In Transit

Let me preface this by saying that if you find the whole premise of blogging a bit self-involved, you'll find in the following post everything you don't like about the business. If you're just looking for a good read, you may also want to look elsewhere. If you are bored at work and have nothing better to do, though, this should be right up your alley.

Have you ever watched The West Wing? You know, captivating drama about the innards of the Presidency. I always wished I was on that show. And while this will likely never come close to happening, I have been granted in recent days a little summer daydream of, in fleeting moments, what it might be like.

For a few months, I have been loaned off to a City Council office. I began last Monday. My days are generally tame -- researching why resident X's water bill was so high last month or explaining to resident Y why she can't house a small colony of feral cats in her backyard. (Was that revealing that I specified resident Y as "her"? My misogyny knows no bounds.)

But in it's more glorious moments, as I've come to consider them, I get the occasional transcendent Hollywood moment. It might come trying to craft an honest, yet diplomatic response to a neighborhood issue (channeling my inner-Sam Seaborn, if you will), or responding to a reporter's request for quotes for an upcoming story (what would Josh Lyman do?). For a brief moment, it feels like the best story, some yet un-felt drama unfolding before my eyes and hands and voice. A story that doesn't stop at the page but instead has seeped into my body, enveloping me. The story | is mine. It is fun to have fun sometimes, and I am thankful for this current bit of it. Particularly as it makes for one more episode of summer fun.

Smith & 9th

Courtesy of Amy, I think, I heard about Obadiah Parker and the infamous cover of "Hey Ya". Full disclosure: I've never gone back and listened to any of his/the band's other music. But let's not dwell on shortcomings. The point is that that cover is so beautiful. It captures the...painful beauty...of what is really a song about love being awfully hard.

I took pictures of the lovely pear tomatoes we've managed to grow in our backyard, but I can't find the cord to connect the camera to the laptop and I'm too lazy to go rummaging through the garage to find it. So, the pictures will have to wait. I tell you this story to show that I was at least thinking of you.

There are moments when the past feels inescapable. When it as heavy as Portland fog. Draped around my feet, pulling at my shirt, slipping into my lungs. Stealing away sun|light|oxygen. It feels very unfair. It is too powerful -- so much stronger than the present, which quickly, feebly fades into gray. It -- the past -- comes back at a moment's notice, when the right song plays, when that old picture stumbles across the screen. It's not always this way, of course. There are many days -- especially in these lovely summer months -- when the Sun is bright enough to burn away the haze. I am grateful for the assistance. But there are other times -- especially when night sweeps in -- that I|am|captive. I feel a bit captive tonight.

Something You Just Can't Shake

I was after a specific perspective, a certain line of sight, of this sign. It is the one I walked past nearly every day during my 10 weeks in Portland. There is a memory I have, grey sky and green-paneled building, an unusually warm early morning, blue neon coursing through bending tubes. It is one of my favorite memories of that place. I wish I could find a picture, but I think the scene was too perfect to have happened more than once, and I might've been the only one to see it. So, it will live only in memory, which I'll do my best to strengthen by falling asleep to it tonight.

Many Moons, Many Moons

Today is my birthday. I spent the morning helping friends move into their new house. This was actually a very nice way to spend my birthday morning, as it a) got me up at a reasonable hour b) allowed me to see friends, make silly jokes, etc. and c) made me feel like I accomplished something. Sort of reminded me of summertime in high school, when most weeks/(ends) were spent doing some service or another in the city, or Mexico, or Mtn. Meadows Ranch. Good times.

I then came home and logged onto Facebook. I realized I'd chosen not to share my birth date with anyone -- must have been in a fit of anti-Facebook, anti-easy-personal-information rage -- which meant I'd receive no obligatory happy birthday wishes from friends I haven't talked to in years. Between you and me, I kind of wanted those wishes. Hypocrisy of hypocrisies, I know, but I'm just being honest. I then thought of changing my information so my birthday would show, but this would be terribly obvious, what with it being the actual day. And while I may be desperate, I don't want to show I'm desperate. So, I've resorted to the blog, where I can cloak my desperation in a sort of pseudo-honesty by sharing about it. And you think you're an over-analyzer...

Anyway, tonight there'll be a little shindig with a bunch of guys (and Emolyn -- just can't say no to that cute little face) watching a UFC fight (another post on my UFC -conversion later), drinking beer (or scotch, if we should so choose. And I very well may.), and making cynical remarks about pop culture. Should be a hoot.

