I'm hanging out with a co-worker tonight seeing a movie; Megan tomorrow to watch the season finale of Project Runway (bad tv I don't even watch); and Kat on thursday to get down on guitar and saw.

Right now, I'm finishing up at KEXP (still in the middle of their pledge drive) which reminds me that KUGS, the best station ever, has finally begun web-casting. Check out La Calle, my man Oliver's show, every Sunday at noon, or just turn in whenever. They're damn good.

And so am I.

Totally fly,

- T

Speaking of which

2006-03-02T16:41:00.000-08:00

Here’s an email I just received from HR:

To All Employees:

It has been reported to management that there is once again a concern with personal cleanliness. Out of respect for all employees bodily cleanliness and clothing cleanliness are absolutely imperative.

Now how passive aggressive is it to complain to management instead of simply pulling someone aside and saying, “Hey, you smell like ass. There’s a shower and a can of Oust in the bathroom. Maybe you can go aerate yourself and hose off or something.”

Speaking of which, yesterday I had a realization.

Popped popcorn smells exactly like dirty, sweaty feet. Exactly. Am I hungry? Am I repulsed? Am I both? Am I the person they’re talking about in the e-mail? I don’t know. I just don’t know.

Speaking of which, I need to get back into my exercise routine. I tried putting on my favorite jeans the other day and realized I was muffin-topping all over the place. It wasn’t pretty, but, god, don’t blueberry muffins sound good right now?

I had Lean Pockets the other day. I don’t have a lot more to say about it than that. Mostly I just wanted you to feel sorry for me.

Speaking of which, promo pictures for Spiderman 3 broke over the weekend featuring Spidey in his black suit. CNN, of all networks, was doing a feature on the pictures, going: "New pictures have been released" like it’s a hostage situation or something. And then, to make matters worse, they continue on: "Is Spiderman sad? Or is he heading to a formal dance?"

Look, first off, the black suit was actually an alien parasite that eventually found a new host that became the villain Venom. Jesus. It may be improbable that I can know that AND have a girlfriend, but I do and I'm not getting paid six figures to spout off on tv.

Second off, CNN stands for Cable News Network. Reporting on a movie that isn’t going to be in theaters for another YEAR isn’t news. You lose the very shape of the word news when you apply it to pop-trash like this. It’s gone. Now all you have is CN, Cable Network, with nothing to distinguish you from every other channel on television.

Speaking of which, the Olympics just ended. I wish I cared at all about the Winter Games. But I don’t. It’s just a bunch of people sliding around and occasionally jumping. It’s boring. The only thing I watched was curling. It’s such a ridiculous sport, but one I feel at which I would be quite good.

And oh so very sexy.

- T

Forgive me, Charlie Parker

2006-02-17T15:11:00.000-08:00

Next door they’re building. The past few months workers have been raising, story by story, what looks to be another non-descript office space for businesses that don’t particularly care what part of town they’re in.

Today they’re tarring. It smells like burnt ape.

I woke up late today with no time to shower. It was almost noon before I realized the smell wasn’t mine. Thankfully.

At work, they’ve given us in the call center headsets so as to best avoid the dreaded broken-neck syndrome, sometimes also referred to as Bird in the Window. As in “I’d like to talk to Bob, but he’s such a Bird in the Window, I can’t look him in the eye.”

The headset is nice, but it’s an uncomfortable dichotomy between avoiding scoliosis and looking like a ‘40s phone operator.

***

For her birthday, I bought Sally The Muppet Show Season 1 on DVD. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve watched anything Muppets related with something more than a sad, nostalgic detachment. Mostly because that’s the amount of time it has been since the Muppets have been anything more than an ironic joke.

How great, then, this DVD set. If I had space enough, and time, I would run willy-nilly through the episodes, pointing at all the beautiful and wondrous things. Instead, let me say simply how much I love watching puppets play instruments.

***

It’s a three day weekend. I’m stoked. Tonight I’m hanging out with Oliver, watching a band do Bob Marley covers. Tomorrow is Burnout Prom. Sunday is Tom Brosseau and Mice Parade. And Monday is a free day. Thank the Lord, and pass the nitrous.

- T

Girls on Skates, Horses, and Dinner Theater

2006-02-17T13:03:00.000-08:00

"Little birds born without a mother or a father." - Jeff Magnum, Little Birds

What a great song. So last night a woman punched me.

Not hard, mind you, but still a punch is a punch. I can claim it. Her name is Christa, also known as Betty Ford Galaxy No.12, and this is what she looks like.

I was interviewing her (and several others) for a longform profile piece on the Rat City Roller Girls, Seattle's bitching Female Roller Derby League. We had struck up a good rapport, and then I made a small mocking joke, and she punched me. Punched me right in the pleather. You see, I was wearing my orange retro pleather coat, looking right stylish, so while technically anywhere on the torso would count "in the pleather", thankfully her blow was a nice jab to the shoulder. She immediately apologized, saying "I was distracted by something shiny."

She was just one of many women I talked to last night; each with a great backstory and the willingness to hip-check another woman to the ground. As Jojo Stilletto said, "That's the sexiest thing I..'ve ever seen!" I took about an hour and a half of tape, so I can't mention everything that was said, but I do want to spotlight one skater: Miss Fortune. She graduated from M.I.T. with a degree in A.I. and Robotics. Not only that, but her mom skates with her. Kick it K-C (Sorry. Jojo.)

It's Sally's birthday today. She's 25, which makes her officially old. As a present, I took her to see a revival of Cannibal: The Musical last Saturday. At best, I can say that the production was exactly what regional theater should behonest, rough, and occasionally funny. At worst, I could say that it was a gay camp revival of a musical about cannibalism done as dinner theater. Whether or not that appeals to you basically depends on if you enjoy seeing some man's crotch swaddled in tortoise shell.

For those of you who aren't up on Cannibal: The Musical, it's the first film that Matt Stone and Trey Parker did, and it shows. It's great, but very low budget. One of its running jokes is that the protagonist is in love with his horse. I love a good horse fucking joke as much as the next man ("Killed him? Damn near wrecked him!"), and apparently so does Seattle. Or, at the very least Enumclaw.

So it was no surprise that the man-horse love made an over-the-top return in the live rendition. Jokes are made, songs are sung, caresses are given openly. At one point, Frenchie (the rival lover) takes the horse to a disco and dry humps it. What I'm getting at is that subtlety isn't exactly a factor, something that makes perfect sense in the sort of performance where the lead actor is wearing leather pants and an open mesh shirt.

I saw Brokeback Mountain almost a month ago now. It's a good movie. It's beautifully shot, impressively acted, and emotionally honest. It's going to win a shitload (actual technical term) of awards. And I'm probably never going to watch it again.

At its essence, the reason is "I don't care." I don't care about the characters, the setting, the hegemonic structure. I just don't care. When Jake Gyllenhal's character died, I winced, because, you know, I do that when I see people get hit with tire irons, but I wasn't surprised. He had felt dead to me since the start of the film. It's a film filled with the absence of life and a surfeit of hope.

In the movie's aftermath, an interesting thing happened. I heard a few people say: "man, he should have gotten with the sheep." Which makes sense only if you believe: 1) an animal feels physically like a human; and 2) an animal can fill the same emotional space a human does. The only part that's remotely arguable is the first statement, and even then you're going to have a hard time convincing me that something with a snout and cotton-candy fur is anything like the umber skin and conditioned muscle tone of Heath Ledger. Besides, say what you will about how your cat seems to know when you're upset, it's not going to travel 700 miles to see you in a busted pick-up, no matter how much it enjoys driving.

What really surprised me, however, was reading Anne Proulx's original short story a few days later. Something I suggest you do. It's only about ten pages. She should really have a screenwriting credit on the movie. There isn't one piece of dialogue that she wrote that isn't on-screen, and I believe there's only one scene that appears in the movie and not in the book. Plus you get the movie's baleful sadness in Proulx's anti-prolix prose.

Its Very Much Monday,

-T

Bullet Point Update

2006-02-17T13:02:00.000-08:00

Things a-going on:

I've been hired on full time at my job in Ballard, and other people have moved up, making me, at two months in, one of the most senior members of the calling center. I can't decide if that's sad or awesome.

My vehicle was assessed for damage. Allstate determined it will cost 2,138 dollars to fix. Thankfully, my deductible is not 1,000 dollars like I was originally told, but instead 300. It still sucks, but now it does so 70% less.

Google's gmail has added an IM function. I haven't IM'd for about six, seven years, but if people join up, I'll probably fall back into the habit hard. So, do, please. If you need a gmail invite, let me know.

Tonight I watched two deaf people argue in the U-District. It was the quietest shouting match I've ever seen.

I recently got a haircut and a massage. The haircut was at Vain, down in Seattle on 1st ave, and if I may say so myself, I look FABULOUS. The massage was a gift from Sally for last year's Valentine's day, and I'm not proud to say that, yes, it took me nearly a year to have someone touch me on my girlfriend's dime.

It's a weird experience. You strip down and this person you just met touches you far more intimately than the vast majority of people you know ever will. But for one hour, it is one of the most relaxing things you can do for yourself. When we were done, my masseuse spritzed me with febreeze and told me to take my time getting up. Something I had no problem with since I wanted to take a bubble bath and eat a pint of Ben and Jerry's while watching Steel Magnolias on the Lifetime channel. Which was something I COULD NOT DO since I had, you know, things to do, but whatever.

Anyway, it's the weekend. It's Sally's birthday. Time to celebrate.

- T

My love for others is masked by my bitter, undying hatred

2006-02-03T13:30:00.000-08:00

First things first. Look at this tattoo. I've never wanted to friends with someone I've never met more than with this girl, right now.

And while on the subject of Neutral Milk Hotel, check this shit out: Cable and Tweed. They have the last show Jeff Magnum ever did posted in .mp3 format. And it's really, really good.

