Pinky's Waste of 1s and 0s

Haunted Trailer Park #3: The Pantyhose Connection

2012-02-05T08:35:00.000-08:00

[Also from the lost Joshua Tree sessions. This was for a painting of a pantyhose shop that had run out of customers and time. I still wonder, who in God's name would open a pantyhose outlet in the middle of the desert? Seriously.]

You try waking up every damned day in a cramped and dusty trailer that you share with the random scorpion or tarantula and living with the fact that for whatever reason you thought it would be a good idea to open a pantyhose outlet way the hell out here, in this cur’sed heat no less. For the record, no one else can figure out what compelled you either. Sometimes the madness is subtle and slow burning.

Haunted Trailer Park- The Geography of Desolation

2012-01-29T08:30:00.000-08:00

[I wrote this for an artist who was having a show in Joshua Tree, featuring his paintings about Joshua Tree. These weren't some Georgia O' Keefe nature images, but pictures of abandoned shops, ruined and forgotten cars, and the weathered faces of the desert dwellers. He opted not to use it, and I can see why. The people of Joshua Tree don't need some anti-desert rant knocking them down. The Desert throws enough low blows at them, they don't need some hack running up and kicking them when they're down. Anyhoo, here's the piece. No hard feelings, Jesse]

The Geography of Desolation—all across the desert miniature End Times are taking place, laying waste to random intersections of theoretical latitude and longitude lines—The flash of hope that gave birth to this place has long since died out—the beauty that high-falutin’ East Coast artists flout gets old quick when you have no options other than basic human survival, murder, suicide, or high desert evangelism—
It’s hard to believe that these cars ever ran, that they were once more than just rattlesnake nests and dented tableaus for sloppy graffiti—it’s impossible to accept that these ruins of a single-wide ever housed a person or a family, what with its rusted ribcages and tattered plastics, faux woods and shitty cabinet latches that never worked in the first place—it is utterly unfathomable that anything even close to a good idea was ever birthed here, nurtured, and allowed to blossom from a dream into a reality—the empty storefronts and shattered signage are testaments to that…
What breaks steel can just as well break flesh, break the mind, and it does so, slowly, with great patience and skill—look around, it is no accident that all of the plant life is covered in spines, and the wildlife hates you and will kill you if you insist on pestering it with your presence—this is no place for the soft bellies and tender blinking eyes of our species—we need love and affection to thrive, and there is nothing that is able to be hugged in these parts that will not result is massive injuries and discomfort…
But we have hope, and tenacity, and this thing called perseverance, and we believe we can, if not tame, at the very least co-exist within this harsh environment, but time and time again we loose to the desert—it does not want to live in harmony with us, and we are not worthy adversaries—so it happens, in the dead of night Hope leaves town—in the hell of the afternoon Sun ideas wither and die—the skin wrinkles and cracks, harsh lines Spackled over with the dust of 50’s era atomic tests that are widely remembered but rarely discussed—why do you think you can get 100 acres for $15 around here?—the toll is taken and glances become glares, chemicals become routines, our soft and rounded edges become hard and brittle, we become cacti, all unapproachable and only suitable for black and white photography—the Now is nothing more than a waiting game: Sun comes up, Sun goes down, and in between someone is murdered in a flash of insanity, someone takes themselves out of the game for good with a single shotgun blast to the face, someone drinks themselves to death in a busted-up Airstream, and yet another someone blows themselves up while trying to blow something else up—Time becomes a curse, dragging it all out, but it is also a blessing, albeit a delusional one, because in a Sun-baked mind it is easy to think that if one waits long enough…only if…only if…
And that is what you are left with, a stream of dot, dot, dots stretching off into the Horizon, down a lonely and forgotten highway.

Scotch/ Whisky Review: Kilbeggan

2012-01-22T08:15:00.000-08:00

I was all about the Kilbeggan for a year or so until I decided to start paying money for whisky/ scotch.
I went to a scotch tasting at the Pearl Liquor Store cuz it was free booze (hammered, I got. Yes, so much so as to make me speak backwards like Yoda) and the guy that was hosting it was Scottish and wearing a kilt, which gives him cred (it wasn’t a utili-kilt, which would have made him a bag of soggy dicks instead of the Johnny Appleseed of DUIs). I credit his as the guy who introduced me to scotch. My friend and I were also there to get a bottle to kill for the weekend and he steered us away from the cheap CRAP (Rogue whisky which is something I would never consider touching now, and some other shit in a mason jar) and turned us towards us some cheap GOOD stuff, namely, Kilbeggan.
Simply put: it’s good shit. If you like Jameson or Maker’s, it’ll fit the bill. I mean, I haven’t done a side-by-side comparison but as far as I’m concerned it’s the bee’s knees when it comes to affordable but ‘licious whisky. It goes on sale occasionally for around $18, but when it’s not discounted you can grab a bottle for around $20 which is four-ish bones cheaper than Maker’s and about seven less than Jameson (don't quote me on that). Those two are my go-to drinks at a bar cuz, let’s face it, Tony’s or the Speakeasy aren’t gonna carry this little-known Scottish prize. But for home drinking, or if I’m going through a flask stage (Goodfoot= yes, you could get a bazooka into that place… Crown Room= NO! I can barely get my eyebrows into that place since the OLCC cracked down in them. Props to them, though: they took my Krink at the door but returned it five hours later when I left. Though they gave a look like I was lucky to get it back. Still, that’s a pretty cool move), this is where it’s at. Hearty, strong, it’s got a good bite on the pallet but only a gentle nibble on the wallet. It’s what a good whisky is supposed to be.
That said, doing a side-by-side in my den of sadness and failure with my previously reviewed Balvenie, I found it, comparatively speaking, a little watery. It still had the kick of a good whisky and lacked the shitiness of anything shat out by Kentucky (sorry Asseline Netherton, your bourbon leaves me feeling neglected). It didn’t have the brute force and viscosity of a low-level yet formidable whiskey. That may be like comparing apples to abortions but I’m not a pro, so I’m sticking to that until someone sets me straight with a fistful of brass knuckles and a branding iron.
All that said, Kilbeggan is usually on hand at the hovel for guests. But the expensive stuff is out of view in a cabinet somewhere for SPECIAL occasions…like when I have guests… which means there isn’t really any reason for me to hide it I suppose.
Damn, I gotta recalibrate my shit.
OK, new rule: Guests get the first glass of good stuff (usually, if they are a friend, or have a vagina, or eyes, or are wearing clothes, or aren’t, or are cops asking about the domestic violence next door, or have more than zero fingers, or less than zero fingers, or … OK, anyone who comes into my house gets a taste) and after that we tear through the Kilbeggan. That way you get cred for having good whisky in the house AND cred for going outside the norm when you drop down into the lower ranks as the night goes on.
It’s the equivalent of having Rachels on your iPOD (System/ Layers (2003) or Selenography (1999)) for normal times, but when things get green or chemically, you also have the Rachels/ Matmos collab Full on Night (2000) to say, “Yeah, I got good stuff, and I also got the SHIT! And you are a valuable enough guest to get a taste of the real shit… that’s hidden behind the bulk polenta.”
I don't know why I have bulk polenta. I don't know what it is or how to cook it. It just sits there, hiding the good stuff.

Avalanche’s one-sentence review: “Like trying to River Dance in a bathroom stall.” [Ed- I have no idea what this means] [Author- I too am not clear on what this means. I also didn’t know I had an Ed.]

