I was gonna be

I was gonna be a dog
I was gonna be a tree
I was gonna be a cowboy
I was gonna be an actor
I was gonna be a writer
I was gonna be a cook
I was gonna be a bartender
I was gonna be a businessman
I was gonna be a husband
I was gonna be a daddy
I was gonna be successful!

I am a sober.
I am a businessman.
I fucked up!

What to do in the public loo?

As children my brother and I asked my mother a question about the proper way to address the not-so-thrilling task of utilizing public facilities. Try as she did to answer, we were still baffled. To this day I still have a few questions regarding etiquette.

We all know how to act in public but to perform this act in a public environment leaves a lot to be desired. Common sense points us in the direction of sanitation, eye contact between strangers is rarely encouraged, and personal space is generally respected - although the trough seems to be some kind of playground at times. The specific query was about sounds. I don't think I need to go into any great detail, I'll let your imagination play it's own game. Keep in mind that the acoustics in these semi-private walled depositories are much different than those we are used to in the comfort of our own homes. Is it proper to vocally excuse oneself for audible pollution (my brother considered it bragging) or is oral communication considered taboo in this task driven environment? Recently while sitting in a rather large sanitation station, I'd say an 8-10 seater, I was flanked by a couple of guys that had let their conversation follow them into my arena. Their chat was private in nature yet there I was stuck in the middle. Had I had an opinion on the subject at hand would it had been rude for me to make a comment, or should I have considered myself included in the conversation? Association by proximity? If I spot a nice pair of Doc Martin's is it rude to throw out a compliment? These are just a few of the things that pass through my mind as I fumble with the complementary ass gaskets, balance my blackberry on the toilet paper dispenser and hunker down to shoe shop.

Strong Armed By Bank of America

I bank with Bank of America. I was in the bank the other day and overheard a teller charging a customer $16.00 for a transaction that I get for free. This customer was charged because they did not have an account at Bank of America. This is the same transaction that I do at other banks, where I do not have an account and they charge me anywhere from $0.00 to $11.00, depending on which institution I am visiting. Didn't it used to be that banking institutions would offer toasters and desk sets as an incentive to open an account? I briefly spoke with the young manager questioning the thought process behind the fee. His response was, "Makes you happy your with us huh?". Sounds like in order to avoid the problem - the fee - that you have to become part of the problem - the bank-. The incentive now to open an account at Bank of America has changed from, 'Look at what we can offer you.' to, 'Look what we won't take from you." My banking decisions are being made for me. I DO NOT LIKE THIS!!!

Losing momentum

I'm in the process of moving. Well, I think we all are to some degree. But I'm talking about my residence. Moving is never fun and I'm no good at it. Needless to say I'm thrilled. The physical side alone wreaks havoc on my bones. Some of my bones aren't even bones. My artificial hips are taking a toll. Okay that was me bitching. To be honest I have some great friends that are helping me, thanks guys!

I can't wait until this is over and I can settle into my new places. Oh yeah, did I fail to mention that I'm moving from a cottage near downtown Santa Barbara to an apartment uptown and to an apartment in Seattle? This move is kind of a bugger. I'm only bringing stuff to Seattle that I can carry on a plane. I'm not foolish enough to drive over Grant's pass in the winter again. I figure whatever I need I can acquire in my new home. Seattle is where my heart is so it is my home. Ill be spending two weeks a month in Seattle and two weeks a month at work in Santa Barbara. It's not the ideal situation, but its affords me the opportunity to be with the people I love.

I think everyone loses something when they move. I hope I don't lose my momentum.

Remembering

As someone that has spent many a holiday curled up in the bottom of a vodka bottle I'd have to say this time of year can be rough. I like to celebrate, rejoice, and embrace the new year with the best of them, but this time of year causes one to reflect. Remembering is the key for me. Over two years sober, living an incredible life, I choose to remember the bad times lest I forget my growth. This time of year can be humbling. As I transition into the new year I carry with me the knowledge of where I've been and the burden of knowing the pain I've caused others. Revisiting, remembering, exposing myself to lessons learned I reach towards the new year with my feet firmly planted in the twisted chaos that birthed me. To those that are feeling sorrow, pain, and loneliness and those that are feeling joy, love and community I wish a safe and healthy new year. I know how it is to feel alone in a crowded room. I also know how it feels to be alone and content. I may not have the answers, in fact I usually end up with more questions, but I do know that we all need to feel a sense of belonging. May we all be in a better place a year from now and let's hope it's crowded.