So I just finished interviewing Mr. E for Resonance. Nice guy--personable, funny, good times all around. Normally, I'd be stoked right now. But I'm not. I can't be. And here's why:

And up close:

When I walked up to my vehicle, I stood awestruck for several minutes. It was just enough time for an older guy to come out of the store across the street and say:

"We were wondering whose vehicle it was."

So did you see who did this?

"Nope. But they must have backed up right out of our parking lot into you."

But you didn't see who did it?

"No."

WHAT THE FUCK, PEOPLE?

If you're going to play Encyclopedia Brown, why don't you actually be helpful about it and figure out who did the damn thing, not who gets to clean up the mess.

I had other things I wanted to talk about, but I ain't got the time or the enthusiasm now.

I'm going back to work.

Feh,

-T

For this I have no excuse

2006-01-19T20:46:00.000-08:00

Last night I watched Colin Farrell's sex tape and confirmed a theory that I've been formulating since the first time I saw Pam Anderson physically repress her gag reflex: home-made porn, unless you are acting in it, is not, and never will be, hot.

And while there is the titillation factor of seeing someone famous get down and dirty (with a playmate no less!) the cinema verite of shaky-cam shots and sloppy cinematography ends up pissing you off more than it appeals to your puerile interests.

Of course, I can now state with authority that Farrell's cock curves like a prehensile tail, which, if I had done so two days prior, I would have done merely on heresay. So, it's nice to get that cleared up.

I also browsed through Cute Overload with Sally last night, exhausting, in the process, my use of the expression "awww" for the next five years. What is it about small, big-eyed creatures that makes you love them so? What is it that makes you want to hold them and squeeze them and spank them when they are bad and call them George? Good Lord, what?

You might think it odd that I went from one end of the acceptability spectrum to the other, but what can I say? I contain multitudes. Also, the unshakeable image of Colin Farrell's bic'd forehead and dark brow buried tooth depth in Nicole Narain's snatch. That shit is indelible.

In other news, I keep seeing promos for Lisa Loeb's new reality series. Knowing my hatred for reality shows, let me say simply that I hope, should I ever write a song with as much emotional heartswell as "Stay", that I can ride that motherfucker's coattails for the next fifteen years. Also, I get to marry Moon-Unit. It's part and parcel.

I was up late last night finishing my article on Mon Frere for Disheveled. I'm not entirely happy with it. It is serviceable, but little more. Now I have sleep deprivation and the knowledge that I wrote something merely sufficient weighing me down for the rest of the evening. I'm looking forward to sleep and Friday night. In that order.

XO,

- T

Let's get serious a second

2006-01-18T01:18:00.000-08:00

It's been nearly two weeks since I've seen King Kong. It's a good movie. I don't love it, however. Hell, I can't even guarantee I'll buy it when it comes out--I am a poor college graduate, of course--but I do think it's worth talking about.

So King Kong--or Let's Make Koko Cry--tells the story of a film crew that goes to an uncharted island to film a movie, and, upon finding that island, are immediately attacked by the natives, and the resident blond(played with ravishing emptiness by Naomi Watts) sacrificed to the titular giant gorilla. She's stolen, she's restored, love blossoms between her and the gorilla, he is captured, and taken to New York where he DIES. *Spoiler*

That's the plot, the basic gist you could have gleaned from the trailer or a Burger King pop cup.

Here are the two most important parts: the love between Ann Darrow and the Gorilla and said Darrow's ravishing emptiness. Let's tackle the latter first.

The long and short of it is that the character of Ann Darrow is little more than a prop, something acted upon, saved, and revered, but making few independent decisions or actions (the only one she really makes is her refusal to appear in the Kong stage show once they return to New York). This is endemic to both the original and 1st remake, so it's hard to fault Peter Jackson.

What Watts does (and does so well) is look luminous or scared, sometimes even both at once. Although I'm loathe to apply any feminist theory here--because I'm, one: not able to accurately quote most of what I learned, and, let's face it, didn't learn that much to begin with; and two: unless you have a jones for the stuff, it can be, and generally is, dreadfully boring--there is a lot to be said of a starring woman's role which is essentially the acted upon unpriveleged other.

Woo. That's a long sentence.

Anyway, Darrow's character is the bridge into the far more complicated character of Kong. It is she that allows him to express feelings, and, more importantly, allows the audience to understand them.

What Jackson does, once he knows we empathize with Kong, is beat the shit out of him. With the sole exception of putting All Ball in a burlap bag and running it over with a golf cart, Jackson presents every cinematic injustice and hurt that could ever possibly be rendered on a 25 foot gorilla.

He is beaten. He is shot. He is kidnapped. Removed from the only home he knows. Enslaved. Used as entertainment. And yet the worst thing is the most subtle: he is taught to love.

There is a book called Flowers for Algernon, later adapted into the movie Charly, wherein a mentally-slow man is given a radical treatment to make him smarter. It might not work, it shouldn't work, but it does. We watch him get smarter, grok things he had the smallest conception of only days earlier, and make his first steps towards love.

And then we watch it all slip away, until he's back where he started, everything that he briefly had gone. But Charly isn't the same, he is tinged with memories of how things were, how things could be, but with no way to change or even understand what he remembers.

As an analogy, think of what your grandmother's house smelled like. Attach to that smell all the feelings, good and bad, you associate with her house. Now remove your grandmother. From now on, every time you experience that smell, those feelings rise up in you, but you don't know why, and the smell disappears before you can ever figure it out.

This is how it is for Charly, and for Kong. Both are societal outsiders, one because he is mentally impoverished, the other because he has never known friendly human contact, what with being a 25 FOOT TALL MARAUDING APE and all.

The villagers offer up Darrow as a sacrifice, and Kong takes her deep into the jungle. She dances for him, he laughs. He saves her from the dinosaurs (speaking of which, could the raptors looked any more fake? Christ. Jurassic Park was ten years ago, people, and they got it right), and takes her to the family burial ground so that they might stare out on the sunset. Darrow teaches him the word "beautiful". Kong is smitten.

He wouldn't know to call it that. He doesn't have the vocabulary yet. All he has is this delicious wafting scent that reminds him of home. And then it's gone. But unlike Charly, Kong has recourse: follow and re-capture.

Instead, he's taken to New York. When we see him next, it's on stage, chained and broken. He has lost his regal affect, his physical presence. He waits listlessly, not because he knows fear, he does, but because he is captured by the need for that smell. The ensuing rampage is just his way of dealing with it.

The few moments he shares with Ann are heart-breaking, because even as he is learning to be vulnerable, to sniff delicately, we know it can't last.

It doesn't.

In the end, it is Kong's willingness to be vulnerable that engendered his death. If he hadn't made an attachment, he never would have been captured; if he never acted upon that attachment, no one would have shot him.

That said, I still disagree with the famous last line: "Beauty Killed the Beast." Especially as said by Jack Black's Carl Denham. You know what killed the beast? You. Because you're a self-aggrandizing asshole who didn't want to go down in flames. Jerk.

Speaking about vulnerability, Sally and I watched The 40-Year-Old Virgin this weekend. We loved it. Steve Carrell is impeccable as the titular virgin, finding the laughs in the character, instead of the other way around. You feel his shame, his quiet, his need for Catherine Keener's smell, and when he eventually loses his cherry, you feel right with the world and fantastically in love. I keep flashing back to the final scenes, profoundly impressed with how perfect they are, how right. Hell, even the Age of Aquarius left-turn didn't lose me. Much like Kong, his vulnerability endears him, but here it also saves.

May we all find someone to be vulnerable with.

- T

Idiot Boxes

2006-01-17T14:01:00.000-08:00

I have a love/hate relationship with television. On one hand, it's a vapid, emotionally vacant, razzle-dazzle show of tubes and rasters that slowly draws you into the suck of materialism, enviousness, and quiet compliance. On the other, it entertains me.

So, obviously, I'm on the fence.

The worst part of television is the reality show, for this, truly, appears to be television where the lowest common denominator had a hand in EVERY aspect of production--from the "talent" whoring themselves for fifteen minutes to the television producers and brass who would rather underestimate the audience's intelligence than play to it.

That said, I do watch reality shows, but only one religiously--that being the hotbed of emotional porn known as Extreme Makeover: Home Edition (Hey, by the way, can we have Ty Pennington killed?). Sadly, I think I must increase my reality intake 100%. Why? Four words, my friend. Beauty and the Geek.

Produced by Ashton Kutcher (Can't he just drape himself in Demi Moore's labia and disappear already?), Beauty and the Geek tells the heartwarming tale of 8 geeky men, 8 stunning women, and one villa in the hills where they all live in perfect harmony. Or not. Perhaps it is because I spent a childhood of quiet nerdishness, the fat outlier who had more friends within books than without, or perhaps because one of the nerds is actually named "Tyson", the show's set-up resonates.

So, last night, both beauties and geeks meet for the first time and sparks flew much the same way that houses don't. (Thanks Douglas Adams!) They hang out, they get in the hot-tub, some share beds, some don't, and then comes the first challenge, wherein we get to meet the series' Asshole.

Every reality show is carefully cast before it ever hits the air. You could have the perfect candidate, but if they don't have an easy emotional hook, they ain't going to see minute one on the air. Stuff like father issues, claustrophobia, a third arm. You know, the usual. The one hook you can always count on in a reality show is the Asshole. (S)he's the one that stirs shit and keeps the show interesting. I can't imagine what kind of net they had to throw to find an MIT graduate, a Biochemical superfreak, and a speed chess champion who likes to make derogatory greeting cards and act like a dick, but kudos to that casting director.

So the first challenge is a sort of back and forth trivia, where the questions favor either the geeks or the beauties, but they have to pick who answers before the question is read. It's not exactly high-tension televison, but it did merit a sad, pitiful sigh when a girl answered "hand-held?" to the question "what type of screwdriver is this?" (The answer was phillips).