Scotch/ Whisky Review, Volume 1: The Balvenie

2012-01-17T08:11:00.000-08:00

I decided to go for some kinda big money booze because my palate is getting picky and fonder of things that I hated in my younger years. I mean, back in the day if you told me I’d like beets and brussels sprouts I would have thrown a lamp at you, but now a days, beets and brussels sprouts are good, cuz they FEEL healthy, and considering my lifestyle, even if it’s not healthy, if it FEELS healthy I’m gonna jump on it.
OK, that doesn’t really apply here. What I’m getting at is that taste buds evolve with age, and as I get older my tastes are growing into new dimensions. Every girl I’ve been involved with since 1998 has been into whisky. And while that beverage has become a more prevalent presence in my life as time goes on, those ladies, much to my own foolishness, keep on fading away leaving me with nothing but this whisky. It’s my own fault, and I own it with tears and loneliness.
A year or three ago there were free tastings in one of our liquor stores (idiotically controlled by the OLCC. Oh how I miss California, where, like an adult, you can buy condoms, chips, a light bulb, two pounds of apples, and a gallon of vodka all in the same store… at 1 in the A.M.). It was a scotch thing, which I knew nothing of, but soon discovered was an alcohol that occasionally tastes a lot like a mouthful of peat moss. Kind of like how beets taste like dirt. Even if you hadn’t actually had the privilege of experiencing a mouthful of dirt, you can imagine ex-ACTLY how it tastes. And with that, if you tasted some hard-core scotch for the first time and said, “WHOA! What the fuck does THAT taste like?!” and someone said “peat moss” you’d be like, “Oh, OK. I can see that.”
So, this is a twelve-year, price-prohibitive (compared to what I usually drink) scotch whisky (which, I'll tell you since I didn't know, the difference twixt scotch and whisky is that scotch is whisky that comes from Scotland I felt dumb when I learned that). Two casks, hand-turned barley or some shit on the floor, old Scottish distiller keeping it old school. Point being, this is a good entry into the world of scotch. I have no vocabulary for this business, so bear with me whilst I drop some layman’s terms on your face.
The smell is of a heady caramel with a slight kerosene burn that people who like whisky have come to love. It’s also more viscous than Makers or Jameson. If you take a small bit and hold it in your mouth you can feel it being thicker than water or the cheaper stuff. I mean, it’s not like motor oil or (so I’ve been told) semen, but it’s definitely thicker than other things I usually drink (like motor oil… or semen… WHOA! Wait…)
The up front taste, right when it hits your tongue is whisky, but when it flows to the back it gets a slight peat moss flair. Not enough to put one off, like some hardcore shit where you’re like “Dude! Who just dropped a shovelful of dirt into my face?!”, but enough to help you swagger some baby steps into the scene.
All in all, I’d say I dig it and it is a perfect entry into scotch for those of you who enjoy whisky but are looking to get deeper into the… brown alcohol scene (hey Amaretto, go fuck yourself). Once I save up enough extra cash I’ll get deeper into the scotch scene and fill you in. But for now, if you’re on the same curious path as I am and have and extra (gulp) fifty bucks to drop, this is a good beginning lesson. Just do as I do and keep some cheap shit on the shelves for when alcoholic friends drop by. Keep this in the cabinet behind the bulk flour, rice, and almonds.

Dr. Avalanche’s off the cuff review: “Tastes like licking an oak tree.”
To be clear, Avalanche has weakly proclaimed that he refuses to be a snob. But tell me, does pretending that Southern Comfort and The Cure’s “Seventeen Seconds” are the pinnacles of existence make you a man of the people; a veritable Bruce Springsteen of the degenerate set? I say it makes you a twat who is slumming with a grimace just to earn street cred.
But he is entitled to his own opinion… even though “Head on the Door” has ALWAYS kicked “Seventeen Seconds” ass and, to quote an amazing person:
Dear Southern Comfort,
You aren’t very comforting!

Food Night, Volume 2: Chicken Burrito

2012-01-14T08:07:00.000-08:00

Chicken Burrito Review

Again, trying to be healthier. Tonight was burrito night! A boneless, skinless chicken breast cooked in its own sadness and fear, with a light sprinkling of salt, pepper, and garlic salt.
Throw in a half of a Roma Tomato (I like their firmness but out of season, like now, they aren’t as awesome. Heirlooms are the shit, but when I’m preoccupied with buying $50 bottles of scotch and cans that rattle, I can’t really be expected to drop two bucks on a tomato… I know, fucked up priorities. Get in line to wag a finger), a half of an avocado (lightly salt it, along with any other veggie, about fifteen minutes before eating. This is a really good thing to do if you’re making a pizza. TRUST IT!), a few slivers of yellow bell pepper, a few bits of the cheese of your choice (I prefer the sharp cheddar. I like my cheese to have a bite, like my booze or my wasabi or my women… OK, I have no women, but if I did, a wee nibble here and there would be nice [insert solitary, lonely tear rolling down solitary, lonely cheek] ), some multi-whole grain tortilla that feels like that rubber mat shit you stick under a throw rug to keep it from slipping out from under you, and, my downfall, some sour cream. Not fat free, not low fat—the real deal. Some things you gotta go whole with, like sour cream, and half and half. Have you had fat free half and half? Shit is GROSS! Half and half IS fat. So how it’s made, I have no idea. All I know is that it’ll ruin a cup of coffee quick snap.
Throw that in with HTRK’s Work (Work, Work) album and the new issue if Vice (which, and feel free to argue with me on this, has kinda sucked since Gavin left the fold) and you’ve got yourself a pleasant evening of food, sounds, and reading.
Side note: I did NOT get taken advantage of this evening, unlike pork chop and salad night. My game was slipping and I tried to talk politics and religion with myself, which is ALWAYS a terrible idea on a first date. I realized quickly that this was a no go, a dry night, another night of meeting with the Band of the Hand, so I started dropping the baby-rape jokes. If you’re gonna blow it, do it big and loud.
At least I had some good food. And that HTRK album is really good.

Food Night: Volume 1

2012-01-07T10:23:00.001-08:00

I’ve been feeling too fat from beer these days and at some point I developed a serious addiction to frozen pizzas so finally I had a moment of clarity and decided to (temporarily) clean up my act and start eating healthy. Vegetables, small portions of fresh meat, home-cooked shit. Contrary to popular misconception (Suzie Q, lookin’ at YOU!) I can cook some shit up. So here is where I am.
Yes, I’m writing about food I’ve made. These are truly the end times. Anyhoo:
Salad consisted of butter lettuce (washed to avoid e.coli), broccoli (ditto), a half of a Roma tomato (purposely covered in e. coli that I bought in bulk from Winco), one-third of a cucumber (skinned cuz the skin was a little too intense), some mushroom slices (I’d bet that most people who loathe mushrooms because they’re “grown in shit” regularly use catsup… and the things that go down in a catsup factory (Tracy, CA!) makes mere shit seem like a box of See’s Candies, so zip it!), some orange bell pepper slices (not grown in shit or a catsup factory), kidney and garbanzo beans (legume protein!), a sprinkling of gorgonzola (OK, I can never be truly healthy because I am addicted to cheese), and (in the blue Andy and Bax camping shot glass) some balsamic vinegar mixed with a dash of extra virgin (three hymens!) olive oil and two cloves of diced garlic.
Pork chop was salted, peppered, garlic salted, lightly paprikaed on a whim, and cooked in a quarter-sized dollop of butter.
Red wine was on hand (and in liver).I realize that white goes better with pork but I can’t stand the stuff. Deal with it.
Tom Waits’ Closing Time was on the iPOD (CD used for demonstration purposes only). By the time “Martha” rolled around I had finished eating (OK, I was actually done halfway through “I Hope That I Don’t Fall In Love With You” (track #2 for those of you who, for SHAME, don’t know). I eat fast. I was raised in a den of wolves and if I didn’t eat quickly, I didn’t eat).
I retired to the creaky couch/bed that keeps my chiropractor in business. The food was great and I was dropping my A-game on myself, talking about puppy dogs and ice cream cones and shit . The wine flowed, I kept chatting, kept making myself laugh, the music played, and much like Tom Waits said on Nitehawks at the Diner, before I knew it I had taken advantage of myself.
It was a good night.
I called myself up six weeks later and told myself that I had missed my period. Shortly after that phone call I changed my phone number and stopped hanging out in the places that I had met myself (so long, Victory Bar and Star Bar, I’ll miss your heavy-handed pours and hamburgers, respectively).

First Date... again, not really

2011-12-30T15:09:00.000-08:00

FIRST DATE:

And she said [leaning into the question with obvious physical interest, fifty minutes into a date that, for all intents and purposes, for all outward appearances, seemed to being going quite well]:
Do you have any consuming hobbies right now? Like, what is the thing that you are just TRYING to own right now?

And he said [in an apathetic panic, the eternal self-doubter, not knowing that things were going well, thinking that masturbating twice a day and covering the city in spraypaint wasn’t something that should be brought up at this early a stage, even though they were his primary, all-consuming hobbies]:
Uh… I’m thinking about learning how to juggle fire? [He had no designs on this until just now, and after blindly pulling it out of his ass, still had no plans on doing any such thing. Fire was hot, blisters sucked. To this very day, he has no idea why he said this.]

And she said, excitedly [she lived in the Alberta District of Portland, Oregon twixt the years of 1999 and 2037. If you know what that means, you know. If not, disregard this bracket and move on]:
Oh, like poi balls? Or batons? I saw an AWESOME fire juggler the other night downtown at Pioneer Square. He was juggling flaming bowling pins! I guess he didn’t have permission cuz the security guys shut him down pretty quick.