Ralph's on Christmas eve

I went to Ralph's, the grocery store, on Christmas eve. The parking lot was packed. Headlights and taillights inching forward and it seemed like no one was in a hurry. I went around the parking lot twice only to settle on going in the underground parking which was full as well. I figured if the parking lot was a mess going into the belly of the beast would be quite a thrill. To my surprise the place was full of people shopping quite contently. No kids, but there were a few children. Peaceful shoppers pushing their carts. I got the feeling that most of the people there were just happy to be somewhere. By no means were these people needy. We weren't looking but maybe in a sense we all found a moment of zen in the holiday madness. It felt like I had entered a meeting that had been brought together with a collective sigh of calmness. It was a warm environment, not full of cheer but it did have a serene feel to it. It was odd indeed. I relish moments like this. I felt in tune. I was a player in this holiday scene. By no means was there a Christmas miracle happening on aisle 4, but it was our Christmas eve and I thank those that spent it with me.

Don't forget!!!

I dreamed I lost my memories. It was more of a feeling of searching, stumbling towards something that should be there only to find it wasn't. Not only had I lost my memories, I was unable to embrace new ones. Events were happening but I was unable to record them. Aggravated by the inability to capture my life, remember, share... I woke up alone. I am trying to force my thoughts back into there resting places, shelve the frustration. I will shake off the sleep and embrace the new day like I always do. At least I think I do, if I remember that right.

I found a smell...

I found a smell today. I wasn't looking for a smell, nor was I sniffing for one, but a smell I found. My smeller has kept me from harms way in the past and I'd wager it will again in the future. I've whiffed smoke, gas, and rotten meat; all are things I choose to avoid. I've let my sniffer lead me to places such as a restaurants and bakeries. The aroma of coffee and fresh muffins, hanging in the warm air, welcomes me to comfort. Ah the blessings of my beak!

The smell I stumbled upon today was in the form of a dryer sheet. A Downey 'cashmere and silk fresh' fabric softening sheet. I can't get my nose away from the box. I can't come up with a single event, person, or location in my mind that would place this smell in my history, but there is no mistaking the feeling of comfort, an almost cuddly sense of stability that comes from my newly discovered laundry companion.

Life is not easy. I don't want to give away all of my secrets, but I'll let you in a little closer. I arm myself with everything I can before I venture out into this world. Each day I step into society, I do so with a decent education, a fair amount of compassion, clarity, and now a dryer sheet.

Political Correctness can kiss my Christmas celebrating, non church going, republican white ass!!

They call it, 'the Holiday season'

not Christmas, Kwanzaa, or Festivus.

It's said to save 'hurt feelings'

uniqueness taken from the rest of us.

I have plenty of frying pans.

About six months ago I got a knock at my door. I don't ever get knocks at my door. To be perfectly honest, I'm not fond of people coming to my home, and this was unexpected.

I opened the door and was greeted by a woman. She was a small woman, thin build, plenty of grey hair. I'd guess she was in her early 60's. She introduced herself and proceeded to tell me that she was my neighbor, we share a fence near my bedroom window. We had some very minor chit-chat that turned into an odd conversation. She proceeded to explain to me, rather matter-of-factly, that she makes noise and cries at night. That I shouldn't be alarmed if I hear her. She apologized if she had kept me awake. She kept assuring me not to worry and that she was under doctors supervision, she even said that she should be in a hospital and was going to be going soon. To my knowledge Jackie never went to the hospital.

I have no idea what is happening to that woman. I was waken by her again last night. I grabbed a pen and wrote.

Crying, glass breaking.

Everyone knows the sound of a frying pan hitting the floor.

I was told, warned.

So I lay idle feet away, remembering my own depressions.

I cried, I broke...

I want you to have my frying pans.

It's not fucking fair my tortured little taker of sleep.

Box of Junk: Memories revisited

I was going through an old box of junk the other day. A little unexpected trip through my cob webbed memories. If you ever stumble upon an old checkbook register I highly recommend grabbing a cup of tea and enjoy the read. It can be very telling. A glimpse into the spending habits of your past. What were you into at the time? Where were you going? Why did you spend $47.82 at a fruit stand in Gilroy? I also found a power cord to an electric blanket, now that's an invention, half a dozen small bottles of Tabasco sauce, I've since discovered Tapatio, and an old dog collar. The collar inspired me.