The dick (whose name I have forgotten) takes charge from the get-go, shutting down his partner by telling her he knows all the answers, and winning no points from anyone in the room when he's proven correct. They eventually win the right to exchange the partners of any two teams. Guess who they chose? Themselves. Which should really be lesson ..1 for the dick. Act like an ass and people won't want anything to do with you. Unless you have wavy hair, a leather jacket, and a motorcycle. Then they'll be all over you.

Anyway, I'm hooked, and that's a problem. Now I have to decide between Beauty and the Geek and the O.C., and that's a choice at which Solomon himself would blanch.

- T

Chuck Norris' tears cure cancer. But he is so badass, he has never cried. Ever.

2006-01-12T15:07:00.000-08:00

I hate Chuck Norris. I hate Walker, Texas Ranger. I hate his pseudo karate, his embarrassed scruff, his complete lack of actorly acumen. But I do not hate Sidekicks, as the love I have for that skinny blond boy cancels completely the endless, seething pit of hate that bears the Norris name.

I also do not hate Chuck Norris Facts. Go read and laugh in childish delight.

Speaking of other things you should read, I've started to post some of my articles, reviews, and interviews that don't have an easy online referrent over at As Yet Untitled. I especially recommend the interview with The Coral, and the Resonance book reviews.

I've been stupidly busy lately. And tired. Oh so tired. I want dearly to move into Seattle, so that my commute might become a manageable 20-30 minutes versus the 2 hours I've been spending lately. TWO FUCKING HOURS. Hell isn't other people. Hell is other people in cars going four miles an hour down the freeway. That shit is irritating. JUST TAKE YOUR FOOT OFF THE GODDAMN BRAKE AND DRIVE, YOU KNUCKLE-FUCKING CUNT.

Jesus. Sorry about that. I have a lot of anger. Deep inside. Where only my uncle can reach.

Anyway, speaking of Jesus and incest, Sally and I are going to hit up Sarah Silverman's newest movie while up in B-Ham. I urge you all to do the same, although you don't actually have to do it with me. I'd actually, all things considered, prefer you didn't. I wanna put my arm around my lady all smooth-like and I don't need a bunch of gawkers throwing off my game.

I've got some things I'm going to post later, so you can look forward to that. Otherwise, I want to sign off on this scatalogical observation that fits well in this Sarah Silverman train of thought (especially given her participation in the Aristocrats): have you ever taken a shit so massive your cock looked bigger afterward?

XO,

- T

Naked Matt and Erin

2006-01-03T21:38:00.000-08:00

Naked Matt and Erin, originally uploaded by Tyson L.

I swear it's going to be ok. Just put on some pants.

Kaeli and Nikki

2006-01-03T21:37:00.000-08:00

Kaeli and Nikki, originally uploaded by Tyson L.

Smooches

Here drinky drink

2006-01-03T21:36:00.001-08:00

Here drinky drink, originally uploaded by Tyson L.

C'mere. It's time to get in my liver.

Erin in shades of dark and light

2006-01-03T21:36:00.000-08:00

Erin in shades of dark and light, originally uploaded by Tyson L.

Kaeli and Me

2006-01-03T21:35:00.000-08:00

Kaeli and Me, originally uploaded by Tyson L.

See? I like jello.

Matt Lui and Nikki on the floor

2006-01-03T21:34:00.000-08:00

Matt Lui and Nikki on the floor, originally uploaded by Tyson L.

So which is it?

Erin Me and Carolyn laughing

2006-01-03T21:33:00.001-08:00

Erin Me and Carolyn laughing, originally uploaded by Tyson L.

Is that a dollar in her bra?

Alan

2006-01-03T21:33:00.000-08:00

Alan, originally uploaded by Tyson L.

All I know is that it isn't my fault.

N-n-nn--nnnn---nn---

2005-12-29T14:03:00.000-08:00

NEW YEARS!

Where are you going to be spending it?

If you ain't got no place to go, may I suggest Carolyn's?

Friends, fun, and some sweet libations--how could you go wrong?

You can't, and that's a fact.

Be there or be DEAD TO ME.

Love,

- T

Well, would you look at the time.

2005-12-29T08:03:00.000-08:00

It is currently 3:30 in the morning. I have things to be doing. Better things. Such as sleeping. Sleeping, as I remember, is quite nice. If I recall correctly, I generally enjoy it.

Of course, I could just go to bed, but that would take the fun out of kvetching to you.

I am going to keep it short and sweet, however.

First off, Disheveled's January issue is going to press as we speak. The website already has the new issue, wherein we find three things by yours truly: Ruby Dee and the Snakehandlers, my concert review of Bob and the Dangerous Brothers, Great Guy, and Cherry Blossoms at Night, and The Emergency.

I talked with The Emergency for about an hour. Unfortunately I couldn't fit all the interesting tid-bits into the article. Instead of relegating them to the recycle bin, I figured I'd share them with you here. If you couldn't care less about this (and what a sad person you must be), simply skip past the indented portion to the end. But do please read the last grafs. There's some enticing news to be found there.

Unpublished quotes from The Emergency:

1)

"I was really against the whole idea of having a girl singer," says Smith. "Girl singers in rock bands are really bad."

"I was like if we're going to do this and pull this off, the type of music we want to do, then we got to get a kick-ass lead singer," says Detoit. "'Cause none of us are going to be able to do it. We had to find a kick-ass vocalist."

"And neither of us were that," adds Smith.

"So I said, "I have a singer. It's Dita'," continues Detroit. "'You guys know who Dita is?' They're like 'yeah.'"

"I was dead against it, a girl singer?," says Smith. "Your ex-girlfriend in the band? Fuck that."

"We broke a number of rules, but it seemed to work out," finishes Detroit.

Sonic: To try to describe something as complex as music in something as simple as words, it doesn't work. I listen to the New Bomb Turks and the Dead Kennedys. People call both of those bands Punk bands. And then you listen to Slaughtering the Dogs, and they're a punk band? And the Dead Kennedys are a punk band?

Sonic: Stanwood Hotel. It's in the middle of nowhere. We played one of the most fun shows we've ever played at the Stanwood for nine people. And one of those people was Don Slack, the music director at KEXP. Our other big break came before that. Jennifer Maerz of the Stranger. We played at the High-Dive for three people. My ex-girlfriend, my friend Mike, who comes to all of our shows, and Jennifer Maerz. She did a really nice write-up for us.

Nick: It was much easier for us to get booked after that. I didn't have to contact anybody, they were all calling me. I was getting so many emails. I think one month we played 12 shows, and then the next month we played 10 shows. I had us booked like crazy. Sonic's work was so pissed at him because he had to go, 'Yeah, I need 12 days off'."

Dita: The other big thing was that we got sponsored by Tabco.

Sonic: They're a subidiary of Loud Technology, that owns Mackie. They make audio gear for the regular man, not for bands. When Mackie sponsors someone, it's Snoop Dogg. When Tabco sponsors someone, it's the Emergency. We actually have a full-on, admittedly broken, studio in our basement.

Their basement, by the way, is the only one I've seen that has its own control room for sound. A 16 channel snake, racks of outboard sound equipment, and matresses stuffed into the walls and ceiling. They're throwing a party there for New Year's, so if you're too good to come to my party, go to theirs. I guarantee a good time.

4)

Nick: This next saturday is the first time we're playing the Fun House on a weekend. That's going to be our 57th show in Seattle this year. We've played the Fun House five or six times this past year, and it's always been on a tuesday, or there was that one time we headlined a show on Sunday at 1:30 in the morning. That was bad.

Sonic: The last time we played at the Funhouse, my friend Mike picked me up and threw me on the stage a whole bunch of times.

Nick: We write our own parts, but I guess as far as any songwriting credit goes, it's me and Sonic. When it comes to the solid ideas for the songs, Sonic and I will get together and jam through some stuff or come up with riffs, and we'll put them together. But Dita writes her own lyrics, Tom does his own thing. The only time we ever tell Tom to do something is when we're like say 'Play something simple.' We decided when we got together to split the songwriting credits four ways, because that's basically how it is.

Sonic: When you listen to the first Mooney Suzuki album, you listen to it and say 'God damn. I have to see this band live. There is so much energy on this record.' The same thing when listen to the first fucking Rolling Stones album. There is so much energy, so much excitement, you have to go see what this is about.

Nick: It's actually a very fine line. If you go overboard, it'll sound too fucking lo-fi and it'll sound like shit. If you make it too clean...well, if you make a clean album, you'll sell more records, but it won't be the best album you could make.

Dita: People will not be disappointed if they come to our show after listening to our album. That will never happen.

and lucky number 7)

"When Nirvana came out, they had a scene," says Vox. "There were a ton of great bands in Seattle, and that's how the Seattle fucking scene blew up over the nation, because there were all these great bands that came out together. They didn't hate each other, they came out together, and that's what we need now."

There you have it. The Emergency in all their glory. Go pick up a copy of Disheveled. It makes me feel special. In that funny place.

Finally: to celebrate the New Year (This is in addition to the party at Carolyn's. You're going, right? Need directions? Just ask.) I'm going to post seven in-depth reviews of albums that will drop in the next few months. Look forward to Belle & Sebastian, Mogwai, Cat Power, MF Doom and Ghostface, DJ Muggs and Gza, Built to Spill, and the Portland tribute to Elliot Smith.

POOP,

Tyson

Merry Christmakuh

2005-12-23T13:15:00.000-08:00

t's nearly here. And Thank God. I'm tired of the holiday, the shopping, the music. The whole rigmarole of commercialized religion. But not the presents. Hoo boy, I'm all about the presents.

And speaking of presents and the holiday, it's time to relate the story of Flannel Claus. I was going to wait until I had photographic proof to back me up, but I think there are enough true-believers and eye-witnesses out there to convince any skeptics.

