Tonight, as I was driving home, I was listening to an old mix that had this Killers song on it. And I was reminded of something that I have thought a lot about before: there are songs and bands (entire band catalogs!) that belong to someone.
Here is what I mean: I cannot hear the Killers or Arcade Fire without thinking of one person. And, even more specifically, one night I spent with this one person. We listened to Arcade Fire that night. But I associate the Killers with him because he is the one that told me, before I ever heard them, that I would love them. And he was right.
But there are others. People I don't see on a regular basis, or people I don't see ever, that are literally with me every time I hear their song. The odd part about this phenomenon is that I think that most of the people who own music for me probably don't know it.
Do you recognize yourself? For each of the following songs, there is only ONE person that I think of, or will ever think of. These are YOUR songs, people. (To make it easy, I'll give you a hint.)
*"At My Window, Sad and Lonely" (You are a sad, sad bastard.)
*"These Days" (You cry in coffeeshops.)
*"When the Children Cry" (You drink slurpees and look at Christmas lights with me.)
*"Okkervil River Song" (We have never heard this song together, but it makes me think of you growing up on the James.)
*"More than a Feeling" (I don't know what to say about this one. You either know who you are, or you don't.)
*"Daydream Believer" (I'd sing it for you at karaoke.)
*"Self-Esteem" (Turn it up. Roll down the windows. Sing along.)
*"All I Want is You" (There is a time when I wanted was you. But you would have made me a U2 widow.)
*"Go Places" (I don't see you anymore. And I don't want to. But I will say that your appreciation of this song persists as one of the best things about you.)
*Anything by the Pet Shop Boys. (I mean, c'mon. How much time did I spend in your bathroom? How could the Pet Shop Boys NOT remind me of you? Of course, I can't hear Rufus Wainwright without thinking of you either.)
*"Your Love" (You are 7 and 9, and you both have this song on your I-pods cuz of me.)
True Confession: I would love to know that I shored up some music for someone else. And maybe something other than the Singing Nun version of "Que Sera Sera."
Showing posts with label personal history. Show all posts
Showing posts with label personal history. Show all posts
03 March 2009
Speaking of Grandparents
OK, so have I ever written about the "Hunter's Banquet" (now, I guess called the "Sportsman's Banquet")? I don't think that I have. Which is weird, because the HB is one of the strangest things that is not really exactly a part of my life, but is something that sort of borders uncomfortably on my life. I forget about it most of the year. And then, suddenly, all the men in my family (with the exception of my youngest brother) are making plans to attend this event together and I am reminded again of the fact that this very weird thing is sort of part of my life experience. Let me explain:
For decades, my grandfather has been involved in a yearly event called the Hunter's Banquet. I have never attended this event (more on this in a moment), but here is my understanding of it: a bunch of church-goin' men who like to kill things for sport and have lifetime memberships to the NRA get together once a year for fellowship. They show off their recent taxidermy work, tell tall tales about fishing and hunting, win fishing/hunting related door prizes (everything from scopes, to knives, to gloves), and eat game. (And also bridge mix, which is sprinkled on the tables and is meant to represent--I kid you not--scat. Marvelous.)
The reason that I only have a shadowy idea of what happens at this event is that, for most of my youth, I was not invited because this was a men (and manchildren) only event. Now, it is true that I would not, at any point in my life, have been interested in attending this event. But the absolute exclusion based on my gender never really sat well with me. To make matters worse, I knew that there were women allowed to serve the men at the banquet, but this was the extent to which they were allowed to participate. Think I am exaggerating? Part of the event used to be that there was a bell that someone would ring every time a man mentioned anything about a female--be she a lady, or a doe. Um. Really.
At some point this started to change. I don't know that there are many women who go now, but my niece went this year and it sort of sounds like everyone enjoyed having her here. (How could they not. As any of you who have met her know, she's a damn charming person.) That said, I am sort of ashamed to admit that I harbour some negative feelings toward this event. It represents a lot of stuff that I really hate and that I don't have much of a sense of humor about. On the other hand, it isn't my deal. And I really only have to hear about it once a year, which amounts to nothing more than a mild irritation.
Right?
For decades, my grandfather has been involved in a yearly event called the Hunter's Banquet. I have never attended this event (more on this in a moment), but here is my understanding of it: a bunch of church-goin' men who like to kill things for sport and have lifetime memberships to the NRA get together once a year for fellowship. They show off their recent taxidermy work, tell tall tales about fishing and hunting, win fishing/hunting related door prizes (everything from scopes, to knives, to gloves), and eat game. (And also bridge mix, which is sprinkled on the tables and is meant to represent--I kid you not--scat. Marvelous.)
The reason that I only have a shadowy idea of what happens at this event is that, for most of my youth, I was not invited because this was a men (and manchildren) only event. Now, it is true that I would not, at any point in my life, have been interested in attending this event. But the absolute exclusion based on my gender never really sat well with me. To make matters worse, I knew that there were women allowed to serve the men at the banquet, but this was the extent to which they were allowed to participate. Think I am exaggerating? Part of the event used to be that there was a bell that someone would ring every time a man mentioned anything about a female--be she a lady, or a doe. Um. Really.
At some point this started to change. I don't know that there are many women who go now, but my niece went this year and it sort of sounds like everyone enjoyed having her here. (How could they not. As any of you who have met her know, she's a damn charming person.) That said, I am sort of ashamed to admit that I harbour some negative feelings toward this event. It represents a lot of stuff that I really hate and that I don't have much of a sense of humor about. On the other hand, it isn't my deal. And I really only have to hear about it once a year, which amounts to nothing more than a mild irritation.
Right?
25 February 2009
HA! Pextrix
Qwanty is right--when one thinks about Peter, there are almost too many things to say. He's a strange, and complicated, guy. In that way (and probably in that way only) he is like my dad. To those of you who don't know (and who doesn't?), Peter is my favorite teacher I have ever had in my whole life. Ever. In my whole life. And I've had a lot of teachers and I've been really into a lot of them, but none come near to the almost mythical standing of Peter. (Not even Doc B)
Here are some interesting things about Peter:
1. He really likes the phrase "will-he-nil-he" which, for those of you who don't speak "peter", is willy-nilly. Even though he knows that people will be put off by this, he refuses to use the colloquial version of the saying, either in his writing or speaking. He's stubborn like that.
2. He referred me to his therapist. And I went. He also referred Qwanty to his wife's hairdresser. I don't think that she went. He believes that he can be that intrustive into certain student's lives. I guess maybe he can be.
3. Sometimes for Valentine's Day I make homemade fortune cookies and write out little haiku to stuff inside them. One year, I made one for Peter. The haiku was especially mushy. This should not surprise anyone. Several months later I was sitting in office (probably crying, because that is mostly what I did in his office), feeling uncomfortable because I realized that he had a weird naked woman fertility talisman statue on his desk. I kept trying not to stare at it, because it was such a weird thing to see there. At some point he mentioned the Valentine, and I sort of shrugged it off, but he reached FOR THE WEIRD NAKED WOMAN FERTILITY TALISMAN (at this point I wanted to run screaming from his office) and he showed me that it had a little box in the base and inside that box was the little slip of paper on which I'd written the hakiu. To this day I don't know if this is the sweetest memory I have of him, or the creepiest.
4. Peter, as of a few years ago, only considered me the 7th smartest student he'd ever had. Um. 7th? Talk about your faint praise.
5. I have seen Peter throw an eraser at a student. I also saw him throw chalk at the same student. I have also heard him ask another student, in complete seriousness, "who put you in charge of the obvious today?"
6. One of Peter's greatest friends in the world is a fairly well-known academic who writes like an angel. His prose is so conciliatory and has such a reasonable tone. Peter's writing is,well, cranky and scrappy. It is fun to read them back to back. One wonders what their friendship must be like.
7. Peter likes to eat. A lot. Let him take you out to lunch sometime. You only eat at nice resturants, and you can order whatever you like, and he forces wine on you. (And sometimes dessert as well.) He once told me that the only food he thinks that he doesn't like is cucumber. Cucumber?
I'm sure Qwanty has her own factoids about PC that she might like to share, but these are my favorites---
Here are some interesting things about Peter:
1. He really likes the phrase "will-he-nil-he" which, for those of you who don't speak "peter", is willy-nilly. Even though he knows that people will be put off by this, he refuses to use the colloquial version of the saying, either in his writing or speaking. He's stubborn like that.
2. He referred me to his therapist. And I went. He also referred Qwanty to his wife's hairdresser. I don't think that she went. He believes that he can be that intrustive into certain student's lives. I guess maybe he can be.
3. Sometimes for Valentine's Day I make homemade fortune cookies and write out little haiku to stuff inside them. One year, I made one for Peter. The haiku was especially mushy. This should not surprise anyone. Several months later I was sitting in office (probably crying, because that is mostly what I did in his office), feeling uncomfortable because I realized that he had a weird naked woman fertility talisman statue on his desk. I kept trying not to stare at it, because it was such a weird thing to see there. At some point he mentioned the Valentine, and I sort of shrugged it off, but he reached FOR THE WEIRD NAKED WOMAN FERTILITY TALISMAN (at this point I wanted to run screaming from his office) and he showed me that it had a little box in the base and inside that box was the little slip of paper on which I'd written the hakiu. To this day I don't know if this is the sweetest memory I have of him, or the creepiest.