If you feel compelled to get me a birtday present, you could start by getting me here: (Note: I initially set out to find a picture of Keira Knightley, but when that started to feel too tasteless, I decided on something a little more...palatable:)

Lavendar farm, Hood River, Oregon

A Funny Coincidence

I would like to write about Flannery O'Connor. I am listening to a band called As I Lay Dying, which is, of course, a novel by another Southern Gothic writer, William Faulkner. This is a coincidence I appreciate.

I'm reading O'Connor's The Violent Bear It Away, which is one of her few novels (she was much more known for short stories). It is...bizarre. But it's written at a fairly simple level, so at least you aren't ensnared by thick language. Yet as bizarre as it has been so far -- and it's the sort of bizarre, I must add, that is somehow unnerving -- I find myself liking it and wanting more. In fact, had it not been for other tasks tonight (new (Craigslist new) washer and dryer installation -- not the most fun task but one that will pay dividends the next time I need to do laundry and don't want the house to sound like it's foundations are crumbling), I would have indulged myself. But it is the sort of story that you can pick up and plow through easily enough, so it's just as well I wait until some lunch hour later this week.

Are you familiar with Ms. O'Connor? Southern authors in general? Have you thoughts on the species? My opinion, of course, is tainted by the two lovely years I spent in Georgia, but for what it's worth, I'm an ardent supporter. Ms. O'Connor, to recommend her further, was born in that most beautiful and haunted of towns -- Savannah, Georgia. If you're not yet ready to give Southern fiction a chance, perhaps you'd do well to begin by spending a few days (and nights) in Savannah, whereupon its spook and charm may win you over to the South and its band of storytellers.

[Q] and [A]

Do you know what pitch correction is? It's where you change the angle of your arm when you throw, improving the velocity and movement of your pitch. Just kidding. It's basically where they're able to improve/correct the tone of your recorded voice without changing anything else (i.e., dynamics, clarity, etc.) Think boy band. Accordingly, pitch correction is frowned upon by "serious" artists. I don't think there's a real case for it either, except for that this song I keep listening to has a part that is so clearly pitch corrected -- and it might be my favorite part of the song. I'm unapologetic.

There are small orange tomatoes growing outside our family room window. This isn't mysterious; we planted them. But while the dogs were ultimately able to break through (or over, as it were) the chicken wire fence we built and successfully consume/mutilate/murder the zucchini, cantaloupe, squash, radishes, onions, and carrots, they mysteriously spared the tomato plants. So, we are beginning to have summer tomatoes. They are of the pint-size variety, which I somewhat regret, as nothing sounds better than coming home to wash off a goodly-sized tomato and biting straight into it. But the little ones are tasty too, and the majority are still waiting to ripen, so their bounty should continue on for weeks. At this point I should include a picture, but my absence from blogging has left me a bit numb to blogging etiquette. I'll see if I can snap a few pics in coming days.

They look a bit like this...

This one was title-less, and I just noticed.

Sometimes I find it hard to give new/different music a fair shake. My sister, who's musical palate is much more tolerant than mine, will attest to this, particularly as it pertains to sad music. Some people like sad music. It makes good background music. It is often very pretty (and apparently has a sense of irony). I'm not sure if people find it comforting -- like it's nice to hear someone put to word and sound the things you feel. It's not like that for me. It just makes me sadder, moves me beyond introspection and into neurosis.

Of course, fun music has its limits too. My friend recommended the new Japandroids album. Really fun, really catchy, good music for driving through warm summer evenings. But lyrics like...

These girls are all
Bikini Kill
We need a ride to Bikini Island

We run the gauntlet
Let's get to France
So we can French kiss some French girls

...well, c'mon. I'm not given to poetry, much to my dismay, so my lyric interpretation skills probably aren't the keenest. But I dare you to make any sense of the lyrics above. "But perhaps there's no sense to be had?" Yes, I suppose, but that's not likely. Who sits down and says, "I'm now going to put together a smattering of words that, though creating a complete sentence, mean absolutely nothing about absolutely nothing."?

This perhaps explains my weakness for catchy songs with easily digestible lyrics. Talk about girls and the road and growing older. Whatever. Just so long as it's not apparent gibberish that may/may not have meaning. (And this probably gets to my real concern...and insecurity, as it were...that perhaps there is a great deal of meaning in lyrics that seem so bizarre at first, and I'm just too dull to find it.)

The name of that Japandroids song is "Wet Hair" and, in spite of insipid lyrics, is a pretty good listen.