Every year, Flannel Claus comes down from his shack on the hill to give all good girls and boys fifths of alcohol. Flannel Claus doesn't buy these fifths, he just distributes. And, really, isn't that what counts? When it comes to celebrating Fifthmas, most definitely.

So, yes, we, collectively, were graced last Saturday with a visit from Flannel Claus, and then I, personally, was graced with a case of the spins and a unique blanking talk with that porcelain polyglot known as the toilet. It was a good night. But then, any night when you're drinking in someone's living room while dancing to Britney Spears' Toxic is, by definitition, a good night.

Since then, I haven't done much more than work work work. I've discovered the joy of 6:00pm naps. See, usually by six I'm ready to drive. Drive on the freeway, drive home, drive into pedestrians, medians, other cars, and other such things. But the six o'clock nap leaves me feeling refreshed and ready to face another seven hours of
wakefulness. It truly is a beautiful thing.

Other things:

1) I'm on the phone a lot with various clinics, doctors, and hospitals. You hear a lot of things when on hold. The radio. Cheesy Christmas music. Nothing. But what you will almost invariably hear is this phrase: "if this is an emergency, please hang up the phone and call 911." Sometimes the phrase is augmented, i.e. "If you are having
chest pains, or a severe allergic reaction, please hang up and call 911." Here's my question: who, when their throat is squeezing shut from a bee sting, thinks that calling their HMO is the best possible action?

2) Today marked the second time I've been referred to by "Ma'am" on the phone. Look, I'm not about to win any Barry White competitions, but c'mon, I'm not a castrati. I prefer to think of my natural dulcet tones as more of a reedy sapling than a gnarled trunk.

Update: my boss just came in and said we can all go home early, Merry Christmas. So, Merry Christmas all!

- T

Q: Where does a general keep his armies?

2005-12-16T12:45:00.000-08:00

A: In his sleevies.

I must confess. I’m at odds with myself. I’m torn.

Yesterday had some impressive ups: I figured out a bad-ass keyboard riff that I love dearly. My mom and I sang Beatles and Jim Croce songs while I played guitar. I talked with my two out-of-state Sara(h)s: one in Illinois, the other in Arizona. I got a drunk phone call from Megan in Alaska, during which she put me on speakerphone and I told dead baby jokes for her and her friends. I found a new album by Mark Mulcahy at a record store. I finished the article on Ruby Dee and Snake Handlers and sent it off. I got up today on three hours sleep feeling suprisingly spry and coherent.

But as any adherent to Eastern philosophies will tell you, happy events are cyclical, and must be followed by unhappiness.

So how am I not myself?

The downs: I picked up the new M+F magazine, and there’s no content from lovable me, despite the fact that I’ve sent in a couple of interviews. Sad. I only slept three hours last night and will need to crash, hopefully only in the figurative sense and not on the highway driving home. My co-workers are having a secret santa today, but I’m not taking part because I wasn’t here when they organized it. Instead I’m sitting upstairs, gangly, ungifted, and alone. Finally, the Bellingham Weekly is shutting down. But the topper is that I didn’t find out from my editor, but from another freelancer’s Myspace blog. (Thanks Graham!)

Here’s the letter from Carey Ross that Graham posted:

here's the series of events.

friday: doug tolchin (tim's business partner) and tim have a fight and doug locks tim and the staff out of the office. the staff gets drunk.

sometime over the weekend: doug has a change of heart, feels bad, unlocks the office and apologizes to the staff.

9am monday: doug hands out a letter of apology to all the staffers, along with nimbus gift certificates. crisis averted.

9:15am monday: the letter of apology is summarily snatched away from the staff, along with the gift certificates as doug and tim begin to fight again.

10am tuesday: doug and tim fight again. shouting can be heard from one end of the office to the other. the staff begin to fear for their livelihoods.

2pm tuesday: tim is escorted from the building.

2:15pm tuesday: the staff is called to a meeting, fired and asked to leave the building immediately. however, as all the staff (myself included) were not actually present for the part of the meeting when we were fired (because a couple of us mistakenly thought that when a staff meeting is called for 3pm, it will actually start at, well, 3pm) those absentee staff members are fired by word of mouth when they return to the office.

2:45pm tuesday: the staff holds a meeting of their own and decides to put out this week's paper anyway.

3:00pm tuesday: the staff gets drunk.

9:00am-5:00pm wednesday: the staff produces the paper and sends the files to the press. tim cuts the press a check for the print job so we can get the paper out.

6:00pm wednesday: doug gets a court order halting the printing of the paper.

6:01pm wednesday: the staff gets very, very drunk.

noon thursday: the staff wakes up and files for unemployment.

so, that's pretty much it. doug fired all of us and shut down the paper. i believe he will try and merge it with the indy, which will be a blight upon journalism and this town. as for the money you are owed, i think it's pretty safe to surmise that doug may not be willing to cut the checks, as he was threatening legal action against the staff today for having the nerve to try and put out a paper against his will. however, the staff is going to the office tomorrow as one body to try and get our paychecks, and i will try and score the freelancers paychecks as well. wish me luck.

-c

So yeah. Suck. I just talked to Carey and she snagged the freelancers checks, so I’ll have a roll of 35 ones coming my way soon, but this is horrible horrible news for Bellingham. And more importantly, for me.

- T

New Years @ Carolyn's!

2005-12-15T16:24:00.000-08:00

Be there!

Email me for directions.

- T

This is going to be a weekly thing...

2005-12-14T13:21:00.000-08:00

'cause I don't have time to write daily.

In case you care, here's what my schedule's looking like these days:

6am - Wake up
9am-5pm - Work in Ballard
5pm-9pm - Work one of two internships
9pm-12am - Write freelance articles

Repeat.

I know. I lead a sad life.

Anyway.

Yesterday, I woke up on four hours of sleep, went to work in Ballard until five, swung by KEXP to produce audio, which was nice since I haven't been there in over a week, had ritz crackers for dinner, later augmented by half a brownie from Sally when my car ran out of gas over by her work, headed home and ended up sitting on the freeway since apparently the great state of Washington has a great sense of humor, and you thinking you can avoid the deadstop of drivetime traffic by simply waiting makes you sadly mistaken.

Whatever.

Other things that happened this last week:

I interviewed the Emergency for Disheveled. Great people, great band. They were expansive, quotable, and without a shred of humility among them, which is great, 'cause it makes writing my article that much easier. Afterwards they invited me back to their house for screwdrivers, and I, never being one to turn down a chance to snoop through people's houses, gladly accepted. Their drummer, Tom, works at Mackie, and so they have one of the best set-ups I've ever seen for basement concerts. They have their own 16-channel snake that runs into a separate control room. It's amazing. The drink was strong, and so I ended up hanging out in the living room while half the band took off on errands, which was fine, up until the point when one of their roommates put on Bumfights 2. There are many things I need to see in my life. A guy getting paid in vodka to pull out one of his teeth with pliers? Not one of them.

I left shortly after and headed over to the Chop Suey to catch MF Doom. He was damn good. His opening acts not so much. Also, I was ass tired and not in the mood to be at a hip-hop show. The Chop holds maybe 1000 people, but it felt like they had 1500 in there, not to mention it was a bunch of skinny white boys in hoodies. So essentially it was me and 1499 me-homunculi crunched into a tiny space with the crepuscular musk of marijuana filling in all the gaps. I watched Doom do a couple of numbers and then called it a night. Oh, and by the way, my Doom article is here.

Other things:

Wouldn’t Muggle Fucker be one of the worst insults a Death Eaters could use against each other?
If you say someone has an ass that doesn’t stop, would that mean that it’s infinite? Would that mean that you were that ass? Would that mean if you said you wanted to hit that, you were actually advocating self-immolation?
There’s a fortune on the fridge at work that reads: “Today you will make someone smile.” Most people would classify this as a good fortune, but I don’t. You know what I smile at? Babies getting hit with rakes. I don’t know what I’d have to do make someone else smile, but I’m betting it ain’t pretty.

The Brian Jonestown Massacre is one of my friends on Myspace. Anton, the main guy, sends oodles of bulletins about all sorts of things. Here’s a copy of a recent one:

From: Brian Jonestown Massacre
Dec 14, 2005 12:20 PM
Subject: your mom is a dog,you are dog shit.

as far as i know most fags have skin heads these days...
you suck.
i know every death in june song by heart,every screwdriver song.
you are nothing.
i'll have your name erased from the book of life little girl.
i am sexually attracted to fire.
my name is justice.
i'll be at your door.
my cat will feast on the river of blood that will fill your lungs.
the same mexican that serves you your seven layer barrito at taco bell will also slice your neck.
eat my shit bitch.
have all of your boyfriends come to me.
i will use my ss dager to stab them in the heart (what a joke) and look deep in there eyes as i fuck the gash and they pass from this world that could have been so nice without you ever being born.
i hope you like being toothless.
i eat your hate.
delete.

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: SAYRA!
Date: Dec 14, 2005 2:56 PM

like I am going to tell your stupid ass, I saw your those blogs you stupid fucker!!! Dont worry about him, I am here now, you want some shit? START it with me bitch!

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Brian Jonestown Massacre
Date: Dec 14, 2005 11:44 AM

hey what jail is your husband in? im going to do the world a favor and kill him.
and by the way your hate makes me sick. fucking die.

Everyday I get way too many of these.

In lighter news, one of my best friends from Illinois said she’s coming out for a visit in the spring. I cannot wait. That’s going to be awesome.

And finally, Carolyn is throwing a New Year’s Eve Party. Join us, won’t you? If you need directions, give me a holler.