Him [knowing he was sinking deeper into dumb]:
Uh, no. I mean, yeah, that’s cool. Totally. But… I’m not talking about juggling THINGS that are on fire. Just, actually, to learn how to juggle fire. You know, like fire, on its own, in its purest form.

Her [one delicately plucked eyebrow arches]:
Uh… but. How? I don’t get it… I mean, you need, like, SOMETHING…. like, as a vector or something? A carrier? Something that is actually on fire?

Him [noticing her eyebrow and, understandably, lack of understanding ,but mind totally blown with the realization that fire needs other things to exist—that, as a highly destructive though sometimes cleansing device, it cannot exist solely on its own. That shit was crazy to him right then and there, but he couldn’t abandon the story line, couldn’t stop running, because if he did he’d be gored to death by his own idiocy. It was like the running of the bulls[hit]] [double brackets, bitches!!!]:
Yeah, I know that it sounds like something in the realm of “not possible”, which is why I feel like it’s a good thing to learn. You know, like, people can juggle things that are on fire. We see it all the time. It’s not easy, but it has been done to death, right? But no one has figured out how to juggle just fire on its own. You know, deal with it on its own terms?

Her [other eyebrow arching with beautiful incredulity, looking bored and finished, the forward lean from the initial question undone to a back lean, slouched against the chair that, as far as he was concerned, was absolutely not designed to encourage people to hang out for long periods of time]:
:

Him:
Yeah, uh… [searching for something right to say, floundering, seeing the stupidity of his words reflecting off of her face, a face that he was realizing he’d never get to kiss, never be in a position to smell that intimate smell of breath expelled though nose unless he upended this tipped canoe of conversational idiocy. On a cellular lever, he knew he couldn’t right this dumb].

And that was that. End of Night Point Tally:
Failure- 10 points,
Possible Future (or even a kiss goodnight)- 0 points

So he went on about phrenology and dowsing and every other thing that would make it impossible for her to want to have anything to do with him on an intimate level. He remembered specifically wincing, internally, when he brought up the subject of chemtrails, something he had no belief in though he found himself railing about their evil.

Dreamscape Number “Sappy Asshole”

2011-12-23T15:08:00.000-08:00

In real life, we had only been on one date. It was a standard meet-n-greet. She had a pretty smile, a firm grasp on good music, and a strong sense of independence that appealed to me.
The dream took place on our 4th date. We were comfortable with one another, had a good banter, and shared a handful of quiet conversations close to one another that bordered on confessional. We hadn’t kissed yet, cuz she was a girl who wasn’t prone to first moves, and because I was a pussy.
We went to a small restaurant that had enough style to elevate it from diner status—wood paneled walls, secret booths, soft light, prices that didn’t make it feel like you were getting raped by a psychotic chef.
It was empty, literally. We both knew the spot, and new that it was good, so the usual rule of empty restaurant = botulism and dickish staff didn’t apply. It was just a slow afternoon.
Our waitress was older, 60 or so, and it’s shitty to say, she was competing with the younger, hotter (two were WAY hot) waitresses. She suggested that we sit out on the back patio, twice. The weather wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t anything anyone would want to dine in. Overcast, sporadic drizzle, hovering in the early ‘50s. We declined twice, then She of the Date saw a silent pleading in the lady’s eyes, like she needed a table or else it was all over. Not on a global level, but on a personal level. And really, when it’s all over on a personal level, things may as well be over on a global level. Why we distinguish twixt the two doesn’t seem to make much sense.
Anyhoo, date agreed, waitress said she’d bring us coffees and menus in a second, and we went out… and it was lightly raining. There were about 5 tables on a small, tree-covered deck that had been well maintained. I looked at her. She looked at me. We smirked in unison.
She found the one table that was under the thickest tree, hoping the branches and boughs would protect us. Nonetheless, the table was damp, as were the benches. She stepped up onto one of the benches and turned to me, small navy blue umbrella dangling, all bound and useless, from her left hand.
“Well…” she shrugged.
I snickered and walked up to her. We hadn’t really touched yet, but it was due. Not consciously. The universe just needed it to happen. She was 5’ 1”, so even standing on the bench she wasn’t all that tall. My face came up to chest level on her and I walked up, close, and some unseen hand simultaneously dropped my forehead against her chest as she leaned into me. It was nothing sexual, just physical and comforting. I felt at home for the first time in a long while, temporarily forgetting that I’d no doubt end up temporarily ruining her life within 6 months or so, if I stuck to my unfortunate pattern. It was nice just to have a moment, to feel right, and in touch with someone else.
She leaned all the way into me and I put my arms around her as she came off the bench, me supporting her tiny frame, her arms still at her side, me slowly letting her slide down me. I felt it and mildly panicked, and apparently she felt it too when she got to that point, her knee brushing it.
“You’ve got a bone, huh?”
“Uh… oops?” I blushed
That was when I heard the waitress come out with coffee and beverages, probably putting a bullet into this moment for now. Before I totally let her go and we acknowledged the new arrival she reached up with her perfect lips, her ridiculously white teeth, all up on tippy toes, and whispered into my ear:
“It’s OK, I like it.”
And I melted.

Allow me to clarify

2011-12-19T15:08:00.001-08:00

A (paraphrased… thanks Avalanche) quote from ol’ William Burroughs:
I came into this world alone and I’m gonna leave it the same way.

Now, I understand the sentiment, and I love me some Burroughs, but I gotta call bullshit as it isn’t really accurate. Barring the absolute worst case scenario (pregnant mom dies in the forest, lost, alone, awhile giving birth to you) this just isn’t true.

The more accurate version is:
I came into this world covered with the blood and vaginal secretions of a screaming, half-naked, drugged-up woman and I plan on leaving in the same manner.

While presenting certain moral stumbling blocks, at the end of the day, would it not be more fun to take this route?

Cesarean babies, you’re on your own. I’m not gonna get involved with sliced-open abdomens and anesthesia.
Even I have my limits.

8-20/21-2011

2011-09-01T09:42:00.000-07:00

The run down: Nap until 9 PM, wake up and drink 2 French presses of coffee by midnight whilst listening to King Midas Sound (“Waiting for You”) and The Walkmen (“Bows and Arrows”) with a little bit of Marc Maron WTFing some poor comedian. At midnight-thirty I pop two Percasets, get picked up and we gather people and supplies (Brendan and his girlfriend/ ice, beer, energy drinks) and get on the freeway by 1:30. It’s a hot summer night so the windows are down which makes it impossible to talk, so I lean my head against the window sill and enjoy the velocity. The satellite radio alternates twixt Bob Seeger and Bing Crosby, which is kind of like freebasing Gummi Bears then skin popping a few grains of Yoo-Hoo to take the edge off. Stop to piss off of a cliff onto the rocks below and take another Perc.

We get to the beach by 3:30, drink some Bud Light with Lime, a shot of tequila that retails for more than my monthly electric bill, times three (Thanks, Mel!). Three of us split up a pot cookie and I chase it with some Bud Light and a fourth Perc. Tonight shall be Float.

We spend a bit of time trying to figure out who would be cast in a live action version of the Blondie comic strip (I vote for Alan Thicke as Blondie, Paul Rudd as Dagwood) until I remember that the already did that in the B & W days and they used to play on Saturdays when I’d be hoping for Abbot and Costello or Laurel and Hardy. Granted, it existing already won’t stop Hollywood, but it stopped us.

Brendan and his lady, who were hammered when we picked them up, pass out face first in the sand pretty quick. The remaining three of us ascertain that the tide is going out so we should be OK sleeping up at the high water mark, barring any early-morning tsunamis.

Our talk peters out and I turn to find that the boy/girl couple that was left has wandered off with their bags to hunker down for three or so hours of sleep. Perpetually that odd man out, due mainly to my own idiocy, I lay my bag down as all of my atoms resonate with the vibrations of the ocean… and the drugs. The feeling of pain killers and pot cookies is unmatched. It doesn’t make for the best social experience, but at times like this, it’s perfect.

I crawl into my bag and look up at the sky, the low fog that lingers perpetually on the coast. I listen to the roar of the ocean as it holds forth over all of this, the occasional screech of an insomniatic seagull. I offer a silent prayer that I don’t get run over and maimed by a dune buggy. The caffeine still has a hold on me and it blends well with the downers and hallucinogens. I fade in and out in twenty minute intervals, not realizing it. Only taking notice as every time I open my eyes for a second there is a little more light gaining on us.