I had a creative writing assignment in college 18 or so years ago. I do not remember the nature of the assignment, but I do have the paper. I have gotten rid of most things that remind me of my past, for some reason the collar and the paper are two things that I have kept. As I place the collar on my mantle, I share my story with you.



We walked out of the grocery store, our arms wrapped around bags filled with the necessities of a spaghetti dinner for two. It was the beginning of our second date which was suppose to include dinner at my place and possibly a late movie. While opening Kelli's door, after placing the bags in the trunk and commenting on the cute dog in the front seat of the Mercedes next to us, I heard the familiar sound of breaking glass.

Turning towards the noise, I spotted a small crowd gathering around the center of the intersection, and a red truck speeding away. Some of the onlookers seemed panicked, others calm, but they all had a look of surprise and concern on their faces.

I tossed my keys to Kelli and yelled, "Bring the car!", as I sprinted towards the group.

Joining the crowd, it took only seconds to understand what had caused the varied expressions. Starring down at the familiar dog, something inside me seemed to tear. The dog was not just any dog, it was a dog that had been part of my life for quite some time. The dog use to hang around the Chevron gas station in town, my friends and I had always called her the "Chevron dog". Everyone in town, at one time or another, had to drive around her to fill their car with gas. She would walk around the station as if she owned it, head held high, not moving for anyone. a calm anger surged through my body as I thought of the events that had happened only seconds before.

I dropped to my knees to check for signs of life. Her eyes were glassed over, and blood was dripping from the corner of her mouth. It was obvious she was having a hard time breathing, but at least she was still alive.

Removing my jacket to place on the cold scared dog I felt a hand on my shoulder, "I parked your car as close as..."

"Call the humane society!", I blurted.

A well-dressed woman with a slight British accent spike softly, "I did... They said that they would rush but, they probably couldn't make it for upwards to an hour. If we could only get her to a veterinary hospital... maybe..."

I turned to Kelli but she was already on her way to the pay phone. She knew I was going to ask her to find an open animal hospital. This is not an easy task at seven-thirty at night in this rural town called Poulsbo.

Most of the crowd had thought it was a person that had been hit by the truck. When they realized it was a dog, the left; for the most part unconcerned. Only those of us that gave a damn stayed.

A a young man, sixteen or seventeen, directed traffic around the dying dog, a grey van pulled up alongside of us. A tall, slender man stepped out. "I'm a medic!", he said as he rushed to us, "did someone call an ambulance yet?"

"It's a dog.", I replied.

"Oh I thought it was a child. Did someone call a vet?"

"We're working on it. Can you help her at all?"

His forehead wrinkled as he squatted. Placing his hands around the abdomen of the animal, he proceeded to tell me that the dog was bleeding internally, and wasn't going to last much longer unless we get her to a vet. "She's in shock.", he mumbled. "Does anyone have a truck?"

A couple standing next to the well-dressed woman offered their truck. The man went to back his truck up to the dog, the lady exchanged a few words with the well-dressed woman, and the medic was trying to show me how to put pressure on the dogs chest so that the blood would not fill up her lungs and drown her.

Kelli came back with the directions to an open animal hospital written on a napkin, just as the truck arrived. I explained, to Kelli, that I had to go with the dog, in the back of the truck, to keep pressure on her chest. She said she understood and would follow us there in my car.

It took three of us to lift the dog into the back of the truck. I began squeezing the dogs chest as we sped to the hospital. The dogs breathing began to slow the closer we got to the vet. All I could do was squeeze and beg the dog not to die in my arms. Tears ran down my cheek as the blood ran out of the corner of her jowls. I found myself yelling at the dog, "Breathe god damn it... Breathe. Don't die.... Good girl, just breathe." The wind whipped my hair, stinging my face as cramps in my arm stretched past my elbows.

After the hellish twenty-minute truck ride, we finally reached the hospital. To every one's surprise, the dog was still breathing. The woman jumped out of the front of the truck and ran to the front of the building. The door was locked. She knocked, banged and yelled until someone came out.

"Yes, can I help you?"