- T

Ted Danson and Mass Murder

2005-12-07T14:43:00.000-08:00

Look, I understand. Chess isn't sexy. In the grand history of made-for-TV movies and it's bigger, better cousin Cinema, only one great chess movie has been made: Searching for Bobby Fisher. That movie is good. But it ain't sexy. Even Ben Kingsley, that paragon of savage intensity, couldn't make a movie about a cerebral seven year old tingle you in that funny, avuncular way.

So how sad that A&E's Knights of the South Bronx has picked a white-haired long-faced Ted Danson to carry a motley crew of actorly black children into our hearts, heads, and pants? It should go without saying that the "movie" is bad, chock full of treacly cliches and committee-created heart-warming moments. I don't care if is "inspired by a true story", all that means is someone somewhere better have gotten paid well for turning their life into a mawkish TV docu-drama.

But if I ever have to watch a six-year-old child enter a psuedo-fugue state to "see the whole game" and in doing so envisions ninjas doing side-kicks superimposed over the chess board, I might just have to kill a man.

Which brings me to Nip/Tuck. I love this show. It's gloriously twisted, and every time (EVERY TIME) I think it's hit its nadir-what with hermaphrodites, nazis, and whatnot (but sadly no hermaphrodite nazis)-it finds a way to top itself. For instance this week had a plane crash, so we got to see burned bodies, a woman suffocate a person she believed to be her mother, the harvesting of skin off the dead, another woman orgasm to her death, and other such things. The show is more fraught with overblown improbably tragedy than Greek drama. Absolutely excellent.

And if that wasn't enough, The Carver, Nip/Tuck's resident mass murderer, has a myspace account. That's beauty right there. You'll notice if you go check out its page that its favorite tv show is According to Jim. A touch that is sublimely hilarious.

Much like Ted Danson as a chess teacher.

- T

Again with the shortness...

2005-12-06T23:24:00.000-08:00

I made 92 calls today. Asking people to send things they already should have sent. My job is awesome, if for no other reason than this guy is my boss.

Here's something I found while on hold.

This is from Paul Theroux's Blinding Light, describing an orgasm:

"...not juice at all but a demon eel thrashing in his loins and
swimming swiftly up his cock, one whole creature of live slime
fighting the stiffness as it rose and bulged at the tip and darted
into her mouth."

Isn't that pleasant? I read that. Then I read it again. Then I had to ask someone to send me medical records.

I came home, made dinner, and watched a little TV. I don't really care for Morgan Fairchild on a normal day, but care for her even less when she's singing. Thanks VH1!

Here's a couple of other things. Please note all pictures taken with a cell phone. Don't hate me. Please.

This is Morcheeba onstage at the Triple Door. I'll rate them a "Meh" on the Crap-to-Crazy Good scale.

This is an excellent busking band playing down at Pike Place. I would have bought one of their CDs, but sadly, I'm still way too broke.

This is the last busker I saw at Pike Place, playing O Tennebaum on the saw.

I do so love Seattle.

- T

You know that feeling

2005-12-05T21:43:00.000-08:00

when your eyes close for just the briefest of seconds and when they open again you're swerving into the concrete median? Over and over again? That's how I drove home today.

I am very tired, and need to sleep, but I must first write an ad for Craigslist because I am apparently incapable of saying no to anyone about anything.

Random bits of info:

My job is nice. Yay for nice jobs. You make phone calls all day and get paid for it.

My handsome mug is up over here.

Now to reel away in a stuporific non sequitor, some of you might know that my brother moved out, leaving me even more alone in this grand miasma of shame I call my parents' house, but I'm fairly sure most of you don't know what I did with my brother's room. What follows is a brief pictorial of Slumber Room Studios.

Isn't that awesome? Now I can actually turn my demos into something that sounds reasonably good. I'm sure you're all atwitter.

Off to write an ad, then to bed.

- T

And this leaves me feeling...

2005-12-05T01:45:00.000-08:00

a little undecided.

Please don't fuck this up, Brett Ratner.

Sincerely,

Tyson

Hoo boy.

2005-12-05T00:50:00.000-08:00

Well, this would probably be longer, but I have to go to sleep now. Actually, I should have gone to sleep a couple of hours ago, but whatever. That time is gone, and here I am.

Here's the news:

I officially have a job. And I officially start in, let's see, oh, about seven hours. Good times.

Now I just have to figure out how to balance two internships, four/five writing jobs, a girlfriend, free time (that's probably out, actually), with a full-time job.

I'm thinking of taking up speed.

I transcribed my interviews with Mick Harvey and Sharon Jones. Here's a couple of choice quotes:

M+F (Me): In addition to that, you do have two of your own original compositions on the album (One Man's Treasure). How was that process for you, since you don't classify yourself as a songwriter?

Mick Harvey: The distinction I make there is that a lot of people who are songwriters hold that very dear, and it's very important to them, it's their primary mode of expression, if you like. For me, it's not something I worry about. Every so often a song will pop out, and I'll work on it for a bit, but that's not my driving force. So, the process is...I don't know. The process is pretty simple really. I don't know how they come about, some of these songs, really. Sometimes you'll just have some music or a chorus idea, and eventually you realize that you might have a song there. I don't work on them particularly. They just come together over time. About one every two years. That's not being a songwriter, is it? [Laughs] One song every two years does not a songwriter make.

and from Sharon Jones:

I'm still driving an '88 Honda, I'm nowhere near saying I'm ready to give up yet, because I haven't seen anything yet. I haven't even begun to live my life. I'm just looking forward to going higher. Right now there's no retirement. This gift God's given me, it's just lifting me up right now. I'm not talking about my light getting dull yet. I've got a few more years, another 10-15 years to go.

Went and saw Morcheeba today on KEXP's dime. Good show, great food (from Wild Ginger), and then afterwards Sally and I hung around Pike Place, browsing through stores and watching some amazing buskers.

More on Buskers, Music, and other such things tomorrow. Now I really must be off to bed.

- T

One other thing...

2005-12-01T23:22:00.000-08:00

Most of you know I post over at Myspace that which I write here, but I've also added a wordpress account. (see here)

Wordpress is pretty. I like it. I want to pet it and love it and spank it when it is bad and call it "George".

Then again, I want to do that with lots of things.

- T

What an odd week

2005-12-01T22:47:00.000-08:00

Things I did today:

Woke up.
Got Dressed.
Worked at Resonance.
Fell on my ass in the snow.
Interviewed Mick Harvey.
Interviewed Sharon Jones.
Went to sleep early for my job interview tomorrow.

Well, obviously I haven't actually done that last thing yet, but I will, soon, and rightly so.

The job's down in Ballard. From the job description:

We are a service out sourcing company hired by
attorneys to assist them in the discovery process for litigation. The
majority of our clients are attorneys who work for insurance
companies. Our clients include both plaintiff and defense counsel in
the area of personal injury and medical malpractice.

Job Summary: Due to the volume of accounts, the Account Specialists
needs an assistant to provide necessary support and expedite the
procurement of medical and billing records for our clients.

Sounds fun. Of course this mean I'll have to reschedule my life, but then I also do enjoy money, so there's that.

The interviews went really well today. Mick Harvey is one of the oldest members of Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, and a really nice guy on the phone. Had some great things to say, which I will post here when I get around to transcribing them.

Speaking of which, the new issue of Disheveled is out, featuring my story about Everstone. It's not up on the web yet, but you can check out last month's feature on Ozomatli here.

If you don't know Sharon Jones, what the hell is wrong with you? The woman is supremely talented and an unmatched ball of energy. She sings funk/soul music like she was born to do it, which, depending on what side of the nature/nurture debate you fall, she might well have been.

I contacted her manager and he gave me her cell phone number. I don't think he actually told her I was going to call, which is a little off-putting, but she was incredibly gracious, sounding as she was somewhat surprised and congested, something which I'm only partly responsible for since I'm fairly sure that, despite what others might say, surprise does not snot up your nose.

She, too, had some marvelous opinions, which I will gladly relate to you in the unexpurgated transcript that I will post here sometime this weekend.

I've got to go. I need a job.

Oh, and for lack of a better place for this right now: moving flugelhorn of light.

That is all.

- T

And so another Thanksgiving comes to a close...

2005-11-27T21:08:00.000-08:00

And I awaken from my cyberspace slumber. Although I've been right busy off-line, online I've been a non-entity, as evidenced by the fact I haven't posted anything here in over a week.

Lame.

Anyway, here's the lowdown on my life as of late:

Last Saturday, Sally, Carolyn, Alison, and I went to see my friend play her first show at Mr. Spot's Chai House. As an interesting aside, I had just interviewed Everstone earlier that week, and the lead singer, Victor Funklove, is the talent booker at that very same venue. Interesting, isn't it? In any case, saw the show, had a spectacular time (or at least some of us did. I don't know that Alison was that enthused), and pictures are up over here.

Sunday I finally succumbed to the saddest temptation: I ended up getting drunk with my parents, my aunt, my grandmother, and my cousin. Not only that, but Sally did too. There's not much further I can fall, what with living at my parent's house unemployed and all, especially since Sally was drinking on an empty stomach and was promising my grandmother beautiful great grandchildren.

Tuesday I went to see Castanets and Phosphorescent. I loves me some Phosphorescent. The first CD review I ever wrote was about their One Hundred Times or More album. Frontman Matthew Houck sings like Jeff Magnum would if he sang sad dirges and dusty spirituals, so obviously I want to spoon him from behind. It was a great show. Houck played by himself, with just the slightest help from a trumpet player and a creepy doll he called Amanda.

Wednesday I did my show at KSER. My family came and hung out, and good times were had by all. The best part was that the station manager had asked me to slow down while talking, as I have a tendency to talk quickly when not face to face with someone. So I did, and after my show, he graced me with the single nicest thing anyone ever has said about my speaking voice:

You almost sounded human.

Please note: he said this earnestly. I don't know if he realizes what it means, or if he's just a coy bastard, but jesus dude, learn to give a compliment.