I finally open my eyes feeling about as relaxed as a person can feel without being dead and it’s six in the A.M. early morning joggers are here and there with their dogs. It’s a lonely beach even when it’s busy. In fact, I believe it’s a private beach, so traffic is sparse and luckily no one that has seen us has been such a shit as to say something or alert the authorities.

We all come to slowly, stretching, wiping sand out of moist spots, three of us still kinda high. It’s a great morning, and a great way to wake up. I realize the futility of working as opposed to just relaxing on the beach until the Finger of Death points out the end, but I also know that because I can’t seem to save money, I’ll have to go back to it because I also like to eat.

We finally gather ourselves, brush teeth, get in the car and decide to follow through with a legitimate yet terrible idea to rustle up some food. And then, we find ourselves in the worst place in the world: Cannon Beach. A rich, white tourist enclave that has about as much personality as a disposable plastic cup. We find the one restaurant that isn’t promising a three-hour wait for a table (it’s Sunday, in August), get some surprisingly good food, hit the road, and end up back in the bosom of home by nine A.M.

A new form of pressing deja vu

2011-08-27T09:12:00.001-07:00

It’s 4:50-ish in the morning and an uncharacteristic thunder clap rips through the dark. I think, “It’s been sunny all weekend, warm every night. If it starts raining ten minutes before I have to bike to work, I’m calling in sick.”

And sure enough, two minutes later the sky opens up and attacks the skylight in the bathroom. Fifteen seconds later I’m on the phone leaving a message on my boss’s voicemail saying something about an all-night allergy attack that is keeping me home today.

And such is July, 2011, of Portland. The rest of the country is neck-deep in a murderous heat wave, but us sad bastards up here in the Pacific Northwest are dealing with rain well into July.

I would prefer a heat wave.

So I’m sitting by the window listening to the rain, drinking coffee, reading an issue of Vanity Fair that someone left in the basement, and I am suddenly struck with an urge to tell someone something that is incredibly important.

What this thing that I have to say is a mystery to me.

Who it is that I am supposed to tell, I also have no idea.

But it’s pressing in my gut. It is a peculiar and lonely feeling that I haven’t experienced before. It’s like a version of déjà vu, strange an overwhelming, but ultimately nothing more than some chemical misfire that makes for an interesting feeling.

End To End, or Beginning to Beginning. Either Way, There Were Tiny Ears Involved

2010-11-10T16:21:00.001-08:00

We watched the sun rise up with a calm fury over the Atlantic ocean—wine, arms around one another, bundled against the cold, full of life and hope. The flames licked up out of the ocean like a mighty Phoenix, gentle waves breaking like timid children on the shores, seagulls coasting lazily on air currents looking for fish or garbage to snatch up and fight over. I leaned over and whispered gently into your unnaturally tiny ear, “I love you.”
When the sun fully cleared the horizon we gathered up our few things, dropped the empty bottle into the proper receptacle, it clanking jarringly into an empty 50-gallon oil drum that had become a garbage can, and we were off to the airport, into our cramped coach seats. We watched a shitty Jennifer Aniston movie with no sound, held hands, napped with heads on shoulders, cursed what they referred to as orange juice.
We raced the sun across the country, one small layover in Texas. I bought an issue of Harpers that I wouldn’t finish for 3 months, you bought some Sour Patch straws, and we arrived on the shores of the might Pacific at a little before dusk.
Another bottle of wine, basking in the warm evening heat, watching the revelers as they volleyed and laughed and walked and ran, tan skin against tan sand, pelicans coasting smoothly with calm determination just inches above the water, our arms around one another again, pleasantly buzzed on sale-priced wine.
The sun dropped lower, lower, and lower, turning the sky and ocean colors that have yet to be reproduced by humans, it sank into finality, waves crashing in white foam and brilliant sounds of hiss and crumble, and you leaned back and whispered into my average-sized ear, “I love you too.”
[6-26-2010]

Dreamscape #0rang3

2010-06-27T13:02:00.000-07:00

I was at an elementary school, it was dark, but an early evening winter dark, around 5 or so. A bunch of little kids were leaving for the night. I was standing outside of one of the classroom doors that a pack 7-year olds were exiting. Their teacher followed the last one out and stood in the doorway, dressed in white pajama bottoms with muted stripes, a t-shirt, barefoot, with her hair pulled back. It was Julie Haggerty, the lead in the “Airplane!” movie.
The last child out, a small toe-headed boy with brown corduroy pants stopped right outside the door, turned to her, and held up one small index finger, skin so white and young as to be translucent.
“Why does my finger hurt, Ms. Haggerty?”
She gently took his hand and glanced at the finger. After a second, she let go of his hand, patted him lightly on the head and said, “Don’t worry. It’s probably just a poltergeist.”
She then turned, leaving the child looking horrified, and calmly walked back into the room, the door smoothly closing on well-maintained hydraulics. I noticed that the bottoms of her feet were clean and pure.
After that demonstration of levelheaded, wickedly inventive child torment, I feel head over heels in love with her…
And THAT is when I woke up from a powerful, all-consuming afternoon nap. And I still felt in love with her, a crush of epic proportions carried over from the dream and into the world, leaving me with a sudden sense of loss that took about 3 hours to fully dissipate.

3-19-2010

Smash the Control Machines, Smash the Control Images

2010-03-07T18:13:00.000-08:00

Idiotic Journal Entry, #35.4

2010-03-05T18:05:00.000-08:00

This morning I woke up at about 4 AM and felt a wet, lumpy mess under the covers.
I thought, "Wha?! Dammit! I shit the bed?! Fuck!"
That's not a good way to wake up--at any age, at any time, in any country.
After turning on the light, I was relieved to find that I had just rolled over on and crushed the kitten I was kitten-sitting for my friend L-.
Whew. Thank God I didn't shit the bed... again.

Welcome back!

2010-03-04T21:54:00.000-08:00

Sorry bitches, but I've been elsewhere, doing other things.
I have no excuses.
I've been on the Flickr since SOME people got lippy with all the graffiti pics I was posting. So if you liked them, there is a gang more of them. Go here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/pinkyroyale/
I've also, sporadically, started Yelping. If you are interested, go here:
http://www.yelp.com/user_details?userid=Ek0rLmWk8eb6HFm3jZCfLQ
And then there is this blog thing, which has been deserted. I haven't had a knack for words lately, on paper or in real life, so I've been mum. That's the best route. If you don't have anything to say, shut the hell up.
Finally, before I cut this short thing even shorter, this is to EVERYONE I KNOW, minus about 3 people who are on my side with it. You can all blow it, because NorCal knows what's up:
http://cbs13.com/local/hella.big.uc.2.1529825.html

OK, sorry for the silence, sorry to drop out. It's a hobby, I suppose. I hope all of you are smiling and happy and still just as beautiful as the last time I saw you, no matter how many years it has been.
I'll catch y'all later.
Loves,
P.R.

Escape!

2009-09-15T12:59:00.000-07:00

Escape
Escape does some solid work at times...other times, not so much. This is on the East side of the Broadway Bridge.

2182 N. Williams

2009-09-13T12:51:00.000-07:00

I noticed these months ago but there are usually a bunch of vans parked against this wall. Luckily and for some strange reason they all moved on this particular evening.
I usually don't endorse going over murals, but for some reason this seems to work. I appreciate that they stuck with the color scheme.

ah...Ah..AH-MERKA!!!

2009-09-12T12:47:00.000-07:00

We all know this is the breakfast of champions.
Little known fact:
It is also the LUNCH of champions!
Chew on that for a minute.
Now for something totally unrelated:
THIS JUST IN! The picture to the left is also known as the DINNER OF CHAMPIONS!

(Let the product endorsement checks begin rolling in!)