The woman began to explain to the nurse, that we had a dog that had been hit by a car and was going to die soon unless we get some help. The nurse started to ask questions and I lost it, "Get someone out here that can help this damn dog, quit asking bullshit questions!!". I paused for a breath, "Please..."

To my surprise a different nurse and doctor came running out with a stretcher, they took the dog inside. The couple followed them.

As I was getting out of the back of the truck, stretching my arms, two cars pulled up, each with familiar faces. I was surprised that some of the people cared enough about this dog to disrupt their lives and check its condition. Each person asked questions, I walked away.

Inside I washed the drying blood off of my forearms and poured myself a cup of 'complimentary coffee'. The receptionist was asking the couple with the truck questions. They seemed to know as much about the dog as I did. The lady with the accent was trying to contact the owner of the dog by calling the gas station.

I walked outside and lit a cigarette as Kelli drove up in my car. She walked towards me, "Is she going to make it?"

"I don't know, we just got here... I kinda want to be alone... If you don't mind."

She understood, and walked inside. The thoughts that were running through my mind were so unusual to me, I've never been in this situation before, this close to death I mean.

The lady with the accident walked up to me and put her hand on my shoulder, "The doctor said that she in real, bad shape.. for them to operate it would cost over a thousand dollars. They can't promise anything." She rubbed my shoulder, "We are still trying to get in touch with Walt, (the owner of the dog) they can't do anything until they contact him.

"Thank you... I'm sorry I'm being so emotional, but, I just..." A tear rolled down my cheek.

"Shh", she hugged me, "We know. You've done all you can. Most people wouldn't of even stopped. We will be inside, come in when you're ready."

"Thanks..."

Moments later Kelli came out and grabbed my hand.

"What?"

"They called the owner."

"And?"

"He said it was too expensive. They are going to put her to sleep"

"What? Shit..." I lowered my head in thought. "I'll pay for it." I let go of Kelli's hand. "I'll pay for it..." I said again as I ran into the hospital, leaving Kelli with the strangest look on her face.

"I'll pay for it!", I yelled when I saw the nurse. Everyone gave me strange looks, "I'll pay for the operation."

"I'm sorry. The doctor has already started the procedure."

The anger I had been feeling throughout this whole ordeal seemed to double, "What!!!"

The lady with the accent grabbed me, "It's for the best dear. Come, I'll take you outside."

"No. No, I would like to see her before I go."

The nurse escorted me into the operating room, then left. I looked down at the lifeless dog on the steel table. The concept of death had finally dawned on me. I ran my fingers through her hair, my tears dripped onto the steel table, sounding like a dead penny thrown into an ashtray.

The doctor walked in and apologized for putting her down before I knew about it. I told him that it was all right. On my way out he handed me the dogs collar. "You'll know what to do with these." I walked to my car.

Everyone had left. Kelli was waiting for me in my car. Getting in I threw the dog collar in the glove box and turned off the radio. We drove home in silence.

I've seen Kelli only a few time after this date. She was nice and all, it's just that she saw part of me very few people have seen. I guess I'm a little embarrassed about acting like that over a dog I hardly knew.

Looking back on the evening, the thing I remember the clearest is the people. We all had one thing in common and it brought us together for an hour or so. We were so impersonal at the time, yet we felt incredibly comfortable together. I'll never forget the way we worked as a team, even if it was in vain. I learned a lot that night. There are some good people out there, they just show up at strange times, under odd circumstances.

1983 Rose Bowl Parade

When I was 12 my grandmother drove me, my brother, and two of our cousins from Ogden Utah to Pasadena California for the 1983 Rose Bowl Parade. My brother had just gotten his drivers license so he had to be 16 which made our cousins 15 and 13. This trip has a few good stories in it, I wonder when and how they will fall into this garbled mess I'm creating. It started off without a hitch, unless you consider no front passenger window at the end of December a problem.

We were in the car heading down the freeway. We were going through a checklist of things. Gas? Check! Seat belts? Check! Flaps? Check! Windows up? It was at this moment I cranked the handle of the window to make sure it was tight. The cable or plastic something or another broke because of the brutally cold winter, causing the window to fall inside the door (that's the way it happened). There I was, 55 mph heading to California holding a pillow in an empty window hole freezing with my family. This trip was going to be fun.