4. Peter, as of a few years ago, only considered me the 7th smartest student he'd ever had. Um. 7th? Talk about your faint praise.
5. I have seen Peter throw an eraser at a student. I also saw him throw chalk at the same student. I have also heard him ask another student, in complete seriousness, "who put you in charge of the obvious today?"
6. One of Peter's greatest friends in the world is a fairly well-known academic who writes like an angel. His prose is so conciliatory and has such a reasonable tone. Peter's writing is,well, cranky and scrappy. It is fun to read them back to back. One wonders what their friendship must be like.
7. Peter likes to eat. A lot. Let him take you out to lunch sometime. You only eat at nice resturants, and you can order whatever you like, and he forces wine on you. (And sometimes dessert as well.) He once told me that the only food he thinks that he doesn't like is cucumber. Cucumber?
I'm sure Qwanty has her own factoids about PC that she might like to share, but these are my favorites---
18 February 2009
In honor of--
If you have been listening to Jim Rome for the past week, you know that he has become TOTALLY obsessed with guys by the name of Rex. For each of the last 5 broadcast days, he has had on someone named Rex. Today it wasn't even someone related to sports. It was Rex Lee, the actor from Entourage. In keeping with Rome's Rex week, I am reposting the following blog post from the old MySpace blog. I wrote it a couple of Valentine's Days ago. I am also considering resurrecting the "Bad Crushes and the Horrible Reasons I Had Them" series on The Make-Ready. God knows that I have about 300 crushes left from which to draw. Anyhoo. Enjoy this jog down memory lane.
In Honor of Valentine's Day's Approach
In Honor of Valentine's Day's Approach
Bad Crush #2
Ok, I feel a little guilty calling this a "bad crush" because it was actually a fairly good one. But . . . well, it does have an element of the ridiculous to it. Wait. For. It.
SO, my parent's moved into their last home the summer between my junior and senior years of high school. It was a weird move, because they did it while I was at camp (busy being a CIT, or counselor-in-training for those of you who are not initiated into mysteries of summer camp). I left, and we were in the house I grew up in, and I came back, and we were in this new house. I HATED it. I won't get into all the reasons why, but one of them had to do with the fact that it was the middle of summer (bad to begin with) and the house didn't have any window coverings, and was A LOT brighter than the house I grew up in. All the light was making me cranky, and I missed MY house. On top of all of that, my best friend had moved to Norway about six months prior, and I missed her awfully, and she was miserable as well, which I knew because of the 2-3 letters PER DAY I received all that summer.
The move had one silver lining though, which I found out about a few days after I got back from camp. Our builder had hired a college-aged handyman, and he was over at our house several hours a day, working on finish work (a deck in the back, landscaping, adjusting doors. He was very handy.) On top of being handy he was HOT, and in his early twenties. And I was a bored sixteen-year-old. I was in heaven. He did a lot of working outside with his shirt off (and, I don't need to tell you, dear reader, that he had a great chest, and a great tan, and bleached out hair) and I did a lot of taking him glasses of lemonade. It was all very 90210 (you know, when Kelly had a thing with Jake, before they spun him off onto Melrose?!).
If all this was not enough to send me into hormonal overload, he did the cutest thing ever, and it sealed the crush deal. See, we had moved into a new housing development, and we were in one of the first houses finished and occupied. So the area around us was leveled, but not really developed. A stray dog showed up one day. My mom got worried about it and started making sure that he had food and water. He was a mutt, but very sweet. My parents, of course, were not going to take it in (we have a family aversion to pets), but my mom was somewhat worried about what was going to happen to him. The handyman was VERY sweet to the dog, and it began to follow him around all day. In the afternoons, the handyman would take a break for lunch, and the dog would curl up next to him. Before long it became pretty obvious that he was going to have to take the dog. OK, so I'll admit that I'm not a huge animal lover, but I did think that it was adorable that the handyman felt responsible and nurturing toward this dog. I remember the day that he finally decided to take it home with him. I have this image of the handyman's truck driving away, the dog happily riding in the bed. He looked like he couldn't believe his luck.
The handyman finished the work on my house, which was sad. Then summer ended, and he finished working for our builder, and that was sadder. (Yes, I did just say "sadder"--get off my back, grammar police!) He went back to college, I went back to finish my senior year of high school.
Sigh.
So I know what you are thinking. Nothing THAT ridiculous about the story. But I have been keeping for you, reader, the detail that does make this crush silly and embarrassing in retrospect. The handyman's name?
Rex.
I kid you not.
Ok, I feel a little guilty calling this a "bad crush" because it was actually a fairly good one. But . . . well, it does have an element of the ridiculous to it. Wait. For. It.
SO, my parent's moved into their last home the summer between my junior and senior years of high school. It was a weird move, because they did it while I was at camp (busy being a CIT, or counselor-in-training for those of you who are not initiated into mysteries of summer camp). I left, and we were in the house I grew up in, and I came back, and we were in this new house. I HATED it. I won't get into all the reasons why, but one of them had to do with the fact that it was the middle of summer (bad to begin with) and the house didn't have any window coverings, and was A LOT brighter than the house I grew up in. All the light was making me cranky, and I missed MY house. On top of all of that, my best friend had moved to Norway about six months prior, and I missed her awfully, and she was miserable as well, which I knew because of the 2-3 letters PER DAY I received all that summer.
The move had one silver lining though, which I found out about a few days after I got back from camp. Our builder had hired a college-aged handyman, and he was over at our house several hours a day, working on finish work (a deck in the back, landscaping, adjusting doors. He was very handy.) On top of being handy he was HOT, and in his early twenties. And I was a bored sixteen-year-old. I was in heaven. He did a lot of working outside with his shirt off (and, I don't need to tell you, dear reader, that he had a great chest, and a great tan, and bleached out hair) and I did a lot of taking him glasses of lemonade. It was all very 90210 (you know, when Kelly had a thing with Jake, before they spun him off onto Melrose?!).
If all this was not enough to send me into hormonal overload, he did the cutest thing ever, and it sealed the crush deal. See, we had moved into a new housing development, and we were in one of the first houses finished and occupied. So the area around us was leveled, but not really developed. A stray dog showed up one day. My mom got worried about it and started making sure that he had food and water. He was a mutt, but very sweet. My parents, of course, were not going to take it in (we have a family aversion to pets), but my mom was somewhat worried about what was going to happen to him. The handyman was VERY sweet to the dog, and it began to follow him around all day. In the afternoons, the handyman would take a break for lunch, and the dog would curl up next to him. Before long it became pretty obvious that he was going to have to take the dog. OK, so I'll admit that I'm not a huge animal lover, but I did think that it was adorable that the handyman felt responsible and nurturing toward this dog. I remember the day that he finally decided to take it home with him. I have this image of the handyman's truck driving away, the dog happily riding in the bed. He looked like he couldn't believe his luck.
The handyman finished the work on my house, which was sad. Then summer ended, and he finished working for our builder, and that was sadder. (Yes, I did just say "sadder"--get off my back, grammar police!) He went back to college, I went back to finish my senior year of high school.
Sigh.
So I know what you are thinking. Nothing THAT ridiculous about the story. But I have been keeping for you, reader, the detail that does make this crush silly and embarrassing in retrospect. The handyman's name?
Rex.
I kid you not.
10 February 2009
A Valentine, Part One
I find myself with a little extra time today, thanks to the fact that my second class confessed that only ONE of them had done their homework--which was to read one of Chuck Klosterman's Esquire pieces (2 pages). Since my whole lecture today was based on their having read this, I told them to go home and to come back when they had done the assigned work. 2 pages! I can't even imagine what it would have been like to have had anyone only assign me 2 pages to read in college. I had terms in which I was reading 30 pages of poetry, 2 plays, 2 novels, and a book of art history/philosophy/history in a given week. (Not to mention writing for all of those classes.) What a bunch of weenies.
Anyhoo. I'm taking this time to send out a little Valentine to my good buddy, Qwanty, who has been wanting me to write on the following topic for some time now. I will probably get some of the story wrong. She will, without a doubt, correct me if I misremember.
This is the story of Patrick Lunch. (Which is not his real name, but I'll get to that part of the story eventually.)