Anyway, that evening, Sally cooked me a great dinner in celebration of our one year anniversary. She made Gnocchi in a gorgonzola cream sauce, bread, and asparagus with a red pepper sauce. It was fantastic. Some people might caution you against starting LTR with people you meet in bars, but if Sal's any indication, go for it.

After a glass of champagne, we headed down to Seattle to see Fiona Apple.

Now I don't go apeshit over the Apple, I just think she writes good songs and sings the fuck out of them. But after this show, I may have to upgrade. Fiona was in good spirits, her voice was amazing, and her band was tighter than a poodle's cooch. I don't know what else to say but: if you have a chance to see her play, do it. You will not be disappointed.

If you have a chance to see David Garza play, however, don't. He was the opening act, and if he wasn't high out of his gourd, then he must be socially retarded. As it was, he couldn't play his own songs, but he could oversing them as he made jerky gestures with his hands and did the hippie dance. It was awkward, irritating, and towards the end of his set, I started to hate Fiona for having him there. Thankfully she played a stellar set. Garza did not. He sucked harder than a five dollar whore with a broken straw.

Thursday was Thanksgiving. We had food, we played cards, and I cleaned up, both literally and figuratively.

Friday, we went and played Trivia down at Diamond Know in Mukilteo. I kicked ass 50% percent of the time, winning two games out of four, and generally declaring my dominance in mental matters.

Saturday, I went down to Ballard to interview and watch Ruby Dee and the Snakehandlers. They were quite good, incredibly gracious, and after seeing them, I really want to learn how to two-step, 'cause it looks rather fun.

Today I wrote some articles (speaking of which, did you know MF Doom is coming? Get your tickets, people, and while you're at it, get a couple for Sharon Jones. That's a great show), and set up Slumber Room Studios. More about that later.

Now I'm off to see Sally.

- T

My useless skills and TV

2005-11-16T22:03:00.000-08:00

Something I found out today: my useless skill is French.

You are 'French'. In the nineteenth century, it
was the international language of diplomacy.
It is a 'beautiful' language, meaning that it
is really just a low-fidelity copy of Latin.

You know the importance of communicating
'diplomatically', which for you means both
being polite and friendly when necessary and
using sophisticated, vicious sarcasm when
appropriate. Your life is guided by either
existentialism or nihilism, depending on the
weather. You have a certain appreciation for
the finer things in life, which is a diplomatic
way of saying that you are a disgusting
hedonist. Your problem is that French has been
obsolete for a long time.

Or so says Quizilla

Also: about a month ago, Extreme Makeover: Home Edition (yes, I watch it, and sometimes I cry. You got something to say about that?) ran an episode about a camp for special needs children. One of the creative team was talking to a girl who had no arms, and then they cut to the same guy back in the little confessional, or whatever they call it, and he says, and I quote:

You know, you talk to these kids and you forget all about the reason they're here. They're completely disarming.

You see that? He said "disarming" right after talking to a girl with no arms. How awesome is that? Maybe I just need to get out more.

God, I need a life. And Aeon Flux needs to have never been made.

On the docket for review: Chuckanut Drive, Clambake, and Giant Panda.

Word.

- T

The skinny

2005-11-16T19:57:00.000-08:00

So, thankfully, none of you showed on Monday night. What a relief, not having to entertain all of you at a concert. It was a complete load off. Thanks.

The concert itself was half-good. Kevin Blechdom was fucking awesome; if, and when, they return, go. You will not be disappointed. Chicks On Speed, however, is an entirely different can of ham. It's bad (horribly bad) dance music performed by three chicks glammed up in 80's retro kitsch. If Cyndi Lauper had dated Boy George (you know, had he been straight or feeling experimental or high on coke or whatever he did back then), and their subsequent love child had decided to do nothing with its life except ape its parent's schtick for whatever cash it could wrest out of a nostalgic audience, that child would be Chicks on Speed, and that child should be aborted, 33rd term.

Tuesday, I did my thing down at KEXP. It's their pledge drive (and why don't you support? I don't 'cause I work for free, and I think that's payment enough.) Hung around, ate the free food and produced some IDs. I may post some up here, just so you know what the hell I'm talking about. But not tonight.

No, not tonight.

Today, I drove up to Bellingham to check in with my Weekly editors. They handed me some stories, I stole a bumper sticker. Life is good. Well, except for the fact that Western has already deleted my computer account, which I wouldn't really care about, except that I hadn't yet moved my unpublished/unfinished papers/poems to my laptop. Although this is mostly my fault, I still can't help but blame Western since they're supposed to maintain that account for six months after graduation.

Check the calendar, bitches. It's only been five. FIVE. The number of fingers on your fat little hands.

Damn it.

Whatever.

Here's the rundown for the rest of the week: write my novel (amazingly, having done nothing with it at all, I'm still on track. I love procrastination), go see Harry Potter on Friday (and geek out like nobody's business), attend Becky's first concert (awww) at Mr. Spot's Chai House in Ballard, welcome my aunt here from Minnesota on Sunday, and then it's the week of Thanksgiving, which means Fiona Apple and Sally-cat's and I will celebrate one-year anniversary. Speaking of which, if you didn't know, the one year anniversary is the Hard A anniversary, so feel free to buy us fifths of vodka and rum.

I think tonight I'll write some, and maybe record a song. Check over here tomorrow to see what I actually ended up doing.

- T

I wanna six-pack and gats for arms.

2005-11-14T14:56:00.000-08:00

But first, I want to know if that's even possible.

Has it really been three days since I've written? I'm such a lazy git.

Here's the gist of the weekend, parceled out in soft, chewy fun-bites.

Friday: At the behest of my hospital boss, I went and put a bubble of TB beneath my skin. The word was that if I didn't get all my necessities taken care of (i.e. TB test, review signed-off, in-services), I was to be fired, which, since I haven't actually worked a shift there for the past six months, wouldn't be too much of an immediate loss, but taking a long-term view, I do enjoy the people and love the money.

After getting stuck, I did my weekly stint at KEXP. I mention this, not because I did anything particularly worth noting, but because Patti Smith and Lenny Kaye were live in-studio. Watching them perform, having Patti wander around and talk to people, that's just damn cool.

Then, in a grand karmic shift, I headed to a Mormon wedding with Sally, her sister, and her brother-in-law. Nothing quite says Mormon home wedding like sneaking into a 16-year-old's room to pass around a bottle of three dollar wine. Good times.

Saturday: not much happened.

Sunday: not much happened, although I did hear some salacious info about Carolyn, watched I heart Huckabees, and made plans for HP-Friday. Right now, the plan is to catch the 11:30 am showing in M-town and then collapse afterwards in a spent huddle of jouissance. If you want in, and I can't imagine why you wouldn't, give me a ring.

Today: I got my wee bubble of TB checked, only to find that my body had swallowed it whole. There was nothing left, which kinda freaked the nurse out. My body's so badass, it eats TB. Since then, I've been at Resonance, and soon I shall head off to Capital Hill for a fine, fine show at the Chop Suey. If you're in the area and got nothing better to do, come hang out.

- T

Screw this.

2005-11-10T18:20:00.000-08:00

Blogger lost my post. Here I had a nice diatribe all written out and Blogger went and lost the whole damn thing. I'm just kidding. It wasn't nice at all -- it was poorly written and uninteresting. There's a chance we might all be better off with its destruction.

In any case, it's been a downtempo week. I'll try to keep it short on the unhappy.

Here's a musical short-list: my interview with the Posies went live over at Nadamucho; I still need to transcribe my interview with the Pale Pacific; Splendid announced, as was expected, that it will be closing shop at the end of the year (apparently I got out just in time); and I'll have four or five pieces in the next issue of Resonance.

Speaking of Resonance, I'll be tabling for the mag at the Chicks on Speed show Monday at Chop Suey. I know only OF the band, so I can't uncategorially recommend the concert, but come out and say "Hi," or give me a hug. Something. I'm so lonely.

I interviewed the men of Everstone on Tuesday. Everstone, as you may be aware, are a fine funk band based in Seattle, and, coincidentally, Victor Funklove, the band's frontman, books music at Mr. Spot's Chai House in Ballard, which is where my friend Becky and her band, The Cherry Blossoms at Night, will be playing their first show. Come out and support.

In a fit of madness, I've decided to unplug my cable for the remainder of the month. Reason being I've got shit to get done, and what am I doing? Watching fucking Lara Croft: Tomb Raider on TBS. That's so sad. I've got a novel to write, an album to produce, and various articles to finish for a several magazines. What am I doing? Watching The Daily Show. Well, that's not so sad, but you get my drift. I need to get a job reviewing TV and then I'd be set.

As you might have surmised from the nearly empty page, I haven't done much in the way of NaNoWriMo yet, but then again I wrote a twenty page academic paper in an evening at Western, so I think I'll be fine. That's true, too. Twenty pages on the views of time present in Einstein's Dreams, some old greek guy, and 12 Monkeys. If I can pull that from out my ass, I can manage a novel. I'll probably start this weekend, 'cause that's how I do.

Allright, I've completely rambled on now about nothing. Nothing! Time to go do something worthwhile, like muck about on the Playstation.

- T

I'm a little behind, but I'll catch up.

2005-11-08T01:42:00.000-08:00

I've got a cubic crapload of things to do, and yet they ain't getting done. Time for that to stop. Starting tomorrow. Tonight I sleep.

In other news, the new Neil Diamond is pretty damn good. So is the new Cat Power, a judgement I make hypothetically, since there is absolutely no way I could know what an album that comes out in January sounds like. Absolutely no way.