Duke's Landing, 2715 SE Belmont St, Portland, Oregon... I'm gonna be mean

2009-08-30T13:44:00.000-07:00

Reasons why I won’t be going back to Duke’s Landing:
1) The guy who has the 4’ dread hanging off of his balding head and who clocks in at about 5’ 5” but is wearing the flannel shirt made for a guy who is 6’ 3” gave me the menu and said,
“Here’s our menu, the cook is doing the special a lot these days.”
“What’s the special?”
“I don’t know… it’s on the board out there.”
I looked ‘out there’ and saw that I had seen the specials sign before as it was actually painted on the sign for the restaurant. The special was two eggs, hash browns, and toast for $4.35. I looked at the menu and opted for the ham and cheese omelet and a cup of coffee. Rasta man took the “menu” (two pieces of 8.5 x 11” paper stapled in the upper left corner), sighed, ran his finger down the sheet until he found the ham and cheese omelet, looked at me like I just asked him to solve an insanely complicated math question using only an abacus and a box of toothpicks.
He walked out the front door, down the stairs, and into the basement of the building. The only other person in the place at the other end of the bar piped up and said,
“Hey, what’s up? You getting the special? I’m the cook.”
“Uh, no. I was thinking about the ham and cheese omelet.”
He was dejected.
“Oh.”
I quickly decided that either they had no food, only knew how to cook one thing but made a menu to look like they knew what they were doing, or they were lazy dick-brained mongoloids.
The Rasta guy came back up and said, “Sorry, had to see if we had ham.” He then told the cook in whispered tones what the order was, they both looked sad, then The Cook sulked upstairs.
“OK, anything else with that?”
“Uh, yeah. Coffee would be great [because, you know, I may have changed my mind from my original order of coffee and a ham and cheese omelet].”
2) The coffee was more water than flavor, but it came with a refill, so with the 40 ounces of coffee I drank I probably got the equivalent of one normal cup of coffee.
3) While I sat waiting for my food, two other people came in separately and inquired about breakfast. Rasta informed them about The Special, which he still didn’t know, and didn’t offer a menu. He must have learned from me that if you give someone a menu that there is a slight chance that they’ll want something that is printed on it. The nerve. They asked for menus nonetheless and one opted for The Special, the other wanted a veggie omelet and yet another search into the basement, followed by a pained conversation with The Cook and heavy sighs as they begrudgingly agreed to make said omelet.
4) My food came and The Cook took his seat again at the end of the bar to look at his laptop (he looked a bit like Lazlo, the genius closet dwelling burnout from “Real Genius”). So, there was TOO much butter on the toast, and even better was the fact that the butter had turned. Even better that THAT was that everything on my plate was cooked in this butter. Yum. I had the plate for only about 15 seconds, didn’t even unroll my fork from the napkin, and The Cook looked up and asked with too much perk in his voice, “How’s that omelet?”
“I don’t know… haven’t tasted yet. I’ll let you know in a minute, after I start eating.”
He looked back to his computer before I stopped talking.
5) After eating all the somewhat rancid food (thank God for the cast iron stomach!) I gave Rasta my card. He ran it and gave me the receipt and my card. Then he said, “Oh, that’s our copy.” I watched him spend two full minutes shuffling dollars around and picking up various trays in the register, trying to find the most feng shui location for the receipt. Then it struck him, “Oh, you need to sign this.”
“Yeah, I was wondering about that.”
He gave the receipt back and mentioned something about there being no space for a tip.
“Don’t sweat it, I’ll take care of it. I might need a pen though.”
“Oh… yeah.”
He handed me a pen and I took the receipt, noticing that there was indeed a place for a tip, so I gave a too generous tip because people with special needs shouldn’t be punished for their disability.
I filled it out, signed it, and handed it back. He looked at it and stalled.”
“Oh, uh, you put the tip on here?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“Oh… how do I get it off of here? And I only did the card for the food total, not the tip. Will the machine know?”
“What? I don’t know, man. Someone probably runs batches or something at night? I don’t know anything about that shit.”
“Oh.” He stalled and looked at the receipt.
“Why don’t you just cross out the tip and give me the tip in cash.”
I looked at him, blinked once, blinked twice, folded my tongue up in front of my left eyetooth in an expression of confusion.”
“Look, I don’t have any cash. Just, fuckin’… I don’t know what to tell you. This is all very basic stuff.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “We’ll figure it out later. A lot of work for three bucks though.”
“Yeah, I don’t know what to tell you, dude. Thanks for the food.”
And then I left.

So, I know times are tough for small businesses. I know supplies might run low. I know that 35-year old men who wear their giant father’s shirts as mumus and have hair that makes me think of a cat puking up a massive hairball are sometimes not as smart as I would like to give them credit for. But here’s the deal:
- In West Africa I’ve eaten goat liver off of a bike spoke, kebab style, that was cooked directly on coal, giving the experience a little more grit. This was cooked, more often than not, by various 300-year old toothless women who more than once outwardly displayed a lot of TB symptoms. But they were nice.
- In Nice, France, I ate Chinese food that tasted like it was cooked in spit.
- In East Africa I ate prawns that tasted like a foot.
- I have ended up with goat balls and what I believe to be a fish brain or air bladder in my mouth.
- I have damn near busted a tooth on numerous occasions on various sized bits of rock and gravel that have fallen into my food bowl.
- I have eaten a chicken chwarma in Senegal and then spent the next 5 hours puking and shitting in the bathroom and puking on my balls and shitting the bed.
- I have been served by people who have unapologetically stuck their fingers in my coffee, by people who, for no reason, have openly loathed me, and by people who barely could grasp the fact that I was alive and that they were there to take an order.
Take all of this into consideration and know that when I say that eating at Duke’s Landing was STILL the worst dining experience of my life, well, damn… it must have sucked.
Dear Duke’s Landing,
Please stop.
Not your friend,
P. Royale
No X’s, no O’s

Oh Jesus, Really?!

2009-08-28T14:42:00.000-07:00

Am I a nit-picking dick? Should I not be heartbroken at the sheer number of misspellings on this thing?
-Hugh
-Movig
-Nick nats
-Multnoah
-Exersise
-Cloths
-the unnecessary apostrophe PLUS a misspelling on "collectibles"
For the love of lil' baby Jesus! Call me a dick, I don't care. There is just no excuse.
And there was another one down the street with ALL THE SAME MISTAKES!

Free Art, Bitches! #2

2009-08-27T16:15:00.000-07:00

Plan B, SE Portland
"Had I known they were going to Crossover, I would never have got this damned tattoo!"

Free Art, Bitches #1

2009-08-25T00:44:00.000-07:00

Beulahland, SE 28th and Couch-ish, Portland, on the ceiling, bitches!

Untitled #[W.7 and Three-Fourths Point (as in ., not pointing because that is rude) Orange]

2009-08-23T22:12:00.001-07:00

We told one another sweet and tender things in French, something far removed from our mother tongue. It didn’t seem as scary in a different language, the laying open of hearts for potential flayings and seemingly terminal papercuts. She had a firm grasp of the language; educated and smooth, flowing easily from her ridiculously perfect lips. My French, on the other hand, was clunky, angular and something akin to an accidental gang rape. If a native speaker had to endure the sounds that poured out of me for even one minute I’m sure that would be my last day on Earth.
But she humored me, and I was capable of understanding only about 5% of what she was saying. In fact, she could have been telling me how to make chicken potpie while I stumbled through trying to tell her that she tasted like sunshine dust.
Whatever the case, we made it work and we worked together, it was ours and it felt nothing short of righteous.

Glub XXII

2009-08-23T22:06:00.000-07:00

Quotes from Camping, 8/7/2009

2009-08-15T12:23:00.000-07:00

So, I went camping which some of you may realize is out of character for this city kid.
But what else is one to do when an atrociously cute girl says, "Hey, you wanna go camping?"
One says, "Yeah."
When a cute girl says something like "Hey, wanna slam your junk in a heavy duty filing cabinet drawer?" the only answer is also, "Yeah."
It's hard to tell how hardcore a new crew is about such things. When the inevitable "Let's hike around the lake!" proposal popped up I was ready to hesitantly though with great vigor hike up a mountain and try not to die. Then someone opened a beer for "hydration purposes" during the hike and I knew all would be well.
It was a great time and thanks to all who made it as such. Here are some quotes, names reduced to initials for the sake of maintaining the integrity of others.

Quotes from camping, 8/7/2009 in a much-inebriated P.M.

“Well, it used to be nothing NOW!”
- L. forgetting how to use tenses

“Who is this Jesus everyone is talking about?”
- J. after enough J-Bombs were dropped in regards to the haze of mosquitoes

"What the FUCK?! SAVE IT!”
- ?, i have no idea what this is in reference to

“Mosquitoes everywhere… but not a drop to drink.”
- L. & J., self-explanatory

“No, I didn’t get stabbed with a dirty needle… in the face.”
- J., referring to 5 mosquito bites on one face

“The chicken’s gonna start.. fuckin’… JUMPIN’.”
- R., in reference to the chicken cooking particularly well on the fire

“Like a moth to an iPOD.”
- ?, and ?

The ‘Dear Whiskey’ sessions:

Dear Bushmills,
You’re Protestant crap!
XXOO
Love,
- J.