Back in the day when Qwanty and I were hanging out at the 1201, drinking sourballs, splitting fondue, not paying cover due to the fact that we'd made friends with the bouncer (thanks, Devin--even though you turned out to be a real tool), and flirting with a bus-y-looking bus boy in vinyl pants over our glasses (ok. so "we" didn't really do that. It was more "me"), we became fans of a couple of different local bands. One of them was the ridiculous Rollerball, a band that featured a tall drink of water in a Mr. Roger's cardigan who played the clarinet like he was having crazy sex with it. The other was a band called the Dolomites, which might sound like some sort of R & B band, but was really a band that played "pirate rock", which, as far as I can tell, meant some stuff that sounded like Pogues rip-offs and some Tom Waits covers. Clearly, we followed Rollerball because of the clarinet player. We followed The Dolomites because Qwanty knew the "brains" behind the band from PSU. His name was Steve, but this is hard for me to remember most of the time because we referred to him exclusively as "Strictly" due to the fact that Qwanty thought that he looked like he could have been a character in Strictly Ballroom.
Anyway, we saw the Dolomites all over town. Memorable performances include 1) the Kells Irish festival. It was so cold that I remember sitting at a table in the tent LITERALLY shivering for several hours. I also remember that this set off one of the worst bouts of tonsillitis I've ever had. 2) the Green Room. Mostly what I remember about this one is that Strictly dedicated a song to us, and had us STAND UP so everyone could clap for us (ugh) and then the song was a Tom Waits cover and I HATE TOM WAITS. (I wasn't that crazy about Strictly either). 3) Ash Street Salon. It was here that the story at hand began--
As I remember it, the Dolomites were opening for a band called The Moops. Strictly talked us into staying at Ash Street to watch The Moops by telling us that they were "great guys." He might have also bought us a round. I believe he also warned us that the frontman was "kind of a character." As it turns out, the front man was no other than DJ Gregarious T. Cline. Some of you know Greg as the guy who spins for "Shut Up and Dance"--a weekly, mostly 80s themed dance party. (And--story for another occasion--the DJ for the New Year's event I attended this year with Mikey J. and my sister-in-law.) Here are some things that you should know about Greg: 1) He will try to score with almost any woman who walks by him. 2) He has an astounding collection of velvet (and velveteen?) pants and frilly ascots. 3) He sometimes dances to certain 80s songs as if he is performing a sacred ritual (ask my sister-in-law, Joy, she's observed it). 4) His REAL first name is Gregarious. Like, his mom named him that on purpose. 5) He seems to actually be aging backwards, like Benjamin Buttons, or Mork. 6) He is ridiculous.
*At this moment I have to interrupt this story to report to you all that I am currently sitting in a coffeeshop and, hand to G--, "Afternoon Delight" just started playing overhead. Oh Paul Rudd--I love you looking like a 1970's on-location TV news reporter!
Back to Ash Street--So, this band with this completely ridiculous frontman, playing a guitar painted with scenes that seemed to be ripped from "Octopus's Garden"--steps on stage and starts playing. I don't remember a lot about the performance, other than the fact that I couldn't stop laughing, and that maybe the last song they did was a rock cover of Paula Abdul's "Cold-Hearted Snake." (I vaguely remember this being brilliant.) Anyway. I was entertained. It turns out Qwanty had paid more attention to the whole thing that I had though . . .
The next day Qwanty was at Palio (this is when I was going there pretty much every day to see the narrow-hipped Coffee Boy and she was going to see a cute little diabetic). This tall, thin blonde guy kept looking at her, and finally approached. Turns out that he had recognized her from the show the night before. He was the drummer for the Moops. Qwanty recognized him. She chatted with him for awhile and found out that he was living in a big house in Ladd's Addition and that Palio was also HIS coffeeshop. This is where my memory sort of falters. Qwanty either made plans to have a drink at BOG (the other bar where we spent time in those days. Also owned by Phil Ragamuffin), or he mentioned to her that he sometimes drank at BOG. Either way, we ended up sharing Black Butte Porters with him at BOG one night soon thereafter. We found out that he hung out there because he (along with too many other Portland jackasses) had a huge crush on a bartender there (she will remain nameless. But I can say that he sometimes played drums for her, and she is an Irish chanteuse).
Anyway, we spent the whole evening with him. We found out about his crush, and that he worked at OMSI making models out of wiggly board, but only part time because he also manufactured and sold some weird nut used in drum kits. The most clear memory I have of that night is, at one point, Patrick leaning over the table and saying, "Ladies. Before we progress in this friendship any more, there is something about me that I think you should know. I am a convicted felon." Turns out that he had done some time for manufacture with the intent to sell. He was growing a lot of pot.
Then he asked us to have breakfast with him the next morning.
END OF PART ONE. STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT INSTALLMENT OF: THE EPIC OF PATRICK LUNCH.
Anyhoo. I'm taking this time to send out a little Valentine to my good buddy, Qwanty, who has been wanting me to write on the following topic for some time now. I will probably get some of the story wrong. She will, without a doubt, correct me if I misremember.
This is the story of Patrick Lunch. (Which is not his real name, but I'll get to that part of the story eventually.)
Back in the day when Qwanty and I were hanging out at the 1201, drinking sourballs, splitting fondue, not paying cover due to the fact that we'd made friends with the bouncer (thanks, Devin--even though you turned out to be a real tool), and flirting with a bus-y-looking bus boy in vinyl pants over our glasses (ok. so "we" didn't really do that. It was more "me"), we became fans of a couple of different local bands. One of them was the ridiculous Rollerball, a band that featured a tall drink of water in a Mr. Roger's cardigan who played the clarinet like he was having crazy sex with it. The other was a band called the Dolomites, which might sound like some sort of R & B band, but was really a band that played "pirate rock", which, as far as I can tell, meant some stuff that sounded like Pogues rip-offs and some Tom Waits covers. Clearly, we followed Rollerball because of the clarinet player. We followed The Dolomites because Qwanty knew the "brains" behind the band from PSU. His name was Steve, but this is hard for me to remember most of the time because we referred to him exclusively as "Strictly" due to the fact that Qwanty thought that he looked like he could have been a character in Strictly Ballroom.
Anyway, we saw the Dolomites all over town. Memorable performances include 1) the Kells Irish festival. It was so cold that I remember sitting at a table in the tent LITERALLY shivering for several hours. I also remember that this set off one of the worst bouts of tonsillitis I've ever had. 2) the Green Room. Mostly what I remember about this one is that Strictly dedicated a song to us, and had us STAND UP so everyone could clap for us (ugh) and then the song was a Tom Waits cover and I HATE TOM WAITS. (I wasn't that crazy about Strictly either). 3) Ash Street Salon. It was here that the story at hand began--
As I remember it, the Dolomites were opening for a band called The Moops. Strictly talked us into staying at Ash Street to watch The Moops by telling us that they were "great guys." He might have also bought us a round. I believe he also warned us that the frontman was "kind of a character." As it turns out, the front man was no other than DJ Gregarious T. Cline. Some of you know Greg as the guy who spins for "Shut Up and Dance"--a weekly, mostly 80s themed dance party. (And--story for another occasion--the DJ for the New Year's event I attended this year with Mikey J. and my sister-in-law.) Here are some things that you should know about Greg: 1) He will try to score with almost any woman who walks by him. 2) He has an astounding collection of velvet (and velveteen?) pants and frilly ascots. 3) He sometimes dances to certain 80s songs as if he is performing a sacred ritual (ask my sister-in-law, Joy, she's observed it). 4) His REAL first name is Gregarious. Like, his mom named him that on purpose. 5) He seems to actually be aging backwards, like Benjamin Buttons, or Mork. 6) He is ridiculous.
*At this moment I have to interrupt this story to report to you all that I am currently sitting in a coffeeshop and, hand to G--, "Afternoon Delight" just started playing overhead. Oh Paul Rudd--I love you looking like a 1970's on-location TV news reporter!
Back to Ash Street--So, this band with this completely ridiculous frontman, playing a guitar painted with scenes that seemed to be ripped from "Octopus's Garden"--steps on stage and starts playing. I don't remember a lot about the performance, other than the fact that I couldn't stop laughing, and that maybe the last song they did was a rock cover of Paula Abdul's "Cold-Hearted Snake." (I vaguely remember this being brilliant.) Anyway. I was entertained. It turns out Qwanty had paid more attention to the whole thing that I had though . . .
The next day Qwanty was at Palio (this is when I was going there pretty much every day to see the narrow-hipped Coffee Boy and she was going to see a cute little diabetic). This tall, thin blonde guy kept looking at her, and finally approached. Turns out that he had recognized her from the show the night before. He was the drummer for the Moops. Qwanty recognized him. She chatted with him for awhile and found out that he was living in a big house in Ladd's Addition and that Palio was also HIS coffeeshop. This is where my memory sort of falters. Qwanty either made plans to have a drink at BOG (the other bar where we spent time in those days. Also owned by Phil Ragamuffin), or he mentioned to her that he sometimes drank at BOG. Either way, we ended up sharing Black Butte Porters with him at BOG one night soon thereafter. We found out that he hung out there because he (along with too many other Portland jackasses) had a huge crush on a bartender there (she will remain nameless. But I can say that he sometimes played drums for her, and she is an Irish chanteuse).
Anyway, we spent the whole evening with him. We found out about his crush, and that he worked at OMSI making models out of wiggly board, but only part time because he also manufactured and sold some weird nut used in drum kits. The most clear memory I have of that night is, at one point, Patrick leaning over the table and saying, "Ladies. Before we progress in this friendship any more, there is something about me that I think you should know. I am a convicted felon." Turns out that he had done some time for manufacture with the intent to sell. He was growing a lot of pot.
