The Last Sleep of J.T.

Rain drizzled cold. 

J.T. lay inside the sanctuary underpass of Interstate 5, where the landscape turned from the forgotten gentrification of Seattle's south-side industrial blocks to the gloomy neglected brambles climbing the hillsides above the Rainer Brewery.

A Man Wanders On Stage

A man wanders on stage. Drunk. A glass of whisky rocks in his hand. He mumbles and bumbles but acts the part, he is part of the act. They believe. He tells them he isn’t a poet, and neither is the man before… or was after. Maybe they think he is deep, or as nearly empty as his glass seems to be. 

NYE 2020

We put on onsies. Took pictures with the penis turtles outside our hotel hallway entrance to commemorate the beginning of the Eve evening. We drive to Seatara restaurant 5 minutes down along the beach, but nobody from the acro retreat was there... one family said Happy New Year as we entered the seaside bar, and after a moment asked me to make Chewbacca sounds, which I obliged because they asked with a little embarrassment and it was clearly to indulge their children. However I would have done it only for the adults just as readily. And, in truth, the parents looked equally as pleased as the children when I performed. Most likely, and I say this without boasting, I made a spot on imitation of a Wookie. Never have I ever before or since, but that was the night; New Years Eve 2020. That was the night I performed Chewy as I always knew I could. Small miracles, small miracles. 

Flirting with Sirens

Full Moon. Or not. Perhaps the memory is a dream. Perhaps it was just the security lights from the beachhouses that illuminated the night instead of the moon as I remember. Whatever it was, the light darkness of the moon, or the dark lightness of the security lights, it was gentle; the night. The air was still, the aftermath of a storm passed. Entirely still. Completely. The air almost mischievously mockingly still against the subtle intensity of the sea. 

Van Life

The beauty of snow, apart from it's gentle tone of purity, is that it's an amalgamation of all three states of matter. It's a liquid in solid form, floating crystallized through the air. As dusk illuminates the darkness beyond the hilltops, snow looks like how you'd imagine stars shooting past if you were captaining the USS Enterprise. The Chevy was not a Star-Trek spaceship navigating the Milky Way at warp speed, but I hummed the Cantina Band for a laugh anyhow. Charles (65 Canary Chevy Carry-All) had been quickly converted, the cargo area easily switching from empty delivery platform to primitive studio apartment just earlier that afternoon. The solo bed was a few wooden cross beams and a sheet of plywood. I had two thick blankets and three sleeping bags for cushioning and insulation on the plywood bed, oats and fruits and the singular bowl and spoon needed for breakfast, and such a level of excitement it was not often replicated in even some of my most thrilling adventures later in life. Into the unknown I drove.

I shifted the 'three-on-the-tree' gears back and forth looking for the correct combination of transmission to gas pedal that would maintain forward momentum and at the same time rotating the steering wheel continually left to right, trying to keep the rear tires from sliding their way around to get ahead of the front tires. As I slipped and slid slowly up the hill I wondered what the hell I was actually doing... and I would smile as the snowflakes streaked past, or at slower speeds merely floated, reminding me that I was about to be a rental clerk at a ski resort for an epic winter season.

Out of the frying pan and into the snow.

Early evening. 

Middle of winter. 

Snow a meter deep from a crisp mountain storm recently passed. 

In our small town everyone was inside, warm by their heaters, fireplaces, or wood stoves. Everyone except us. The four of us; my dad, my two brothers, and I. No, we weren't inside by our woodstove. We were outside, on our frontporch. We were outside, sweating. 

The Misadventures of Bruno the Bastiff

The story I need to tell, the story that was always a positive addition to my life, one that was a backdrop to all the others, a constant for me to depend on... is the story about the pup that helped me recover from a motorcycle accident. It is a story about a dog that was an influence on every choice I made since that accident, a story that is so much a part of me that there isn’t much of a separation of my story and the story of Bruno.

Blind Man of the Waterfall

It was a beautiful day. The wind rustled the leaves of the dense tropic palms. An old man sat back in his old wooden chair. He sat and listened to the sound of a gurgling river flowing down through the boulders behind his humble dwelling. A dwelling that can only be referred to as, in its most optimistic description, an upscale shack. His chair sat on a front deck of sorts, a simple slab of cement, well made and level, and without noticeable flaws, but a slab nonetheless. Around him were a couple of weather beaten tables covered with plastic cloth sheets in unobtrusive patterns of blue, red, and green. The colors were clean and had the hint of brightness, but age and use had faded them to pastel. The tables were stocked with the basic necessities for wandering travelers; in orderly rows; the most common carbonated sugar waters, flavored salt waters, and caffeinated energy drinks, and next to those, also in an orderly row, a few flavors of fried potato snacks sitting in their respective over-puffed bags. 

Portland Coliseum

Driving along the freeway in my 69 Ford multi-tone bondo & paint pickup, sun setting on my right in a clear August sky, Oregon 300+ miles in the distance and counting down. I'm alone except for my friends Joe and Jen ahead in the pea green 70's firebird and the occasional semi-truck moving behind into the past.