Needless to say, four kids from Utah now in California, had to go to Disneyland. When we got there it felt like the park was celebrating some kind of anniversary. Fireworks up there, a parade over there, and plushie animals spread sporadically. I'm sure it was probably just an ordinary day in the enchanted park, but this time we were there. I have no idea what my grandmother was thinking bringing us to that kind of lunacy but she did. She didn't even bat an eye as I recall. She paraded four puberty stricken horn dogs right through the park. Sad to say, I have little to no recollection of that day. I do remember being overwhelmed by most things at the time, especially loud things, fast moving objects, and crowds. I was really enjoying myself. I'm just kidding it was fine, I'm sure. I'd imagine it was entertaining for me at that age. I'm not sure what you'd have to do to get me there now.

Avoiding that which spooked me I found myself welcomed to the somewhat quiet sanctuary of the penny arcade. I'm old enough to remember Pong, and Donkey Kong was relatively fresh but this place had a draw on me. It had clunky steel games of baseball and bowling and other dated games of minor skill. I'll never forget this one stunning contraption. It had two metal pegs that acted like handles that you grab with each bare hand. An electrical current passed through your arms. The object was to hold on as long as you could. Pretty simple. The power increased as long as you held on. I remember a meter reading your skill ability or some other nonsense. This machine did nothing short of zapping kids with a little juice from a car battery. Very bizarre game in the happiest place on earth. I remember playing it maybe half a dozen times before getting towed away to the mess that was a celebration of wonderment? Forgive me but I've never understood the Disneyland fascination. But the game was a hoot. I do believe this was the first time I was ever electrocuted on purpose. The second would be testing the strength of an electric fence. Surprisingly strong.

Not a meat ball recipe.

I enjoy spending time in the kitchen. In fact I find it somewhat therapeutic at times. I really should do it more often. Years ago I decided, for some reason unknown to me, to make some meatballs. Spaghetti and meatballs is always a good meal right? I asked a buddy of mine, Brad Thomas, for a little advice on the subject early one afternoon and a plan was formed. Just a quick trip to the store for a few things and I would be home to cook dinner for Shannon (my ex-wife) and her friend Euginia who apparently got invited to dine with us while I was at the market tending to the details of this recipe.

Although this is a story about meatballs and how I prepared them I am not giving any recipes here. That's not what this is about exactly. I was in the kitchen having a good old time with my ingredients. I was chopping up onions, mincing garlic, cracking eggs (one handed thank you), mixing cereal flakes with Italian spices, squishing meat between my fingers... I was making meatballs!!! I was in my element. Things were smelling like they wanted to be eaten. Sizzling little balls of meat waiting to balance atop a mound of pasta. Needless to say I was proud of myself. Now keep in mind this little tale happened back in my drinking days. I left out a few of the details that I didn't think were necessary to the story. Perhaps I'll throw them in anyway. Brad and I crafted this plan over cocktails. And back then, when I was in my element I was mostly loaded. I'm not trying to make any excuses, I'm just saying.

After I ladled sauce over a few plates of pasta (I was trying to avoid telling you that the sauce was store bought but why should I lie about such a thing. This is a story about meatballs!!!) I put a couple of the brown little guys on there as well and waited for the response. It came. It wasn't exactly the ovation I was looking for, but it came. It was more of an, "eh..?" moment than anything. Not that I was expecting a big hoopla or anything. I was kind of anticipating a grunt of pleasure or a hint of satisfaction. The balls themselves looked good, smelled good but there was a little something odd with the flavor. The word "odd" is never a good word to use when describing food. Not understanding where the odd sweetness came from, I reviewed the ingredients in my head. When shopping for Corn Flakes to use as a binder for the balls I grabbed "Frosted Flakes" by mistake. I had made spaghetti with "Sweat balls".

Happy Thanksgiving and remember to remove the giblets before you bake your bird...

Bailout for Food Bank

Last Wednesday some desperate folks took advantage of a greater number of needy people. The Rainier Valley Food Bank was robbed of nearly $2000.00 worth of food donations that were earmarked for low-income residents of south Seattle. How's that for a happy holiday? That's a lot of food from a lot of needy people. I can't imagine sitting down to a holiday meal -a supposed celebration of thanks no less- of pilfered potatoes, swindled swine or poached eggs. How can anyone eat a stolen holiday from those that are trying to do things the right way; play by the rules. It's not easy accepting charity, and there is something to be said for those that struggle as they do. An air of respect earned the hard way.