Dear Southern Comfort,
You’re not very comforting.
Yours,
- J.
XXOO

Dear Glen Livett,
You’re harsh and that sucks! It doesn’t matter if you’re 12 or 15.
Love,
- J.

SE Francis and 27th

2009-08-14T12:23:00.000-07:00

A lovely ex-housemate, Roz K., dropped this pic in my inbox. We all know I LOVES me some radio. Thanks Roz, hope your days and nights squeal with delight!

Home Depot in New Jersey

2009-08-13T12:23:00.000-07:00

One of my lovely exes, Christi, sent this to me. It's amazing because in Oregon all of the paint cans are locked up TIGHT. Racking this shit would be a lot easier out east, which is strange as they have had graffiti problems a hell of a lot longer than we have had out this way.
How punkish is it to tag the effing floor in front of the paint cans... though if you're gonna call an area yours this is a good place to lay claim to.
Thanks, Christi. Hope all is well out in Brooklyn.
Missing ya!

HOMEWORK ESSAY: Four People I Would Invite to Dinner

2009-08-12T23:16:00.000-07:00

Ghandi, Jesus, Mohammed, and you. But I’d tell the other three that we were meeting in the Middle East at a hookah bar. It’d be a trick for sure, but hopefully they’d take a moment whilst in the area to tell everyone to chill the fuck out. Then you’d show up at mine, look around, and say “Hey, where’s Jesus?” and I’d say something like, “Look, with our schedules being what they are these days we just don’t get a lot of quality time anymore. We’re always bouncing all over the place like frogs on a hotplate. You’re always volunteering at the children’s burn unit, I’m tied up freeing puppycats and kittydogs from bear traps all day. So I thought I’d just have you over, light a coupla candles, open a bottle of wine, put something mellow on the stereo, and just take some time to get reacquainted. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to leisurely tell you how beautiful you are.”
Then the other three would show up all pissed off and bust up my house.
But not before I kissed you and we conquered a little corner of the universe that we could call our own.

-[Untitled #Q.12/Orange]-

2009-08-09T21:15:00.000-07:00

It had only been 10 hours or so since we last said goodbye, but we kissed like it had been eons.
We separated our lips, our tongues; we smiled and held hands with fingertips. You let go of one of my hands and pulled up your shirt, exposing a soft white belly that I live to rest my face on—the one action that I can positively and without a doubt say I was born to do.
You made a mischievous ‘whoops’ smirk. I looked down and saw a rash of sorts. It took only a second, a quick troll back through fresh memories to put two and two together and come up with ‘rug burn.’
My eyes got big and I returned the mischievous ‘whoops’ smirk.
We both blushed, we both laughed, and then the sky opened up we didn’t let the night end until we gave it permission to. Sleep would come, suns would rise and tiny stars would go supernova, but it was all going to be on our terms, no doubt. This world, this darkness, was ours to command.

07 Lover, You Shouldve Come Over.mp3 -

7 Inches of Jujo, Moloko Plus

2009-08-05T13:39:00.000-07:00

Unsanctioned Art Gallery, Mississippi

2009-08-04T13:37:00.000-07:00

Mississippi Blur, Photoshop Need Not Apply

2009-08-03T13:36:00.000-07:00

Mississippi Love Stick

2009-08-02T13:35:00.000-07:00

Uh Huh

2009-08-01T04:27:00.000-07:00

And THIS is why I don't go on dates. Girls are insane, as are women... and men... and me. I need a new button-up I suppose.

A comment on the Grime

2009-07-31T15:28:00.000-07:00

Maniac Mix - Logan Sama

So, grime. Click the imeem link to check it out. THIS is where hip-hop went, in my opinion. Too many "rappers" over here just phone in half-assed rhymes over half-assed beats and pull in a shit ton of money. How this happens can only be explained by people having no taste, which is obvious considering the popularity of swill like American Idol.
Fiddy Cent, people? How in the FUCK did he get so big? He's the worst rapper on the planet. Do we blame Dre for making some admittedly catchy beats and then selling them to some knucklehead? Really? OK, the crunk thing was exciting for a minute, they can still occasionally pull a rabbit out of the hat. But a quick spin through the radio will give you nothing but a bunch of lazy, self-inflating dick bags who can't rap for shit.
So THIS Grime business... I don't know about you, and I know it's been kicking around London for awhile, but THIS is exciting to these disappointed ears. These guys work for their sound. If they do end up getting lazy they would just have to stop as you can't pull this shit off without jamming both balls into it.
Maybe they'll get old and tired (Snoop Dogg, Busta... oh wait, Lady Soverign... yeah, I guess it can happen to the Grime) and drop off, but for as good as Snoop and Busta may have been (The Coming is a wicked album... to bad he just decided to take the money and get fat) this stuff kicks it in the neck.
Anyhoo, I'm no scholar on the subject as you can probably tell. All I do know is that this sounds fresh, sincere and energetic, and in a scene that is getting mopey and lazy and doing what it can to replicate the mood of that whole Grunge thing, well, it's great to hear someone trying.
For more, go to Logan Sama's site and download all kinds of live shit.

Gaslamp Killer

2009-07-29T17:17:00.000-07:00

Those DJs that just stand with their cocktail and chat with their friends whilst occasionally clicking something on their laptop should take note of this guy.
If the DJ is bored then the dancefloor will be too. This guy owns the joint without a doubt.
And that grumbly dubstep drop at the 23 second mark is WHAT I LIVE FOR!

The Best Bike in Portland

2009-07-28T14:20:00.000-07:00

Buraka Som Sustana

2009-07-27T17:49:00.000-07:00

Shit!

Back to the Drawing Board--Parts Uno y Dos

2009-07-27T14:22:00.000-07:00

UNO

I Thought I Saw a Shooting Star,
But it Was Just Your Fist,
All Small and Pale in the Moonlight,
Arcing Towards My Head.
That's The Last Thing I Remember.

DOS

[...] through a mouthful of blood
and a few chipped teeth I said
"I love you?"
I meant it with all of my heart,
contrary to the inflection,
but that didn't stop her from hitting me again...
and again [...]

The Dilemma and the Solution

2009-07-25T14:02:00.000-07:00

[A halfway intelligent man]

-would contact you in some manner and express-

-interest in taking you out to dinner-

-sometime-

[soon.]

(---)

[A fully intelligent yet idiotically presumptuous and over-thinking man]

-would do the same but believe that in these-

-modern new-fangled days that some women-

-don’t WANT to be taken out dinner and-

-approach the-

[situation from a different angle.]

.(---).

[A crafty fucker,]

-one who daily laments the fact that no one appreciates his craftiness-

-which is, in reality, nothing-

-more than highly calculated stupidity,-

-would know what a fully intelligent man knows-

-and come up with something like a fake contest-

-and inform you that you have WON a free meal-

-with said fellow who happens to be on the board that-

-picks the winner of said-

[contest AND is the one who chooses what the prize is, which is dinner.]

-(---)-

[A complete and utter chickenshit of a child]

-would ignore the hankering to ask you out-

-to dinner and just tell you that,-

-actually, he is a liar and in fact DOES think that-

-Eddie Money-

is the best songwriter of the last 70 years,-

[then stay at home and read a Miranda July book, alone, for the next 8 months.]

...

OK then… “The Shared Patio.”

Mmmmm...

2009-07-23T17:32:00.000-07:00

This pic appeals to the sap in me. I found it here on a link for some crap music. Just forget the music, I gave the link just to keep honest. The PICTURE is where it's at.

Oh, what?! Come on!!! Jesus!

2009-07-18T09:58:00.000-07:00

So I just read that Jackie Chan has signed on to play Mr. Miyagi in the remake of The Karate Kid.
Ridiculous! WHY REMAKE IT?! WHY REMAKE ANYTHING?! CAN'T ANYONE IN HOLLYWOOD WRITE A GODDAMNED SCRIPT?!
I've had it up to my tits with these remakes. They are obvious cash-ins and they work for some damned reason, which just keeps encouraging the studios to keep taking either good or shitty movies and remaking them with a soundtrack that is 5,000 times more obvious and asinine. Please, people, STOP going to see these things. Then they'll stop making them?
Oh, and Footloose is being remade as a musical.
Who wants to take a roadtrip to Hollywood with a bunch of duct tape, some knockout pills and a pair of pliers? I think we can do it in a Zipcar.