I feel excitement building, the adventure of staying in Oregon for the weekend and going to my first concert. We drive through the night until we reach the Columbia river; the border to Portland. We meet another friend, Shawn, and stay up late drinking and telling stories around the campfire on a sandy pullout next to the shore. I slept in the bed of my truck, awaking at sunrise to Shawn yelling "Get up dickhead and let's go to a concert!" My reply was full of expletives and obscenities and threats of violence. Minor violence ensued. 

Burning Man

Burning Man 2017

Dusk had faded to night. Everyone was lined up to the left, the dust swirling and settling momentarily on every surface before blowing away past the headlights and taillights of 3 rows of cars, 30 deep to the entrance... and to the right, open slots. Dozens. All with wild women and men shouting, enticing, waving and flailing their neon sticks and flashlights and twirling headlamps... anything they could use to attract the fools in the long caravan lined up 30 cars deep. The fools stayed glued in line, either oblivious or stuck in herd mentality and utterly ignoring the frantic welcoming committee waiting for them a dozen yards away to the right.

Leporidae Lunch

The sun had just risen, casting streaks of light and shadows into Tecolote Canyon. Daisy, the skinny Irish Wolfhound German Shepherd mix lankily bound westward, down the fence line. The barn owl that Daisy was bounding after flapped easily up at the very last moment, screeching in frustration. On the ground lay a small rabbit, eyes still aware but too weak from blood loss to move. It's gaze roamed slowly in its socket; to me, to the sky, off to the distance, back to me. It had one hole in its jugular that had been drained dry by the owl. The dogs were called back inside. A decision was made to prepare and cook the cute but unlucky Leporidae. As it still had some life left the neck was cut clean. I paused for a moment, fully aware of what I was taking as the last few drops dripped to the dirt and the eyes darkened. After the final couple kicks of nerve reflex it was skinned, gutted, and cleaned. It was then cooked and eaten. I paused again and gave thanks to the owl from which the meal was taken. And, again, a final thankful thought was given to the rabbit.

I Sit, on the Beach, with Bruno

Writing in my journal.

A woman walks up with her dogs.
“Is he a Ridgeback?”, she asks.
I look up at her,

and to her three well groomed Ridgebacks.
I say, “No, Bull Mastiff”.
“Oh, he looks just like a Ridgeback”.

She clearly wants to talk about Ridgebacks.

“Well, that’s because Ridgebacks get their coloring from the Bull Mastiff”
“No, they are bred from English Mastiff”.

I look at her with an expression.

My thoughts must have shown quite clearly. 

I say, referring to Bruno, “That would explain why he looks just like them then”.
She pauses, and scowls, and then declares, 

“I’ve had Ridgebacks for 25 years.”

I hold her stare, “I’ve had Bruno for 10”.
She gets visibly agitated.

She points to one of her dogs proclaiming, “This one was going to be a show dog...

but he was too small”.
I stare at her, not unkindly.

She takes her dogs and walks away.
I return to my journal.

Relationship Anarchist.

Been around the world, lived a dozen lives as half a dozen people. Found love, lost love, want love, lust for lust and no need for need.

Stories of Coffee

One of the most popular stories of the bean's discovery concerns a goat-herder named Kaldi. And here's how it goes... One day the young goat-herder noticed that his goats were behaving strangely. The old buck had lost his dignity and was cavorting about like a young kid. The once goatly demeanor of the rest of the herd had also vanished. Kaldi attributed the new attitude of his herd to the berries of a bush that the goats were gleefully eating. Kaldi had recently suffered a lamentable emotional setback and looked with envy at the cavorting goats... and thought, 'Why not me?'. 

Dismaland

I went to Disneyland. I'm not proud of it, but I'm not ashamed either. And despite my best efforts I actually had fun. I used to have numerous blogs with numerous purposes yet without any porpoises, but, numerous nonetheless. Now I shall have this one with all my pictures imported from the others and, at the very least, one porpoise. And here it is....

Oh, right, the stories about dland. I went there really hungover and was quite sure I would end up spewing... so, figured the 'tower of terror' sounded like a good place to do it. My first 5minutes began with swirly lights in a claustraphobic room, then everyone sat down in an 'elevator' and started the upward journey. At that point I began looking for an descreet corner. Then the elevator stopped at the top floor. All I can say after that is; I learned when I am truly scared I scream like a little girl, and that adrenaline will cure even the worst hangover. As I walked out the exit discussing which person behind us could have possibly screamed at such a high pitch (me faking that the scream actually hurt my hangover headache) I felt 90% fine... even bought myself a goofy hat.

San Diego

The time has finally come, I am moving tommorow... SD is on its way and there ain't nothin' gonna stop me. I probably just jinked myself. I am going down there with my father and maybe a friend; we will drive his truck and tow a trailer. 

Fred

The dog growled low and let one obnoxious strand of drool slip past its snarling lips. The salt-and-pepper colored hair on his upper back signaled a body-language warning that was more imposing than the growl. Its beady eyes were locked on mine; paralyzing me beyond movement. Next to this 20 pound demon sat a fat old lady; with arms outstretched and a sedated smile upon her face. I remember looking up at my father for some help in that impossible situation. He only looked back down at me with pity and said, “Go hug your grandma.”

Does Menthol Make Me Less of a Man?

A group of snowboarders were having lunch and causing trouble when a hot, snobby, rich girl walked up and asked if she could have a cigarette. Someone replied, "Can I have your number?"