Then he asked us to have breakfast with him the next morning.
END OF PART ONE. STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT INSTALLMENT OF: THE EPIC OF PATRICK LUNCH.
23 December 2008
Year-end Mix
One of my favorite traditions that belongs to this time of year is the year-end mix. For many years now, I have been trading mixes with Mikey J and Dr. Awesome that somehow represent the year that has just passed. Last year my mix was populated with songs that all came out in 2007. The year before that, I chose a song that represented each month of 2006 somehow. I know that Mikey and Shane have different kinds of criteria for their mixes.
This year's mix (entitled "Spin it Again") is now done, and mailed off to the regular recipients (or sitting under my tree for Mikey and J-bro and Jane), so I thought I'd "publish" the list here. For posterity, or whatever. Before I do it, I have to say--I have felt very uninspired this year. And I admit that this is mostly a very depressing mix. Which is to say that it sort of befits a mostly depressing year.
*"Ride" The Old 97s
*"Chinatown" Luna
*"Too Drunk to Dream" The Magnetic Fields
*"A Dustland Fairy Tale" The Killers
*"The Bleeding Heart Show" The New Pornographers
*"Disorder" Joy Division
*"Love Song" The Dandy Warhols
*"Stone Cold World" Caroline Herring
*"Librarian" My Morning Jacket
*"All in It" British Sea Power
*"Clouds" The Go-Betweens
*"Lost Coastlines" Okkervil River
*"Mapped by what Surrounded Them" The Twilight Sad
*"Walls" Beck
*"Ruin" The Pierces
*"Believe" The Bravery
and, because it wouldn't be 2008--
*"Madagascar" GnR
(You will notice for the second year in a row, there is no Frank Black on the list---!)
This year's mix (entitled "Spin it Again") is now done, and mailed off to the regular recipients (or sitting under my tree for Mikey and J-bro and Jane), so I thought I'd "publish" the list here. For posterity, or whatever. Before I do it, I have to say--I have felt very uninspired this year. And I admit that this is mostly a very depressing mix. Which is to say that it sort of befits a mostly depressing year.
*"Ride" The Old 97s
*"Chinatown" Luna
*"Too Drunk to Dream" The Magnetic Fields
*"A Dustland Fairy Tale" The Killers
*"The Bleeding Heart Show" The New Pornographers
*"Disorder" Joy Division
*"Love Song" The Dandy Warhols
*"Stone Cold World" Caroline Herring
*"Librarian" My Morning Jacket
*"All in It" British Sea Power
*"Clouds" The Go-Betweens
*"Lost Coastlines" Okkervil River
*"Mapped by what Surrounded Them" The Twilight Sad
*"Walls" Beck
*"Ruin" The Pierces
*"Believe" The Bravery
and, because it wouldn't be 2008--
*"Madagascar" GnR
(You will notice for the second year in a row, there is no Frank Black on the list---!)
31 October 2008
Halloween History & Philosophy, Make-Ready Style
It is Halloween y'all. And if you live in the Pacific NW, you know what that means. After a week of lovely, lovely fall weather and unseasonably warm (low 70s) temperatures, it turned suddenly cold and rainy last night--just in time to secure the tradition of big bulky coats obscuring cool costumes, turtlenecks under princess dresses, and dads carrying big golf umbrellas and travel mugs. I know that I am sometimes given to hyperbolic statements, but believe me when I tell you that I can't remember a Halloween when my hopes for decent trick or treating weather were not dashed at the last minute. I remember one year it was so windy that I kept considering the possibility that I might actually blow away. (You know, like Piglet in the Blustery Day story.)
Luckily I was blessed with a mother who downplayed the whole dressing up thing, and played up the getting candy thing, so I was often dressed fairly last minute in a costume that I didn't care very much about. My mom dressed us for comfort and warmth: sensible shoes for maxium distance, layers for optimal heat. Even our trick or treating routes through the neighborhood were carefully planned so that we could do half the neighborhood, come back home and drop the candy we'd received (and maybe have a hot chocolate) and then head back out with a lighter load, but without having lost valuable time or energy due to backtracking.
The costume was never the thing. And so costumes could be functional. And since my parents' planning resulted in fairly large candy stashes every year, my brothers and I were not likely to complain. It was clear that they had a plan for success. This explains why I allowed my mother to dress me, for instance, as a lumberjack (complete with a full black makeup beard) when I was 7, and also why I was never a princess, a bride, a fairy OR a female superhero. It may also explain why I absolutely refuse to costume myself now. The only reason to do it in the first place was to fleece my neighbors of their sweets. Once the opportunity to do that passed, there was never a good reason to do it again. (Well, once. I DID wear a costume for the Spirit Week pep assembly lip synch contest my junior year in high school--devoted readers might remember this story--but that is the only time I have put on a costume since the last time I went trick or treating. When I was 12.)
But don't misunderstand me. I'm not all, "Bah, Humbat" about Halloween. I celebrated by baking cookies for my classes and showing them episodes of Making Fiends. And tonight the family will gather, and Blake will probably carve some pumpkins, and my mom will make some fondue, and the kids will run around and scream and eat too much sugar and stay up too late. And I am going to try my hand at doughnut making--since homemade doughnuts seem like a seasonal kind of foodstuff.
But I'm not passing out candy, whipping up maple frosting, playing with baby Hank (in a giraffe costume, no less!), or eating liquid cheese in a costume. And I'm certainly staying indoors.
Luckily I was blessed with a mother who downplayed the whole dressing up thing, and played up the getting candy thing, so I was often dressed fairly last minute in a costume that I didn't care very much about. My mom dressed us for comfort and warmth: sensible shoes for maxium distance, layers for optimal heat. Even our trick or treating routes through the neighborhood were carefully planned so that we could do half the neighborhood, come back home and drop the candy we'd received (and maybe have a hot chocolate) and then head back out with a lighter load, but without having lost valuable time or energy due to backtracking.
The costume was never the thing. And so costumes could be functional. And since my parents' planning resulted in fairly large candy stashes every year, my brothers and I were not likely to complain. It was clear that they had a plan for success. This explains why I allowed my mother to dress me, for instance, as a lumberjack (complete with a full black makeup beard) when I was 7, and also why I was never a princess, a bride, a fairy OR a female superhero. It may also explain why I absolutely refuse to costume myself now. The only reason to do it in the first place was to fleece my neighbors of their sweets. Once the opportunity to do that passed, there was never a good reason to do it again. (Well, once. I DID wear a costume for the Spirit Week pep assembly lip synch contest my junior year in high school--devoted readers might remember this story--but that is the only time I have put on a costume since the last time I went trick or treating. When I was 12.)
But don't misunderstand me. I'm not all, "Bah, Humbat" about Halloween. I celebrated by baking cookies for my classes and showing them episodes of Making Fiends. And tonight the family will gather, and Blake will probably carve some pumpkins, and my mom will make some fondue, and the kids will run around and scream and eat too much sugar and stay up too late. And I am going to try my hand at doughnut making--since homemade doughnuts seem like a seasonal kind of foodstuff.
But I'm not passing out candy, whipping up maple frosting, playing with baby Hank (in a giraffe costume, no less!), or eating liquid cheese in a costume. And I'm certainly staying indoors.
16 October 2008
Speaking of
Qwanty and social networking sites. I told her a long time ago that I would write on the following subject. Maybe now is the time.
So, there were these two guys that I knew growing up--Stace and Lance. They were older guys (probably 5 years older) who lived in the neighborhood. They were enough older than me that I never really had much to do with them, although I think that they stole money from me the one time that I had a lemonade stand with my 1st brother (the one who Qwanty likes to call "Rimmy"). Anyway, L & S were the kind of neighborhood guys who remained friends all the way through high school. And they were seniors when I was a freshman. This was the first time since elementary school that I was anywhere where I'd see them on a regular basis.
Coincidentally, freshman year is when I met Qwanty, who ended up having a crush on Stace.* Now, don't hold this against her. I think that we had a silent pact in high school to split all the guys we knew down the middle so that between the two of us we had crushes on most of the male population of CHS.** I did think that this particular crush was ridiculous though. And you will soon see why.
You may be thinking that this is just a nostalgic post, but I'm giving you background so that you can understand why this is particularly silly.
Here's the deal. A few months ago, while hoping that a very old crush of mine could be found on Facebook (no such luck!), I came across Stace's Facebook page. And curiosity dictated that I check out a website dedicated to this guy and his apparent wife. I find this website shocking. I mean, G-- knows that I've got enough internet presence to not throw stones, but, really? They have their own swag? I can order a tank top with a picture of Stace as a child with the word "player" written across it? I can contact Heidi about her semi-precious stone jewelry? Or I can book Stace to DJ at my next blowout? I can check out their latest theme party and/or vaca pictures?