A Polaroid of Wishful Thinking

2009-07-13T18:55:00.000-07:00

So here we are and all things blow up into one another on a lazy afternoon or a late evening, all comfortable with a small chill in the air. It’s the first time, maybe the second, quite possibly the third when we know a bit more about how to work one another. It may start off slow, but then again, it may not. We may be tender and curious like impending lovers, or at one another like wild animals. Regardless, only good things come of it, and we are a knot, a mess, a crumbling tower that may start out up against the wall, or in the middle of the room, but the gravity overwhelms, the desire for angles that aren’t all that easy to achieve while upright, so we tumble, collapse, reinvent geometry and take nothing for granted. Hands explore, eyes hone into eyes, lips are put to use, legs are like prehensile tails, holding on, repositioning, and life becomes a blur, yet highly focused at the same time. Outlines become targets to aim for. Arms—soft yet strong—around torsos, waists. Hands pulling, grazing, swirling, and prodding.

And it goes on until an unspoken agreement falls from the sky, we pull back, smile, blush, catch our breath. Someone needs to go to the bathroom, or get a glass of water, or maybe a walk in the fresh air is in order and now where are my boxers? Digging through the destruction of passion (the room was clean and tidy before this all started). At the foot of the bed, somehow tied in a double Windsor around the cast-off sheet, down at the left side where the corner of the fitted sheet popped off, exposing a faded, pillow-topped mattress that has seen this all before and will no doubt see it many times more. Standing up, equilibrium a little off, we try to dress, one leg in your pants, or one leg in my pants, and the other comes up and wraps arms around, interrupting the dressing process, lips lace together, tongues say things like “Don’t go” and “Come back soon” and “Do that again” and “I’ll meet you back here in 15 minutes,” all wet and warm and comforting, an anchor to a place that we all want to stay rooted in forever, however unreasonable that may be.

“No, I haven’t seen your sock. Just get some others, I’m sure it’ll show up” as we regard the explosion of a comforter, a sheet, a few pillows, that fitted sheet that wouldn’t stay on even if we were just sleeping peacefully in one another’s arms. Here’s your shirt, or mine, and I hand it to you with a grin or you hand it to me with a grin and grab my hand and pull me to you again, or I just go to you as you try to put on your shirt and there is more to say, with no words necessary. Sly smiles, fingertips drug down the length of a soft arm and I sit to tie my shoes and admire your shapes, your outlines, the soft edges that define you, that make you something I want to hold.

And we are outside, still didn’t find that sock, and there is a chill in the air, and we meander a few blocks in no particular direction, filling our lungs with the air, both secretly glad that the night is turning cold as that guarantees the need for body heat later on, the longing for 5-15 hours of constant spooning.

After not too long you shiver, or I do, and you notice, or I do, and suggest we head back, and we do, our pace only slightly faster because really we just want to get back to one another, and we do, after a glass of water, a comment on the cold, a dig through the junk mail on the counter, then still under the guise of innocence we are back in the bedroom and “Geez, it’s cold. Wanna spoon?” and we try to put the bed back together, there’s your sock, somehow on the far side of the room. How did that happen?

And spoon we do, but hands, as they are wont to do, begin to roam, bodies press into bodies, and once again and forever more, a special forever that doesn’t conform to the old definition of forever, we explore one another until breaths quicken, then fade, then off to sleep as one of us stays awake a little bit longer than the other, watching sleep happen, the relaxed face, the gentle breathing, and I nuzzle the back of your neck, or you nuzzle mine, and plant a soft kiss, prompting you, or me, to turn and hold, mumbling soft nonsense and you are back asleep, or I am, but if it is you then I lay there, marveling, waiting for the universe to start laughing as this must be some epic, cosmic joke that some beautiful creature would fall asleep in my arms like this; that the past few hours were merely a crude prank to shatter my heart.

But it isn’t, and we are here, and I silence the shitty voice that never expects that I deserve these things, and I kiss you on the forehead, and breathe in gently the baby-like air of the breath that comes out of your nose, and for now I can be quite sure that people who claim that nothing is perfect are sad souls, and utterly wrong in every sense of the word.

Jujo Cadien- 1837-2009, Rest in Peace

2009-06-19T21:33:00.000-07:00

The world lost a brave and brilliant warrior today. Jujo Cadien, old man child of Mary, friend to all, took his last breath today and traveled on to the great beyond, a land of bacon and sunshine, belly rubs and endless laps to sleep on.
Jujo was a great unifier and was adored by all who met him. Dog lovers and dog haters alike had no choice to agree that Jujo was, simply put, The Shit.
Where he came from, no one will ever know, but where he ended up is as potent a love story as there ever was. Confused, cast-off, of mysterious origins, he ended up in the arms of Mary who saw through his tough exterior and the two quickly became inseparable.

He was sexy...

He was a good sport. Hell, he even looked cool with a fry on his head...

He was a muse...

He was a (reluctant) Arctic explorer...

He was photogenic... and loved... and beautiful...

and he will be missed by all who knew him.

Good luck and godspeed, tiny warrior. May the afterlife keep you entertained with edible mailmen and neverending sunbeams until we all end up in the same place, due to the mechanics of life, reunited again in the great unknown.

You, my good man, were a good friend to us and no one will ever top you.

Kisses and hugs.

There's a Retina Burn at the End of the Tunnel

2009-06-06T10:18:00.000-07:00

Kids

2009-06-06T09:29:00.001-07:00

It's no secret that kids and I aren't meant to be together. I do however love that they say the "darndest things" (eat it, Cosby).
My friend Shosh is in town with her lil' Sammy (Davis Junior, Jr.). He's 5.5 years old... or 2.5 years old. Something small. Anyhoo, apparently one day he dropped the word "obviously." Shosh was surprised and said, "Oh, obviously, huh? What's that mean, Sammy."
"It's Spanish," was his response.
"Really? What's it Spanish for?"
He thought for a second and then replied, with what may hopefully one day turn into perfect comic timing, "Peanut Butter!"
Brilliant.

Walking the Tracks, part 9

2009-05-30T19:03:00.000-07:00

And that's that... for now. Well, for Walking the Tracks, that is.

Walking the Tracks, part 8

2009-05-29T18:58:00.000-07:00

We can all agree that Six, whilst talented, is a severe wall hog.
And the VRS tag is impressive only for the sheer size of the damned thing. It's about 15 feet high. I appreciate that.

Walking the Tracks, Part 7

2009-05-28T18:53:00.000-07:00

Walking the Tracks, Part 6

2009-05-27T18:48:00.000-07:00

Question of the Day, 5-27-2009

2009-05-27T10:41:00.000-07:00

How come Doug Marsch (Built to Spill) can play a 15-minute guitar solo on a live track and it doesn’t bother me, yet Eric Clapton (Built to Wear a $3000 Suit Whilst Playing the Blues) only has to hint that he is about to drop into a scale for me to think of him as a wanker?

Commercial Break from the tracks to visit a Familiar Face and a Pirate Pumpkin.

2009-05-26T18:39:00.000-07:00

The Ghost and a Pumpkin.

Walking the Tracks, Part 5

2009-05-25T18:37:00.000-07:00

Walking the track, Part 4

2009-05-24T18:34:00.000-07:00

Walking the Tracks, part 3

2009-05-23T18:30:00.000-07:00

Walking the Tracks, Part 2

2009-05-22T18:28:00.000-07:00

Warning of the Day, 5-21-2009

2009-05-21T09:57:00.000-07:00

Jose Gonzalez will kill you if you run into him at the wrong time. Trust me on this.

Walking the Tracks, Part 1

2009-05-20T18:16:00.000-07:00

I took a walk down the tracks the other day, through the train yards and across forgotten arteries, from NW 21st to the St. Johns Bridge. This is a pretty hefty series as there was a shitload of pictures to be taken. So if you (Amiralanche) are sick of my pictures of vandalism you might want to take a break for a week or three.
Deal with it.

The Professional, N Bryant 'twixt Vancouver & Williams

2009-05-19T18:15:00.000-07:00

Franks & Meir Building, NW 14th & Flanders

2009-05-17T17:58:00.000-07:00

Beer Makes Dumb, God Bless the Marker

2009-05-16T19:05:00.000-07:00

Random Crap of the Dat, 5/8/2009

2009-05-08T10:39:00.000-07:00

Here comes an Obvious Bomb:
Jeff Buckley is a sexy motherfucker.
In fact, even dead the dude is sexier than 90% of the jackoffs I see on any given weekend night of revelry on the town, me being one of those jackoffs.
In fact, Dude is so sexy that if your girl were to run off with him, yeah, you’d want to kick him in the cock, but on a rational level you’d think, “Damn, I can’t blame her. He’s one sexy motherfucker.”
In fact, if I could go back in time right now and had to pick a moment with no time to think about it, with no time to consider past deeds that need undoing, I’d probably go back in time with some water wings and slap him on Buckley’s arms before he went for that final swim.
Sexy.