Saw David Lynch tonight. Interesting guy, he spent the night talking about transcendental meditation (TM) and its effects on his life. I don't have a problem with anything he said; in fact, I believe whole-heartedly that focused attention, rather it be in the forms of meditation, artistic creation, or what have you, can make your life better. Hell, I write down goals and post them above my desk. I'm quite new-agey in some ways, which always gets my cynical soul bristling uncomfortably. What can you do? In any case, Lynch talked about TM, which essentially boils down to a cultish set of beliefs that are provable by science. A selection of quotes from the evening:

"Higher education is you learning more and more about less and less" (this quote not actually from Lynch, but from some super-smart neural programming wonk. I'd remember his name, but he never directed a movie with an uber obscure plot.)

"TM is a mental technique to dive within subtler moments of mind, subtler moments of intellect, into an ocean of pure consciousness."

"Suffering should be in these stories, but not in the person who writes them."

"I call it 'the suffocating rubber clown suit of negativity'."

"Action and reaction, action and reaction."

"The universe is superficially complex, fundamentally simple; superficially diverse, fundamentally unified." (That brain guy again)

Before the lecture I was interviewed by some Australian guy who is following Lynch around, making a documentary. So there's a chance I might end up in a made-for-Australian-TV someday talking out my ass about Lynch's place in the pantheon of cinema.

That's it for tonight. Check y'all tomorrow.

- T

This Weekend, and Other Such Days

2005-11-06T23:53:00.000-08:00

So I saw Lynard Skynard on Friday. Not the excoriated corpse of a memory that they're flogging around second rate arenas Lynard Skynard, but an incarnation that gets everything, from the hairy men to the dueling guitars, exactly right. That group's name is My Morning Jacket.

I was tabling for KEXP, so I got to listen to people complain to me about the station dropping the Tacoma repeater. For everybody's benefit, allow me to repeat what I said that evening:

I'm sorry. The station is sorry. And, no, I have absolutely no idea why they're doing it, but I believe it has something to do with money and programming overhead. I'd like to give you a better answer, but I'm an intern in the production department, and my need-to-know level is somewhat low.

Anyway, it was an excellent show all-around, which is why I must now take another second to apologize to Nick, who showed up at some point, and called and texted me to get in, but my phone, being the recalcitrant and lazy amalgamation of metal and plastic that it is, didn't put anything through until the next morning. So, yeah, sorry 'bout that.

Saul Williams opened the show, and when he was done, the African-American audience members left with him. The result was one of the whitest shows I have ever been to, which really shouldn't have been such a surprise given that I've already compared the headliners to the standard bearers of southern rock.

I'll spare you the details of the show, since I doubt you really want to read it and I don't really want to write it. I do one want to mention, however, one moment during the show. I was standing in the upper right bar area, right next to the stairs, and there was a dude standing in front of me. Ordinarily I don't pay dudes in front of me that much attention unless they're:

A) tall
B) the Dancing Guy
C) Overtly Drunk
D) Cute. (Memo to tight pants hottie #4: call me!)

This guy didn't fit any of those categories, so I focused on the show. At some point I realize that he's unrolling his hat down over his face; turns out he's wearing a ski mask knitted to look like a Mexican Wrestling costume. I start to think about exit strategies, since usually some dude pulling on a face mask is the last thing to happen before shit gets crazy. Instead, he just caught my eye and asked for a cigarette.

Saturday I had no time to sleep in because Sally and I had tickets to Sweeney Todd. I don't know this musical, and after seeing it, I have no desire to further my education. It comes off like a half-assed mixture of Jeckyl Hyde and Les Mis, but without the catchy songs.

Afterwards, Sally-cat and I went shopping, had dinner, and then drove out to Ballard. We caught up with some of her friends, drank a little at Hattie's hat, and then headed into the sold-out Red Elvises show.

Now, granted, I was a little in my cups, but this was one of the best shows I've seen this year. The crowd was into it, the band was into it, and everyone had a great time. I should have pictures up at the usual place sometime soon so you can see the excitement first hand.

Yesterday, I drove up to Bellingham and back to distribute Disheveled copies. Good times were had by both me and my truck.

I think that's it, and even if it's not, I've got other things to attend to. Until later, my dears.

- T

This is all I'm going to do today

2005-11-04T14:49:00.000-08:00

So last night? Kind of a wash. Spent it writing lyrics instead of long, meditative lines on the human condition. Songs vs. novel. The eternal battle continues. Just so you know, though, when I do finish a song, I'm going to post it over here so that the whole world can enjoy it.

Tonight I'm tabling for KEXP at the My Morning Jacket concert, and Nick will be tagging along. Apparently the show is completely sold out, so that'll be nice. A bunch of people to talk to, get to know better, and things of that nature.

Tomorrow, Sally and I are going to Sweeney Todd in the afternoon and The Red Elvises in the evening. And speaking of the red elvises: try this out. I don't have a job, but I do make a living. Sunday I'm making a Disheveled distribution run to Bellingham, 'cause I love to drive. In between I need to write some book reviews and a discography of Deerhoof.

Off to write fake letters to the editor for Resonance. (We're like the Hustler of the hi-brow music scene.)

- T

I'm usually above such things

2005-11-04T00:01:00.000-08:00

and moreover there are very few people who will ever care about this, but the picture to the left made me so indescribably happy, I had to share. Here's hoping you like it as much as I do.

(oh, and for explanation, this is a picture of some guy dressed up as Rory Gilmore. RORY GILMORE. Joy!)

What d'ya mean where have I been?

2005-11-03T16:57:00.000-08:00

"Do you ever black out when you drink, or as I call it, 'time travel'? You're in a bar, you're drinking, you black out, you wake up, you're in another bar, you're drinking, you black out, you're in a McDonalds, been working there two years, still haven't made assistant manager. You'd quit, but you're banging the fry girl later. They say she's retarded, but those titties ain't retarded."

- Dave Attell

Sorry for the long quote. I was just going to use the first line, but then I remembered how funny the thing was, and it seemed a shame to snip it short. You see that there? We here in the business call it susserance. Pedantism ahoy!

Anyway, I've been busy, but not in that way that sounds important when you tell people, so let's just stick to the highlights and you can assume that all gaps were filled with super-secret government work. Which they WERE.

Did my KEXP stint on Tuesday, making IDs, and getting the honeys. True 'dat, except for the last part. That's just an outright fabrication. Sorry. Anyway, ended up heading to bed after Nip/Tuck and the Daily Show. The latter because I need at least a semblance of the news, the former because, well, I like fucked-up things.

Wednesday, I set fire to KSER with my show. Good music, good times, good host, how can you go wrong? Simple answer: you can't. So tune in, crock-potters.

That evening, I attended an editorial meeting for Resonance, which is where all the editors get together to decide what's cool and what isn't. Since I was there, I'm automatically cool. That's cold, irrefutable fact.

But here's the thing. The music editor looks exactly like Harry Potter from the movies. I know I catch shit now and again for sharing a familiar angle with ol' HP, but this dude had it down. I was going to take a picture for proof, but I didn't know how to justify it. "Hi, hope you don't mind. I just wanted to show my friends how much you resemble a wizard. Would you mind holding this pencil like a wand?"

Speaking of which (Harry Potter, not the music editor), the movie is almost here. I know you've got to be excited. I sure am. I've been popping pant legs for the past week in anticipation. Neither you nor I want to know what's going to happen when we actually get within a day or two of release.

Back to the meeting: the aftermath has me reviewing The Riddle of the Traveling Skull, which looked interesting, but turns out to be a car wreck of the worst sort (a bus of retarded children hitting a van full of nuns). It was first published in the '30s, and McSweeney's is republishing it for reasons I don't fully understand. Is it to laugh at the horrible writing? The non-existent plot? The badly conceived accents? I don't know. I just don't know.

Also on the docket: Oedipus Wrecked. The writer is funny. The subject matter is not. For instance: your grandfather mistakenly playing a video of you whacking off into the camera? Funny. Not ha-ha funny here, but in the book, yes, funny. But you sneaking into your friend's sister's room to masturbate into her underwear drawer? Not funny. It's only 120 pages, but by the end, you feel somewhat disturbed for having read it all and afraid to touch your genitals. And believe you me, I am rarely afraid to touch my genitals.

At some point, I'll review the new Giant Panda release. But until I actually hear the record, all I got to say is: big up to Seattle! Word. Big Poppa T in the house.

After the meeting, I hung out with Sally-gal and her co-worker Becky, who is awesome. Got some food at Minnie's, and then headed home.

Which finally, inexorably, brings us to today. All I've done is Resonance, but the night is young. You may have noticed that I haven't posted anything over here in a while. Mostly that's out of laziness, but I feel good about tonight. I've also signed up for the NaSoAlMo (or National Solo Album Month), which means by the end of November, if all goes to plan, I'll have 50,000+ words written and a half hour of finished songs. Or I'll be a failure. One or the other.

- T

Free pass to My Morning Jacket!

2005-11-02T16:00:00.000-08:00

I've got a lot to write about, but more to do, so guess which wins?

Anyway, I'll have a longer post later, but for now:

I have a plus one for the My Morning Jacket show on Friday. Sally can't go. Can you?

Send me an email, or reply in the comments.

- T

It's now November

2005-11-01T02:44:00.000-08:00

Here is a list of things I hate to see on television, in no particular order:

Hootie and the Blowfish on CMT. What the fuck is this about? I expect certain things with country music television, namely that I'll click past, and minorities don't stand a chance (sorry Los Lonely Boys). But there Hootie was, singing about something something, and I couldn't care less, but thankfully, I also truly don't know because my television was muted. All I'm saying is if BET despises you and VH1 rejects you, CMT should not be a fallback option.

Friends reruns. This is self explanatory. If you're going to play reruns of a show that went off the air, bring back Night Court. Courtney Cox Arquette is not my friend, and even if we were, if I ran into her as much in real life as I do on television, one of us would be stalking the other. (Psst. That would be me.)

My Fair Brady. Jesus Christ. You two are a walking time bomb. Stab each other and get it over with.