I don't even know what to say about this kind of bizarre self-promotion. I mean, we probably could have predicted something like this. This website seems completely in keeping with his personality. Here' s the problem. Thirty years ago, a guy like Stace would have been the type to invite people over to his house to have dinner, look at 400 slides of his last cruise to Greece, and then maybe listen to a pitch for the latest multi-level marketing scheme in which he was involved. Now this personality can bring his special kind of self-absorption to the whole world via the internets.
Listen, I'll continue to write pointless, self-indulgent, and sometimes snarky posts--but I promise you--dear readers--no coffee mugs with pictures of a young KRD with the word "princess" underneath.
*She also, and for the life of me I can't remember why she did this, drew a picture of Lance at one point. It was amazing, because it looked exactly like him, but also exactly like Mozart at the same time. It was a picture of Mance, or Lozart. I still have it in my dusty, dusty archives.
**I think that we only overlapped once. On Chris Clark, of all people. But I've written about that before.
So, there were these two guys that I knew growing up--Stace and Lance. They were older guys (probably 5 years older) who lived in the neighborhood. They were enough older than me that I never really had much to do with them, although I think that they stole money from me the one time that I had a lemonade stand with my 1st brother (the one who Qwanty likes to call "Rimmy"). Anyway, L & S were the kind of neighborhood guys who remained friends all the way through high school. And they were seniors when I was a freshman. This was the first time since elementary school that I was anywhere where I'd see them on a regular basis.
Coincidentally, freshman year is when I met Qwanty, who ended up having a crush on Stace.* Now, don't hold this against her. I think that we had a silent pact in high school to split all the guys we knew down the middle so that between the two of us we had crushes on most of the male population of CHS.** I did think that this particular crush was ridiculous though. And you will soon see why.
You may be thinking that this is just a nostalgic post, but I'm giving you background so that you can understand why this is particularly silly.
Here's the deal. A few months ago, while hoping that a very old crush of mine could be found on Facebook (no such luck!), I came across Stace's Facebook page. And curiosity dictated that I check out a website dedicated to this guy and his apparent wife. I find this website shocking. I mean, G-- knows that I've got enough internet presence to not throw stones, but, really? They have their own swag? I can order a tank top with a picture of Stace as a child with the word "player" written across it? I can contact Heidi about her semi-precious stone jewelry? Or I can book Stace to DJ at my next blowout? I can check out their latest theme party and/or vaca pictures?
I don't even know what to say about this kind of bizarre self-promotion. I mean, we probably could have predicted something like this. This website seems completely in keeping with his personality. Here' s the problem. Thirty years ago, a guy like Stace would have been the type to invite people over to his house to have dinner, look at 400 slides of his last cruise to Greece, and then maybe listen to a pitch for the latest multi-level marketing scheme in which he was involved. Now this personality can bring his special kind of self-absorption to the whole world via the internets.
Listen, I'll continue to write pointless, self-indulgent, and sometimes snarky posts--but I promise you--dear readers--no coffee mugs with pictures of a young KRD with the word "princess" underneath.
*She also, and for the life of me I can't remember why she did this, drew a picture of Lance at one point. It was amazing, because it looked exactly like him, but also exactly like Mozart at the same time. It was a picture of Mance, or Lozart. I still have it in my dusty, dusty archives.
**I think that we only overlapped once. On Chris Clark, of all people. But I've written about that before.
15 October 2008
15 July 2008
After the Party
Tonight I had Laura, my cousin and his very wonderful boyfriend over for dinner. It has been a long time since I've cooked for anyone. I forgot how it is one of my very, very favorite things to do.
And not to be a "self-tooter" (that is, according to ZAD, a person who toots his/her own horn), but I was super pleased with dinner. It consisted of: risotto with a bunch of different cheeses and cherry tomatoes and basil; grilled swordfish (for the vegetarian ladies) and grilled pork steaks (for the meat-eating carnivorous menfolk) over a bed of field greens and green beans dressed with a lemon/olive oil dressing. For dessert, polenta cake (oh how I love the gritty & sweet polenta cake!) with mixed berries and whipped cream. The guys said that the pork was well cooked. I hope that was true--I couldn't verify it. But the risotto was really, really good.
Here's the thing--I used Jamie Oliver's basic recipe which calls for celery (I don't know why this makes it taste better, but it does. And it adds a little extra texture) and vermouth. You must use the vermouth. It is better for risotto than plain white wine. Trust me. Or don't. Trust Jamie Oliver. He's rarely wrong about these things.
Dinner seemed like a success, and it helped to get rid of stuff in my cabinets that has to disappear shortly--a box of arborio rice, half a bottle of Bombay Sapphire, a bottle of wine, flour and corn meal, the end of a bottle of Mexican vanilla.
AND, since I made ZAD promise not to bring a bottle of wine, Sean made me a new mix as a hostess gift. He almost called it Kristin-nacht, which is in horribly bad taste, but is kind of funny nevertheless. Instead it is just labeled "Kristin's Dinner Party Mix." And I'm going to listen to it tomorrow as I'm packing. YAY!
***
Perhaps some of you have heard me tell the story that my mother always tells--when my parents started going out after I was born, my mom would come home at night, no matter how late, and tell me about their night--where they ate, what they ate, what kind of wine they had. This is when I was a baby. I remember being very little--maybe five or six--and her waking me up smelling like perfume and lipstick and wine. I think that this is one of the most endearing things about my mother--that even though I couldn't understand what she was talking about, she had missed me enough over just the course of the evening that she wanted to make that contact with me, and to share what she had been doing while we had been separated.
So, dear readers, imagine that I have come to check on you and tuck you in. And I smell of Aveda lotion and Bonnie Bell lemonade lip balm and white wine and I'm whispering in the dark: risotto, chardonnay, swordfish, raspberries, Naked Chef, mixed CD . . .
Now go back to sleep. Tomorrow it will seem like a dream--
And not to be a "self-tooter" (that is, according to ZAD, a person who toots his/her own horn), but I was super pleased with dinner. It consisted of: risotto with a bunch of different cheeses and cherry tomatoes and basil; grilled swordfish (for the vegetarian ladies) and grilled pork steaks (for the meat-eating carnivorous menfolk) over a bed of field greens and green beans dressed with a lemon/olive oil dressing. For dessert, polenta cake (oh how I love the gritty & sweet polenta cake!) with mixed berries and whipped cream. The guys said that the pork was well cooked. I hope that was true--I couldn't verify it. But the risotto was really, really good.
Here's the thing--I used Jamie Oliver's basic recipe which calls for celery (I don't know why this makes it taste better, but it does. And it adds a little extra texture) and vermouth. You must use the vermouth. It is better for risotto than plain white wine. Trust me. Or don't. Trust Jamie Oliver. He's rarely wrong about these things.
Dinner seemed like a success, and it helped to get rid of stuff in my cabinets that has to disappear shortly--a box of arborio rice, half a bottle of Bombay Sapphire, a bottle of wine, flour and corn meal, the end of a bottle of Mexican vanilla.
AND, since I made ZAD promise not to bring a bottle of wine, Sean made me a new mix as a hostess gift. He almost called it Kristin-nacht, which is in horribly bad taste, but is kind of funny nevertheless. Instead it is just labeled "Kristin's Dinner Party Mix." And I'm going to listen to it tomorrow as I'm packing. YAY!
***
Perhaps some of you have heard me tell the story that my mother always tells--when my parents started going out after I was born, my mom would come home at night, no matter how late, and tell me about their night--where they ate, what they ate, what kind of wine they had. This is when I was a baby. I remember being very little--maybe five or six--and her waking me up smelling like perfume and lipstick and wine. I think that this is one of the most endearing things about my mother--that even though I couldn't understand what she was talking about, she had missed me enough over just the course of the evening that she wanted to make that contact with me, and to share what she had been doing while we had been separated.
So, dear readers, imagine that I have come to check on you and tuck you in. And I smell of Aveda lotion and Bonnie Bell lemonade lip balm and white wine and I'm whispering in the dark: risotto, chardonnay, swordfish, raspberries, Naked Chef, mixed CD . . .
Now go back to sleep. Tomorrow it will seem like a dream--
28 June 2008
"Hey you look like . . . "
There is a guy who is a regular at one of the two coffee shops where I spend the most time here in Austin. This guy looks exactly like Brad Garrett (yes, the guy from Everybody Loves Raymond). I'm super serious. Exactly. Only he's not so freakishly large. If you doubt my judgment in this matter, consider the fact that I brought this up during drinks with Rebecca and Rodney tonight and Rebecca started laughing and said that she immediately knew who I was talking about.