Salvation came in the form of donations. Over $25,000 worth of salvation. Yes, the food was replaced by businesses in the community such as the Colombia City Bakery and Tutta Bella. A grand gesture in troubled times. Kudos to those who donated, some for the second time.

Sadly to say, had these desperate thieves respected themselves or their community a little bit more, this would never had happened. They could have gone to the food bank and helped distribute the food to their neighbors as they fed themselves and loved ones. In my opinion The real crime here was the disgrace the theft brought to our community. Nothing changed. The needy will still get fed, a few people get recognition for their kindness and outreach, but our community suffers. This is going to be the topic of discussion at Thanksgiving dinner for dozens. Is this a holiday of giving thanks or accepting desperation? What does this say about us as a society? This event will be forgotten soon. The thieves will move on to bigger and better things because no one really got hurt; everyone got fed. It's no wonder The US isn't thought of to well in the global perspective. I can hardly stomach some of us myself.

You Tubin!!!

Something to watch instead of reading your cereal box...x...

I'm loving this crap.

Richrd Brautigan, Again...

I fell in love with Bosch's work when I was 17. Thank you Mr. Frodel...

Breakfast with Cyclops

Walking into a cafe today on Queen Anne, a great neighborhood in Seattle, we found ourselves in line behind six or so people. One of these soon to be diners had a handicap. Hell, for all I know they all did but this gentleman of note had a very visible and, in my opinion, rare one of having only one eye. Please bear with me, I'm not trying to be a jackass and I think I have a valid point. I know people with one eye. Boston Jack for instance. He is both a person and he has one eye. I've known Jack for years. I knew two eyed Jack, and now I know one eyed Jack. Please don't think I'm trying to rename Boston Jack. Boston Jack, albeit the only person I know that probably looks better with one eye, is and will always be know as, Boston Jack. Jack chooses to wear an eye patch. It makes his look complete. Mildly good fortune from quite the destructive eye-to-trunk depth miscalculation. That's a whole different story that I'm not fully schooled in, best be left to Boston himself. The eye patch is a great public gesture of decency. I'm sure its not a pretty picture under there. I wouldn't imagine a trunk that would take a mans eye would have many soft edges. Lets just say, I don't think it pitted him gracefully. Kudos to the eye patch my friend. I think most, if not all of society thank you for this. The gentleman in line on the other hand chose to go sans patch. Now I must say that his ocular deficiency didn't appear horrific nor was it an "eye sore", but common decency dictates a patch my friend. Now I could sit here and go on making jokes about things, mostly at one eyed peoples expense. I had quite a few plural vs. singular phrases that I thought were rather clever but I chose to simply point out a few of my thoughts, foolishly serious as they may be.

I ask you sir, have you thought of the reasonable untold agreements that most of us have with each other? The simple things that we customarily accept just to make life simpler for most. Not spitting your gum out on the street, taking only one parking spot, and wiping the top of the mustard bottle when you're done to avoid delivering a mustard scab to the next user, just to name a few. Now don't get me wrong. Punk is not dead. Rebel all you want. Choose your niche. We live in Seattle for crying out loud, but this is kind of an odd statement brother. A statement you made to my four year old little friend. I'm not bitching about your right to bear bare in our society. In fact I'm not bitching at all. You make your choices and I'll make mine. But I do pose these questions. Have you given thought to how your face might be perceived by a young child? I'm sure you have so this next part should be easy. Please bear in mind I'm thirty seven, single and I have no kids. How do you explain this to someone so young? I've been around the block, in fact I've been known to "keep an eye out" for the unique. This was my first encounter with an exposed perfect landing spot for a patch. Hell, I didn't know how to take it. You don't prepare for these things. But I do thank you for satisfying my curiosity. So, what to do with a young boy who is afraid of grapes on his plate because his little mind cant wrap his brain your appearance. Anything eye shaped boggles the little fella. I tell this story and ask these question purely on an honestly curios platform. No hard feelings my cyclops friend. I'm just guessing you've spent more time thinking about this than I have.