The Adam Corrolla show. Wildly unfunny. Horribly unfunny. I can't even think of something funny to kvetch about here. It's just bad. a-DAM. You're O-ver.

There's more. I'm just tired and have other things to talk about.

Worked at Resonance today, stuffing envelopes and fact-checking articles. You would not believe how much I know about Art of Noise after this afternoon's stint, and how much of that I simply do not care about. (Here's a hint: the ratio is 1/1)

Afterwards, I schlepped books and assorted whatnots about the city before I headed back home. Ate food, didn't answer the door for trick-or-treaters, the usual.

Almost forgot -- received a call from Jason Rothman, the editor and publisher of Disheveled. Set me up with my next article, and told me to pick out a couple of concerts to go see and review. Boo-yah. And speaking of Disheveled, the new issue is out, and my concert review of the Frames and interview with Ozomatli both feature...well, prominently isn't quite the word, so let's just say adequately. Go pick up a copy.

First day of Nanowrimo. I just put the first little passage up. It explains nothing, which is why I'll add to it later today. Check it out here and watch me write 50,000 words in a month. I'm so stupid.

Also: tired.

Time to sleep.

- T

I'm still in love with you on this Harvest Moon

2005-10-30T21:28:00.000-08:00

What a pretty song that is. Neil Young is the motherfucking shit. I'm sorry. I have tourettes.

Cocksucker.

Over the weekend I turned 23. I don't feel older, but at the same time, I ordered a beer down in Seattle on Saturday and wasn't carded. It's the beginning of the end. Anyway, many thanks to the people who came out to the party, especially those who came after I passed out. ESPECIALLY those who decided to poke at me instead of just letting me sleep. Thank you. The party was still damn awesome. Pictures, of course, can be found here.

Saturday I went and saw The Tiger Lillies down in Seattle. The show sent me into a state of bliss, as any show with lyrics about whores and blasphemy will, but it was still far more low-key than last year's turn. I snuck a picture, but unfortunately my camera's shutter speed is such that the whole damn thing wobbled, and it isn't worth your time or mine to worry further about it.

Afterwards, Sally and I had dinner at Mama's Mexican kitchen on 2nd ave. I've eaten many a Mexican meal in my time, and this was one of the best. Oh, how my taste buds swooned. Then, our stomachs satisfied, we hit up a costume party with my new co-workers at Resonance. It was a small affair, and probably of not much interest to others, but I bring it up because: 1) I like to prove that I have an active social life to compensate for the fact that I live with my parents and don't really work, and 2) because there was a dog there that could eat babies. Swear to God, this dog had a human skull and opposable thumbs. Of course, it was also drooling and wearing a cape, so the Cujo-factor was a little low, but you get my drift.

Today, I woke up in loving arms, which meant I had to explain to my mother that it isn't kosher for her to sneak into my room in the middle of the night.

I'm joking.

No, really, I am. I actually woke up with Sally, which is a wonderful way to go. I highly recommend it. But you'll have to get your own, as mine is taken. Maybe you can get your signifigant other to change their name or something.

I got to hang out with Korby Lenker this afternoon, interviewing him for a Bellingham Weekly article. He's a cool guy, very down to earth and full of great conversation. Plus, he's got the cutest curls. I just want to rub them real fast until his head sticks to a wall.

Afterwards, I met up with Sally, her sister, and her brother-in-law at the Biringer farms. They picked pumpkins, and I stood, miserable, on the side of the field. I hadn't planned ahead dress-wise, and so was rather cold, wet, and a tad bit pissy. Just like my grandfather, grandmother, and incontinent aunt Trish. What good times, those family reunions.

To cap our trip, they decided to do the corn maze, which is not something I really understand. If there was a game of some sort involved, say pencil-legged hipsters (or scenesters or whatever) stalking you with disdain and indifference, then I'd care about running around a corn field. But there isn't, and I don't, and all you do is make right hand turns to get back where you started. It's like a giant metaphor for life writ five acres large and filled with noisy, yapping children.

I have writing to do, writing that isn't autobiographical in nature, so I'm off. But before I go, I want to point out that Nanowrimo starts soon, and I urge everyone to join me. It's more fun than you think it'll be, and when all's said and done, you feel like you've done something huge. And I'll leave you to make your own jokes here. Here's the website again: clicky-click.

- T

On a very special episode

2005-10-27T21:00:00.000-07:00

We're down to the final stretch. Outside, the world waits with baited breath. This is an event of such vast porportions that mere mortals have fainted at the thought of it. It is my 23rd Birthday, and it is good.

I've got various things to finish before midnight hits, so I'll keep this brief as possible.

First off: what a great day today was. Got myself some subway for lunch, and headed down to Resonance. I've worked a total of three days there, which is why I believed that the reason I didn't know what was going on was because I was new. Turns out, it's just confusing. No one understands it. So I had a great conversation with Kate, the books editor, a charming lass who knows what's what and, thankfully, willing to explain it to me.

As a result, I: A) have a better understanding of what the hell is going on. Yay me! B) took 15 CDs because I found out I could. C) grabbed a DVD as well. D) will write two book reviews for the next issue. Or E) All of the above.

For those that guessed E, you've won nothing but my respect, and, as some Icelandic men will attest, that's better than gold and warmer than walrus fat.

So yeah, I'm writing book reviews on these two books: Dear New Girl and Surfing Armageddon. The downside? Only 125 words per review. That's barely enough to time to squeeze in a thesis, a conclusion, and a charming bon mot that screams "Remember me! I'm the smart one!"

I also picked up this wicked sweet promotional poster for He-Man: Masters of The Universe with Skeletor in full bad-assery on the front. I have no use for it, but believe you me, it gives hope in troubled times. If a blue, muscled-bound man in a loin-cloth and a skull for a face can make it in this crazy world, well, then maybe there's a chance for us all.

I drove home in the middle of traffic, where I bore witness to something I hate more than anything else: people who drive in the exit only lanes with no intention of exiting only. They play a subtle game, acting like commuters who are MOST DEFINITELY going to get off at this exit. You see them coming up and you say to yourself: "I bet these assholes are going to try to get into my lane." And they say: "NO. We would NEVER do that. That would be HORRIBLE, and how DARE you think that. You don't even know us." And you sigh because you realize they're right and then you turn your head to check your mirrors and they swoop into that three-second cushion between you and the car ahead of you. And then you swear to yourself and they laugh at you and you finally can't take one more minute of someone else pushing you around and follow them home and cudgel them with a rusty wrench you've been meaning to take out of your car for the longest time but for some reason never do. Now the blood looks like the rust and you'll still probably forget to take it inside when you get home. That's just how you are sometimes.

Anyway, I get home and have dinner. My brother shows up to check for mail and drop off my birthday card. (By the way, did I mention? It's my birthday tomorrow. There's a party. You should be there.) The card is fantastic. It's got little his and hers towels on the front and inside it reads: "You Wash. I'll Dry." Beneath these words, my brother wrote his own:

"I wasn't sure what to get you, so I asked myself 'what would Jesus do?' He said to shower you with love, happiness, and affection. Then I was telling him how you were gay, and he started telling me about how his dad hates fags. Well ... long story short, I settled on this. Love, Nathan."

That by itself would have been enough. My brother, however, wasn't content to stop there. Inside the envelope is a C-note. A FREAKING C-NOTE. Which leads me to believe that at some point I will be asked to hold someone down during a blanket party and/or provide an alibi. But until such time, this is amazing.

And on that note of loving fraternity, I bid you adieu until sometime this weekend. Don't hold your breath, hold mine.

- T

You know, I try.

2005-10-27T03:37:00.000-07:00

So this is new. Sorta. I've been mucking about with it, but I figure I might as well go full on.

My birthday is tomorrow. I'm very pleased with myself for having made it this far, without, you know, there being a mishap of some sort. Of course, 23 isn't exactly a year made for excitement. All it amounts to is a step towards 25. And that, my friends, is a sad thought.

It's very early right now. My clock says 3:41. Unfortunately I'm quite wired. This is exactly why I shouldn't drink caffeine. But when you want to stay up, it does the trick. Oh boy, does it do the trick. I feel like a North Dakotan trucker.

I'm going to try to sleep soon, so I'll keep this brief as possible.

First off, come to my damn party on Friday. It'll be fun, and I was kidding about buying me a present (Sorta. I do like presents. Especially if they're shiny.) It'll be good times.

I hung out with Lui and Adam today and bought my costume. I will be a monk. I will not have a tonsure. And if I pass out, I better not wake up to one either.

As for Lui and Adam's costumes. Not a lot can be said. Actually, more to the point, not a lot SHOULD be said. Suffice it to say: all that we hold dear in the world will be questioned.

Tiger Lillies on Saturday, and I am stoked about that. The Tiger Lillies are the best band ever to write about the crucifiction of Christ, beastiality, cross-dressing, and suicide. Not necessarily in that order, and not necessarily all in the same song, but sometimes, yes, they manage both.

Now to end this post on a high note, here are some things to which you should pay attention: This group writes fantastic historical absurdities (and occasional other things); this group is famous, if only to themselves; and finally, Nanowrimo is fast approaching. I'm signed up, and I'll be posting my daily work here, updated daily. As I've said before, I know you all care deeply.

Time for beddy-bye.

I am sick, but not in that death metal way.

2005-10-24T23:34:00.000-07:00

I feel like I have a sack o' snakes in my stomach.

It's unpleasant.

You're going to love this.

2005-10-24T18:57:00.000-07:00

Or not.

I will this to work

2005-10-24T18:52:00.000-07:00

I will it done.

2005-10-23T22:20:00.000-07:00

We love to test this out. Love love love it.

Click here instead.

This is an interesting test

2005-10-23T21:23:00.000-07:00

Testy test test

2005-10-23T17:36:00.000-07:00

Test post.