I saw this guy today and, as I was marveling at his likeness to Brad Garrett, I started thinking about the other "celebrity" look alikes I have known in my life. Qwanty can attest to both of them, and she will probably remember more details than I will---
The first is a person that we only knew as "The Nick Cave Guy" for a long time until one night at BOG when we actually had drinks with him. I'm sure that we were introduced to him, but I promptly forgot his given name, preferring instead to continue to call him "The Nick Cave Guy." (Oh, by the way, we called him that because of his shocking resemblance to Nick Cave.) We used to see this guy at BOG a lot, and I also used to run into him at the Flesh--oops, I mean Fresh Pot--on Hawthorne. Here is where my memory gets a little hazy. I want to say that we finally met him the night that we saw the Snifter Guy (some guy we used to see at the bar who we once thought, after we had both consumed many, many Black Butte Porters, looked like he should be smoking a cigar and drinking some sort of brandy or something out of a snifter. I also do not remember his non-descriptive name, but Qwanty may, since she had a little bit more of a relationship with him than I did. Also, in retrospect I think that the whole snifter/cigar thing had less to do with the way the Snifter Guy looked, and more to do with the fact that the first time we saw him he was sitting in a giant, overstuffed red velvet chair that sort of looked like a throne. But I digress.) drink 18 Olys out of the stubby bottles. One right after another.
Anyway, I think that Qwanty asked Snifter Guy about Nick Cave Guy and that he told us that Nick Cave Guy cultivated the look. The fact that he was capitalizing on the slight likeness he had naturally sort of disappointed both of us, since we wanted to believe that the look was completely organic. Then, as I recall, Snifter Guy invited Nick Cave Guy to sit with us. He told us all kinds of stuff about himself, but I don't remember any of it--except for a vague impression I have that he told us he was leaving town to do a program in documentary making at a jr. college in New Mexico. I think that the only reason I remember this is because it seemed like a giant, giant lie.
Guy number two was the "Chad Lowe Guy". (Do you notice a pattern? We favored descriptive nicknames for people that we didn't know well, but saw often. These nicknames almost always followed the pattern "The ________ Guy". We also sometimes would decide that someone reminded us of someone else we knew, but with different intensity. So, for awhile, we could talk about Toddy--Qwanty's special friend--but we also had a "Todd Light", who was Toddy-like, but with a little less Todd, and "Todd Heavy", who was extra-saturated Todd. We actually knew this guy's name, but we preferred calling him "Todd Heavy". His real name was more ridiculous, if you can imagine that. Some people had unusual enough names to just be called by those--our bartender Kip, for example, and the Flesh Pot boys, Skip and Vinnie. Our other bartender, BLT, had a hybrid nickname. It was descriptive, but also included his real name. BLT stood for "Big Louisiana Tom". I don't think that needs explanation.) ANYWAY. The Chad Lowe Guy was someone that both Qwanty and I began seeing in high school. He sometimes showed up on the public bus, and sometimes at the mall (the two places that Qwanty and I frequented, along with the volunteer room at Sunnyside Kaiser Hospital, prior to turning 16). I don't have a lot to say about that guy, other than the fact that he was a dead ringer for Chad Lowe. Unfortunately this was the early 90s and I know that wherever this guy went he was constantly being stopped by people who said, "Do you know you look like that guy on the show with the actor who has Downs Syndrome? You know, the guy who has AIDS?" I mean, that isn't very auspicious, is it? (Although it is probably better than what he gets now, which I imagine is something like, "Do you know you look like that guy who was dumped by that horsey-looking chick who keeps winning Oscars?")
Which brings me to the point of this post--and I do totally have a point--why do all the guys I ever see looking like "celebrities" look like lame celebrities? For once, I'd like to meet some regular Joe who looks like Henry Rollins, or Jeremy Irons, or Val Kilmer, circa Real Genius. You know, some celeb who I actually think is hot? (Wow. That list took me a long time to come up with. Qwanty, who else do I like?)
***
(Totally Unrelated Thought) Also, Jennifer is always asking me what my favorite word is. But I can't ever think of something when I'm put on the spot like that. Then she reminds me that Ken's favorite word is "aluminum". But today I thought of one that I do really like--sarcophagus. It's a cool word. It is fun to say, and cool to look at--it looks a little bit like it should be a part of the body.
I saw this guy today and, as I was marveling at his likeness to Brad Garrett, I started thinking about the other "celebrity" look alikes I have known in my life. Qwanty can attest to both of them, and she will probably remember more details than I will---
The first is a person that we only knew as "The Nick Cave Guy" for a long time until one night at BOG when we actually had drinks with him. I'm sure that we were introduced to him, but I promptly forgot his given name, preferring instead to continue to call him "The Nick Cave Guy." (Oh, by the way, we called him that because of his shocking resemblance to Nick Cave.) We used to see this guy at BOG a lot, and I also used to run into him at the Flesh--oops, I mean Fresh Pot--on Hawthorne. Here is where my memory gets a little hazy. I want to say that we finally met him the night that we saw the Snifter Guy (some guy we used to see at the bar who we once thought, after we had both consumed many, many Black Butte Porters, looked like he should be smoking a cigar and drinking some sort of brandy or something out of a snifter. I also do not remember his non-descriptive name, but Qwanty may, since she had a little bit more of a relationship with him than I did. Also, in retrospect I think that the whole snifter/cigar thing had less to do with the way the Snifter Guy looked, and more to do with the fact that the first time we saw him he was sitting in a giant, overstuffed red velvet chair that sort of looked like a throne. But I digress.) drink 18 Olys out of the stubby bottles. One right after another.
Anyway, I think that Qwanty asked Snifter Guy about Nick Cave Guy and that he told us that Nick Cave Guy cultivated the look. The fact that he was capitalizing on the slight likeness he had naturally sort of disappointed both of us, since we wanted to believe that the look was completely organic. Then, as I recall, Snifter Guy invited Nick Cave Guy to sit with us. He told us all kinds of stuff about himself, but I don't remember any of it--except for a vague impression I have that he told us he was leaving town to do a program in documentary making at a jr. college in New Mexico. I think that the only reason I remember this is because it seemed like a giant, giant lie.
Guy number two was the "Chad Lowe Guy". (Do you notice a pattern? We favored descriptive nicknames for people that we didn't know well, but saw often. These nicknames almost always followed the pattern "The ________ Guy". We also sometimes would decide that someone reminded us of someone else we knew, but with different intensity. So, for awhile, we could talk about Toddy--Qwanty's special friend--but we also had a "Todd Light", who was Toddy-like, but with a little less Todd, and "Todd Heavy", who was extra-saturated Todd. We actually knew this guy's name, but we preferred calling him "Todd Heavy". His real name was more ridiculous, if you can imagine that. Some people had unusual enough names to just be called by those--our bartender Kip, for example, and the Flesh Pot boys, Skip and Vinnie. Our other bartender, BLT, had a hybrid nickname. It was descriptive, but also included his real name. BLT stood for "Big Louisiana Tom". I don't think that needs explanation.) ANYWAY. The Chad Lowe Guy was someone that both Qwanty and I began seeing in high school. He sometimes showed up on the public bus, and sometimes at the mall (the two places that Qwanty and I frequented, along with the volunteer room at Sunnyside Kaiser Hospital, prior to turning 16). I don't have a lot to say about that guy, other than the fact that he was a dead ringer for Chad Lowe. Unfortunately this was the early 90s and I know that wherever this guy went he was constantly being stopped by people who said, "Do you know you look like that guy on the show with the actor who has Downs Syndrome? You know, the guy who has AIDS?" I mean, that isn't very auspicious, is it? (Although it is probably better than what he gets now, which I imagine is something like, "Do you know you look like that guy who was dumped by that horsey-looking chick who keeps winning Oscars?")
Which brings me to the point of this post--and I do totally have a point--why do all the guys I ever see looking like "celebrities" look like lame celebrities? For once, I'd like to meet some regular Joe who looks like Henry Rollins, or Jeremy Irons, or Val Kilmer, circa Real Genius. You know, some celeb who I actually think is hot? (Wow. That list took me a long time to come up with. Qwanty, who else do I like?)
***
(Totally Unrelated Thought) Also, Jennifer is always asking me what my favorite word is. But I can't ever think of something when I'm put on the spot like that. Then she reminds me that Ken's favorite word is "aluminum". But today I thought of one that I do really like--sarcophagus. It's a cool word. It is fun to say, and cool to look at--it looks a little bit like it should be a part of the body.
23 May 2008
"You didn't tell me you were a hippie"
So my dad (known to and loved by most of you as "Bruce") was really excited to take me to this fairly new restaurant chain called "Cafe Yumm!", which has evidently become sort of a phenomenon in the Eugene/Springfield area. There are currently five here, and one in Bend, and one coming to Corvallis. My mom and I were fairly skeptical about this culinary experience, but several hours later I'm starting to fear that Cafe Yumm!'s food is a little like crack in a bowl, covered in Tillamook cheddar. Now that I've picked up the bowl, I might not ever be able to put it back down. (My mother stuck with a turkey sandwich and has not been won over by the Yumm!)
So what is it? You may ask. Well, to quote Monkey James, "I am glad that you've asked that." Yumm! Bowls (the exclamation point is part of the trademark) are bowls of rice with some kind of bean, cheddar, diced tomato, fresh avocado (which I forgo, as I am not a fan of the avocado), sour cream, black olives, cilantro, and some mystery condiment known as "Yumm! sauce." I don't know what "Yumm! sauce IS, exactly, other than that it IS delicious.