One of these things is not like the others

One of these things (is not like the others)

Music and lyrics by Joe Raposo and Jon Stone

One of these things is not like the others,

One of these things just doesn't belong,

Can you tell me which thing is not like the others

By the time I finish my song?

Did you guess which thing is not like the others?

Did you guess which thing just doesn't belong?

If you guessed this one is not like the others,

Then you're absolutely... right!

These are not nuts!!!

Steampunk your junk!!!

I just recently got turned on to this junk. You may be like me. I've seen this steampunk, or stuff like it before but wasn't sure what I was looking at. Steampunk seems to be a sub-genre of fiction set in the Victorian era, when steam power was commonly used. I'm not going to get into any of the stuff that doesn't interest me. Bottom line is, this stuff is bitchin!!! Imagine, if you will, a society that has the romance, etiquette and craftsmanship of the Victorian era, combined with the practicality of ray guns, personal computers, and i-pods... Sturdy elegance and daily necessity dictates to us the need for such devices. These creations are displayed as both functional pieces of daily life as well as artistic expressions of things to come, or that might have been.

The gears and heavy mechanisms remind me of basic theory put to conventional use in an artistic expression of simple functionality. Elegant movement generated by energy that is driven by visual source. Momentum and friction propel these creations. Steam driven or spring driven, the creations of steampunk artisans are slowly seeping out of art studios and into galleries, clothing stores and on the big screen in movies such as Hell Boy (2004) and The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (2003).

Don't throw out that old box of keys, or bag of watch parts. Get in gear and build yourself a time machine to take you to those places we dream about at night. The places that exist in our mind to exercise our imaginations. Take your environment and personalize it with a little piece of "history" that is as unique as you are. Steampunk your junk!!!

Gasworks Park

This is Gasworks Park in Seattle. It's one of my favorite places to wander and think. It reminds me of the Forgotten Works, a place in Richard Brautigan's, In Watermelon Sugar. I imagine myself in Brautigans head sometimes as I mill around the old plant that has an incredible view of Seattle's skyline.

Richard Brautigan was a poet/novelist that was born in the pacific northwest. He spent much of his life in San Francisco during the Beat movement writing poetry and handing it out on street corners trying to get his words read. His best known work, Troutfishing in America, brought him some national attention bringing some acclaim to his writings when it was published in 1967. He eventually moved to Montana and lived several years before he took his own life in 1984. Brautigan's writings seem to wade in the surreal and bask in the beat ideals of defying mainstream politics and culture.

Machine and nature now coexist in a heap of curiosity, waiting patiently for someone to identify with it. What was once a gift of a promising future now lays rusting in defeat where we put things that are best forgotten.

Par for the course...

I'm guessing, I'm about par for the course as far as commitment to blogs go. I posted this thinking it might be of importance to someone, hoped in vain that there may be a response and am now contemplating tearing it down. Actually there is nothing up here to destroy. Also, nothing up here to excite anyone. Here in lies my problem. I've been told I should write something. So write something I shall. I'll figure things out as I go. I don't need to tell you that. You just want to read something that might be of interest to you. I guess ill give it a go...

Dear Demon Alcohol

This was a timed excercise given to me in the first weeks of my rehab in Oct '07

Dear Demon Alcohol,

I'm finding it rather easy to put these words in ink. I guess only time will tell how the chips will land after this long overdue goodbye.

We have spent an incredible amount of time together spanning over 20 years. Mostly good times, some bad times, and just recently fucking terrifying!!!

I know you have been doing what comes natural to you and I mustn't blame you for that. It is I that am at fault in this relationship. I thought I was the one that could control and direct where we were going, plan our journeys, our adventure, our love. This will be our last contact. I will not allow you to hurt me anymore. You may think you will destroy me but it is I that have thrown down the gauntlet and I will not be defeated without a fight. I am a man but I promise you this. I am not afraid to fight dirty. You may have been forward, all of these years, with what you are capable of. But I chose to ignore your evil ways. I my friend, will kick and claw, bite and scratch and whatever else it may take to sever all ties with you. You may have won the battle over my ego, stealing from me dignity, self respect, and honor, but I will prevail.

I accept that you are stronger than I had anticipated. To this I tip my hat and bid farewell. I must move on, I've better things to worry about. It's time for me to change and make the changes necessary to explore and enjoy my life without your seductive ways.

Release your fucking grip on me and my soul,

Chris