So this is a fairly simple concept, but the actual execution is waaaaay better than you could imagine. It shouldn't work, actually, since there are lots of competing flavors. But it is marvelous. I had the "Smoky" bowl which is brown rice and vegetarian chipotle chili and salsa. I also had one of their barbecue tofu skewers.
This is another great reason to move to Eugene.
After dinner we made the traditional pilgrimages to all the Dorsey-related Eugene haunts--my mom's freshman dorm and my dad's seedy basement apartment. We talked about movies they saw (I think all of them in 1970) here, and we tried to find a particular Dairy Queen that my mom remembers (but that seems to be gone now). And, of course, we went up to Hendrick park so that we could pay homage to the corner where we lost Pre (bow your head for a moment of silence and think about what Pre has done for you).
We also went through the university so that we could look at the outside of Mac Court, Hayward Field, and so that my dad could show us where he parks when he comes down for the Oregon boys' basketball tourney every March.
Eugene is a totally charming town. And, for the record, I prefer forest green O's to burnt orange longhorns any day of the week.
So what is it? You may ask. Well, to quote Monkey James, "I am glad that you've asked that." Yumm! Bowls (the exclamation point is part of the trademark) are bowls of rice with some kind of bean, cheddar, diced tomato, fresh avocado (which I forgo, as I am not a fan of the avocado), sour cream, black olives, cilantro, and some mystery condiment known as "Yumm! sauce." I don't know what "Yumm! sauce IS, exactly, other than that it IS delicious.
So this is a fairly simple concept, but the actual execution is waaaaay better than you could imagine. It shouldn't work, actually, since there are lots of competing flavors. But it is marvelous. I had the "Smoky" bowl which is brown rice and vegetarian chipotle chili and salsa. I also had one of their barbecue tofu skewers.
This is another great reason to move to Eugene.
After dinner we made the traditional pilgrimages to all the Dorsey-related Eugene haunts--my mom's freshman dorm and my dad's seedy basement apartment. We talked about movies they saw (I think all of them in 1970) here, and we tried to find a particular Dairy Queen that my mom remembers (but that seems to be gone now). And, of course, we went up to Hendrick park so that we could pay homage to the corner where we lost Pre (bow your head for a moment of silence and think about what Pre has done for you).
We also went through the university so that we could look at the outside of Mac Court, Hayward Field, and so that my dad could show us where he parks when he comes down for the Oregon boys' basketball tourney every March.
Eugene is a totally charming town. And, for the record, I prefer forest green O's to burnt orange longhorns any day of the week.
25 April 2008
Smell Ya Later
I am on day four of a cold that has left my nose without function (other than to take up room between my eyes and lips on my face. And hold up my glasses). I can't breathe at all, so I only sleep for a couple of hours at a time--which makes it pretty hard to beat the cold, since I can't sleep it off. Last night I put some vicks under my nose in an attempt to 1) soothe the redness and 2) open up some sort of small air passage. I don't think that it helped. And in one way it actually hurt. Because once I put it on I realized that I couldn't smell its menthol loveliness. Not at all. I could feel the tingle, but I couldn't smell it. And then I realized that I actually haven't been able to smell anything all week. And then I started to worry that I was going to end up like Trusty the dog from Lady and the Tramp, dreaming about the days when I used to be able to track animals while out hunting with my master.
Or something like that.
But I did, at three o'clock in the morning, sleep and oxygen deprived, begin to think about my favorite things to smell, and how much I'd miss them if I never could smell them again.
Here is my list:
1) vicks.
2) Playdough. I make Gus play Playdough with me all the time so that I can get that smell on my hands. This usually entails me making very detailed houses and Gus destroying them with tornadoes. Sometimes we play Food Network, which I like better because he does his Emeril impression and I get to be Rachael Ray.
3) Vanilla Amber Musk. This is my favorite thing to wear. Because it smells intoxicating. From Escentials, the shop on Hawthorne. (http://www.escential.net) And it is only $7.00 per 1/4 oz. And it stays good almost forever because their products are mostly vegetable oil based. (This is too heavy, I find, for most of the year in Texas, so I wear it a lot less often here.)
4) A can of freshly opened racquetballs. Reminds me of my childhood. And Bruce. And who doesn't like to be reminded of Bruce?
5) Baking brownies. Mmmm. Warm chocolate.
6) Rosemary. Which is also my favorite herb. For those of you who are taking note.
7) Mr. Sketch markers. But not grape. Artificial grape scent/flavor is disgusting.
8) Morning-after bar. I know it is foul, but I love waking up the morning after having spent a long evening in a bar (you know, a real bar where people actually can smoke inside?) and smelling the aroma of my own transgressions. (Which usually aren't all that transgressive.) Unlike regret, you can wash this smell off of you, which is part of the allure.
9) Coffee. This is, perhaps, the greatest single olfactory joy of all. Freshly roasted, freshly ground coffee. Walking into Stumptown (oh, Stumpdawg!) on a weekend morning and the smell is so pervasive that it sticks to you for the rest of the day. Part of my being-home ritual is that I always go to Stumptown on my last day in town and buy coffee to bring back to Texas with me. It is partially because I hate drinking anything else. And it is partially because I feel less far away when, on the other end of the journey, I open my bags and they are filled with that smell. It's like, for a moment, I get to cheat my senses.
My best scent memory is of some lipgloss I had as a kid. It was orange flavored and colored and it came in a plastic orange slice that was attached to some string for wearing around the neck. I remember keeping the orange slice long after the gloss was gone because I could still open it and smell the smell of it. I can't describe its actual bouquet, but it was something beyond fake orange---something warm, almost baked. It was delightful. I'd kill to find something that smelled like that again . . .
Or something like that.
But I did, at three o'clock in the morning, sleep and oxygen deprived, begin to think about my favorite things to smell, and how much I'd miss them if I never could smell them again.
Here is my list:
1) vicks.
2) Playdough. I make Gus play Playdough with me all the time so that I can get that smell on my hands. This usually entails me making very detailed houses and Gus destroying them with tornadoes. Sometimes we play Food Network, which I like better because he does his Emeril impression and I get to be Rachael Ray.
3) Vanilla Amber Musk. This is my favorite thing to wear. Because it smells intoxicating. From Escentials, the shop on Hawthorne. (http://www.escential.net) And it is only $7.00 per 1/4 oz. And it stays good almost forever because their products are mostly vegetable oil based. (This is too heavy, I find, for most of the year in Texas, so I wear it a lot less often here.)
4) A can of freshly opened racquetballs. Reminds me of my childhood. And Bruce. And who doesn't like to be reminded of Bruce?
5) Baking brownies. Mmmm. Warm chocolate.
6) Rosemary. Which is also my favorite herb. For those of you who are taking note.
7) Mr. Sketch markers. But not grape. Artificial grape scent/flavor is disgusting.
8) Morning-after bar. I know it is foul, but I love waking up the morning after having spent a long evening in a bar (you know, a real bar where people actually can smoke inside?) and smelling the aroma of my own transgressions. (Which usually aren't all that transgressive.) Unlike regret, you can wash this smell off of you, which is part of the allure.
9) Coffee. This is, perhaps, the greatest single olfactory joy of all. Freshly roasted, freshly ground coffee. Walking into Stumptown (oh, Stumpdawg!) on a weekend morning and the smell is so pervasive that it sticks to you for the rest of the day. Part of my being-home ritual is that I always go to Stumptown on my last day in town and buy coffee to bring back to Texas with me. It is partially because I hate drinking anything else. And it is partially because I feel less far away when, on the other end of the journey, I open my bags and they are filled with that smell. It's like, for a moment, I get to cheat my senses.
My best scent memory is of some lipgloss I had as a kid. It was orange flavored and colored and it came in a plastic orange slice that was attached to some string for wearing around the neck. I remember keeping the orange slice long after the gloss was gone because I could still open it and smell the smell of it. I can't describe its actual bouquet, but it was something beyond fake orange---something warm, almost baked. It was delightful. I'd kill to find something that smelled like that again . . .
16 April 2008
C'mon Feel the Noize*
OK, so the following was inspired by the guy who works at the coffee shop, who told me today (in a blatant and sort of sadistic attempt to make me horribly jealous) that he saw Bruce Springsteen in Dallas, and that Jon Bon Jovi (!--Jon Bon freakin' Jovi!?) joined him on stage for "Glory Days." That is awesome. Trying to make myself feel better, I have been reflecting all day on my personal concert highlights. Here they are, in no particular order:
1) M. Ward at the Parish in Austin--my second (?) year here. When it became clear that he was going to end the show without doing "Sad, Sad Song" (which remains my very favorite M. Ward song), his lovely wife (my lovely friend) ran backstage to tell him that he had to do it in the encore.
2) The Donnas, also at the Parish, last fall. The whole show was totally great, as you would expect, but for their encore they covered Ratt's "Round and Round." Listen, haters, if you don't think that those girls are the real deal, then you just don't know. They rocked the hell out of the song. It was downright inspiring. (Blake, J-Bro and Mikey J. also saw this same encore in PDX. They can attest.)
3) Aerosmith at the Rose Garden. I don't know. Like 10 years ago. Actually, the show itself sort of sucked because we had totally crappy seats AND we were sitting by complete asshats, but there was this moment I like to often relive when, about 2 hours into the set, Steven Tyler stopped, stood still for a moment, then jumped straight up into the air and did a forward flip. WHAT?! I mean the guy was like 50, and had been a nearly-dead heroin addict for 20 of those years, and had been running back and forth on the stage for 2 hours and he could still jump up in the air and flip?! From a standing position? No running start even? People, that is an amazing testament to the power of adrenaline.
4) Sting at the LB Day Amphitheatre in Salem. Summer of 1991, or thereabouts. This is actually part of a much longer story (which includes a long digression about this IDIOT that Qwanty was sort of seeing who resembled Jesus. But in looks only), but the night was beautiful, and we were so close that, in Qwanty's words, "we could get sprayed by Sting's sweat" if he shook his head back and forth. We sat next to two middle-aged women who were loving it as much as we were, and who thanked us (or maybe we thanked them?) for being so fun to sit next to. We danced the whole show under a perfect Oregon summer twilight, and then perfect Oregon summer stars.
5) Paul McCartney at the KINGDOME, 1990ish. I was there with Qwanty (again) and my young, converse-wearing friend Jessica. After this huge multimedia pre-show (I think it lasted about 20 minutes) we were whipped into a frenzy so that when Sir Paul (who was, granted, a football field away from us) walked onto stage alone with his guitar the three of us spontaneously began weeping. It was wild. I wouldn't have thought it possible, if I hadn't been there myself. It was, all-in-all, the most amazing concert experience of my life.
Actually, honorable mention should go to most of the concerts I attended with Qwanty, who has always been my favorite person to see shows with. Erasure (when I was 14), Donovan (15--although I don't know if this was one of the best shows I ever saw or worst), Cake (twice, although seeing them outside at the rose gardens with the Violent Femmes was the best), and, of course, The Moops, with Patrick Lunch on drums and "the wad of mod" doing vocals, no doubt in those Velveteen pants he favors.
(Note: I will actually write a blog post about Patrick in the future. He was in my life for a relatively brief time, but his influence looms large.)
*I know this is not how the name of the song is actually written, for all you QR purists. But I think of this as a family-friendly blog. In other words, Bruce reads it.
1) M. Ward at the Parish in Austin--my second (?) year here. When it became clear that he was going to end the show without doing "Sad, Sad Song" (which remains my very favorite M. Ward song), his lovely wife (my lovely friend) ran backstage to tell him that he had to do it in the encore.
2) The Donnas, also at the Parish, last fall. The whole show was totally great, as you would expect, but for their encore they covered Ratt's "Round and Round." Listen, haters, if you don't think that those girls are the real deal, then you just don't know. They rocked the hell out of the song. It was downright inspiring. (Blake, J-Bro and Mikey J. also saw this same encore in PDX. They can attest.)
3) Aerosmith at the Rose Garden. I don't know. Like 10 years ago. Actually, the show itself sort of sucked because we had totally crappy seats AND we were sitting by complete asshats, but there was this moment I like to often relive when, about 2 hours into the set, Steven Tyler stopped, stood still for a moment, then jumped straight up into the air and did a forward flip. WHAT?! I mean the guy was like 50, and had been a nearly-dead heroin addict for 20 of those years, and had been running back and forth on the stage for 2 hours and he could still jump up in the air and flip?! From a standing position? No running start even? People, that is an amazing testament to the power of adrenaline.
4) Sting at the LB Day Amphitheatre in Salem. Summer of 1991, or thereabouts. This is actually part of a much longer story (which includes a long digression about this IDIOT that Qwanty was sort of seeing who resembled Jesus. But in looks only), but the night was beautiful, and we were so close that, in Qwanty's words, "we could get sprayed by Sting's sweat" if he shook his head back and forth. We sat next to two middle-aged women who were loving it as much as we were, and who thanked us (or maybe we thanked them?) for being so fun to sit next to. We danced the whole show under a perfect Oregon summer twilight, and then perfect Oregon summer stars.
5) Paul McCartney at the KINGDOME, 1990ish. I was there with Qwanty (again) and my young, converse-wearing friend Jessica. After this huge multimedia pre-show (I think it lasted about 20 minutes) we were whipped into a frenzy so that when Sir Paul (who was, granted, a football field away from us) walked onto stage alone with his guitar the three of us spontaneously began weeping. It was wild. I wouldn't have thought it possible, if I hadn't been there myself. It was, all-in-all, the most amazing concert experience of my life.
Actually, honorable mention should go to most of the concerts I attended with Qwanty, who has always been my favorite person to see shows with. Erasure (when I was 14), Donovan (15--although I don't know if this was one of the best shows I ever saw or worst), Cake (twice, although seeing them outside at the rose gardens with the Violent Femmes was the best), and, of course, The Moops, with Patrick Lunch on drums and "the wad of mod" doing vocals, no doubt in those Velveteen pants he favors.
(Note: I will actually write a blog post about Patrick in the future. He was in my life for a relatively brief time, but his influence looms large.)
*I know this is not how the name of the song is actually written, for all you QR purists. But I think of this as a family-friendly blog. In other words, Bruce reads it.
15 April 2008
Le musée à ma maison
So I just started reading Even Cowgirls Get the Blues which, strangely, is the first Tom Robbins novel I've ever read. I've had a copy of the book floating around my bookshelves for the past several years and I'm trying to read stuff I already have before I buy any more books. Anyway, I picked up the book and was surprised to find it annotated. I found it hard to believe that I would have bought the book with anyone else's writing in it. But then I remembered--this particular book was NOT one that I had bought for myself. It was a gift. Given to me by Greg Goekjian as a spontaneous congratulatory token when he found out that I had been accepted into my current PhD program.
Then I started thinking about how truly weird it is that I have G's personal copy of Even the Cowgirls Get the Blues. Clearly, I thought to myself, this is one of the strangest things that I own. This has inspired me to consider other strange things I own. Here is a list of my top ten items:
1) The aforementioned copy of Even Cowgirls Get the Blues.
2) A "Danielle Steele Book Club" mug. If you ever get a hot drink in this mug while visiting my casa, you know you are special. It's my personal favorite.
3) A framed and signed picture of Tom Selleck, in his Thomas-Sullivan-Magnum-the-IV days. Leaning against the famed red Ferrari, wearing the famed short shorts. This was (along with many of the other items in this list) a gift. But one that was based on an unfortunate misunderstanding. I can't bring myself to get rid of it though.
4) A "Scorpions Across America" tour tee shirt. I wish I could say that someone gave this to me because of an unfortunate misunderstanding. The truth is, I bought it for myself.
5) A pair of size 11 Grumpy slippers that are almost impossible to walk in.
6) A Barnes and Noble nametag that belonged to an actor who has most recently turned up in No Country for Old Men.
7) Not one, but two, Hello Kitty toasters. (One doesn't really work, but I can't bring myself to get rid of it either.)
8) A complete set of one-of-a-kind greeting cards featuring each of the 12 engravings from the Salvador Dali edition of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, handmade by Dr. Awesome.
9) The book A History of Orgies. This one was a gift, despite what you might have expected.
10) A certificate for "Most likely to become a sixth grade teacher," awarded unanimously by my own sixth grade class.
Then I started thinking about how truly weird it is that I have G's personal copy of Even the Cowgirls Get the Blues. Clearly, I thought to myself, this is one of the strangest things that I own. This has inspired me to consider other strange things I own. Here is a list of my top ten items:
1) The aforementioned copy of Even Cowgirls Get the Blues.
2) A "Danielle Steele Book Club" mug. If you ever get a hot drink in this mug while visiting my casa, you know you are special. It's my personal favorite.
3) A framed and signed picture of Tom Selleck, in his Thomas-Sullivan-Magnum-the-IV days. Leaning against the famed red Ferrari, wearing the famed short shorts. This was (along with many of the other items in this list) a gift. But one that was based on an unfortunate misunderstanding. I can't bring myself to get rid of it though.
4) A "Scorpions Across America" tour tee shirt. I wish I could say that someone gave this to me because of an unfortunate misunderstanding. The truth is, I bought it for myself.
5) A pair of size 11 Grumpy slippers that are almost impossible to walk in.
6) A Barnes and Noble nametag that belonged to an actor who has most recently turned up in No Country for Old Men.
7) Not one, but two, Hello Kitty toasters. (One doesn't really work, but I can't bring myself to get rid of it either.)
8) A complete set of one-of-a-kind greeting cards featuring each of the 12 engravings from the Salvador Dali edition of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, handmade by Dr. Awesome.
9) The book A History of Orgies. This one was a gift, despite what you might have expected.
10) A certificate for "Most likely to become a sixth grade teacher," awarded unanimously by my own sixth grade class.
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