Thought/Plan/Comment/Idea/Brain Fart of the Day- 5/3/09

2009-05-03T12:01:00.001-07:00

If I ended up as a vampire I probably wouldn’t be too keen on killing people…wait a sec, let’s back up a sec.
If I ended up as a vampire I would go out of my way to not fuel the stereotype. No douchy hair/clothes/music tastes/vernacular/florishy hand gestures. No velvet, no dreamy seductions, no pointy leather boots that are rife with buckles.
Main point: I won’t be a douche any more than I already am.
Now back to the original point.
Why is it that no vampires have thought to open up a blood mobile? I’m sure if you find and/or recruit one with some business acumen s/he could juggle the permits and regulations that go along with such a venture. If people can launder millions of dollars in drug money, and write off all manner of ridiculous shit for taxes, and smuggle children and weapons and sex slaves, and have a “massage” parlor that spends $4,000 a month on Kleenex, then SURELY it wouldn’t be too hard to set up a blood mobile and make the blood “disappear.”
Think about it: You get a few likewise squeamish vamps, trick out a motorhome with all the necessities, have some blacked-out sleeping bunks in the back, and BAM!, people are lining up in the Walgreens parking lot to GIVE you blood. No more murder, no more ruined clothes, no more scaring the shit out of people and then stewing in guilt for a week or so after every killing. It’d be effing BRILLIANT! Your smart vamp keeps the papers in line, sets up evening donation runs for people that work during the day, and then you just cruise around the country getting fat with a clear conscious. And if you did get caught and couldn’t eat your way out of the mess, all you’d really get busted for is misrepresentation and ghoulishness. But who cares? You’re a vampire. Hitch a ride on a steamer and leave the state or country until it all blows over.
I’d write a script for the idea but I haven’t been able to find any dilemma to throw into the deal. It’s a perfect plan.
So, you can have that idea, squeamish vampires. It’s my gift to you, but only if you go back, find Corey Haim/Feldman, and finish the job.

Thought of the Day, 5/1/09

2009-05-01T14:00:00.000-07:00

Don’t try to kid yourself. If you’ve ever eaten in a restaurant more than 20 times chances are pretty good you’ve ingested some semen, spit, dandruff, shit, bugs, blood, pus, and/or scabs. People who work in kitchens are human and occasionally have really bad days that cause them to be a bit short-sighted. It’s much like when you get pissed and throw your phone or hit someone or call someone a terrible name and kick them in the baby goblins or kill that hooker because the laughed at your tiny penis. You realize shortly that you acted rashly, but by then it is too late.. the lady at table 4 got the bloody semen in her pasta.
Once you digest that (HA!) we’ll move onto catsup factories and the inevitabilities of rats falling into vats undetected.

Thought of the Day

2009-04-30T13:29:00.001-07:00

There have been more than a handful of bands doing benefit albums a la “We Are the World” for train wrecks such as Sudan and Uganda and such. This is fine and good. I am just wondering when the rock-a-billy kids are going to get their shit together and start doing benefits for the auto industry.

SE Clinton & 28th

2009-04-27T12:23:00.001-07:00

Springwater Trail Series, pt 4

2009-04-26T12:23:00.000-07:00

And looky here... Radio made it up.

Springwater Trail Series, pt 3

2009-04-25T12:23:00.000-07:00

This is all up the berry bramble slope from the Springwater Trail under the overhang of a small section of the 99E heading south. I have been wanting to get up here for awhile as I could only see a bit from the trail, enough to know that I had to get up there and also that I'd probably be murdered if I went at night as it would appear to be home to folks who I assume aren't keen to unannounced visitors. Remember that movie theater scene in 12 Monkeys where Bruce Willis beats that one guy to death who attacks him and his doctor? This is the outdoor version. At least my mind try to tell me this. Luckily it was uninhabited on this bright sunny beery afternoon.

Springwater Trail Series, pt 2

2009-04-24T12:23:00.000-07:00

Rather?

2009-04-23T18:05:00.000-07:00

Remember when Dan Rather got jumped and as he was getting punched all he could hear was the attacker saying "What's the frequency, Kenneth?!" Well, if you have a hankering to jump him, maybe you could yell this, though he might just think you mistook him for thee Woodward of Woodward and Bernstein.
How did such a weird fucking event end up as such a shitty REM song?

Springwater Trail Series, pt 1

2009-04-23T12:23:00.001-07:00

Good stuff out on the bike path along the river. And this HTB cat doesn't have a very imaginative tag, but the son of a bitch is like Spider Man. I have seen it in some anti-gravity-type locations.

N Lombard & Portsmouth

2009-04-23T12:23:00.000-07:00

Beer makes silly on an otherwise blighted corner.

N Wiedler & Williams

2009-04-21T12:23:00.000-07:00

Roller Disco/Couch Disco... Who has the bong?

2009-04-19T12:23:00.000-07:00

Rale found the light, we brought the beer, Fellini was on the TV.
One pic by Windy W.

NW 21st & Wilson

2009-04-17T12:23:00.000-07:00

Vinyl Kill at the Jack in the Box

Chevron Gas Station- NE MLK & Fremont

2009-04-15T12:23:00.000-07:00

Very Activist:

Very Racist:

Very Banksy:

JUJO!

2009-04-13T12:23:00.000-07:00

Here is a stenciled record I made for Mary on her birthday. Jujo is, obviously, her dog and he, obviously, has an attitude.

NE MLK & Buffalo

2009-04-12T12:23:00.001-07:00

N Hodge-ish and Lombard

2009-04-12T12:23:00.000-07:00

This was almost right in my backyard. Good stuff. I like the abstract quality of it. Is it a LSD-addled cow jumping over a moon? Who knows.

N Lombard & Portsmouth

2009-04-10T12:23:00.000-07:00

This phonebooth has been hit in a pretty fun way. Stickers and MD 20/20 so far. Someone came through the other day and scraped the stickers away. Of course, they weren't fully dedicated to the "beautification" so they didn't take the time to get all the sticky white backing off. Now it just looks like a mess rather than a mini-art gallery for the urbanus interruptus crew of Lombard and Portsmouth (Anal, Debug, Umlaut, TME, someone indecipherable). Something tells me they'll be back to rectify the situation.

722 E. Burnside

2009-04-08T12:23:00.000-07:00

Way to get some elevation!

Random Traincar

2009-04-07T12:23:00.000-07:00

If I owned a traincar company I'd just open the yard to graffiti kids. It's gonna happen anyway and if they aren't rushed maybe something good like this will come of it. I know it says SOMETHING, but I haven't gotten good enough to decipher these things yet. Any ideas?

605 NE 21st Ave, aka The Mercury Headquarters

2009-04-06T12:23:00.000-07:00

Sorry to say that Diana AND Punks are both dead. I know, it's a hard pill to swallow, but choke it down already.

Punx not dead?

2009-04-04T12:23:00.000-07:00

I like punk too, but you gotta admit, they stopped trying in, like, 1988.

N Williams & Skidmore

2009-04-02T12:23:00.000-07:00

Next to the Pummeled Ghost, this is my favorite pictographer.
Radio, we'll call them.

NE Everett & 12th

2009-03-30T12:23:00.000-07:00

Honest AND Umlaut?!
That's some Voltron shit there, my friends.

SE Hawthorne & 34th

2009-03-29T12:23:00.000-07:00

Torso Revisited

2009-03-28T12:23:00.000-07:00

Weeks later, SW 3rd and Ankeny. I love it! And it was hit by one of my fave pictographers (my word for people who use a pic instead of a word as their tag).

Nature Will Prevail, Part 2

2009-03-27T12:23:00.000-07:00

Dear Brandon Flowers,

2009-03-26T13:26:00.000-07:00

Damn you! Even the worst songs on your new album (90% of said album) have great choruses, which means I have to listen to the cur'sed thing. So just do me a favor: From now on, if you absolutely MUST put a crappy sax bit in your songs, go for more of a John Zorn feel as opposed to that insufferable Kenny G. shite you settled on. Thanks.

Yrs,
P. Royale

PS- My former go-to-guy, Dr. Amiralanche (still dude, Seventeen Seconds?! Come on, that's just so wrong) will never admit it, but he loves you. He told me that in a just world you would be allowed to take the nickname The Boss from Springsteen.

Nature will prevail, Part 1

2009-03-26T12:23:00.000-07:00

Under the pier, Triangle Park

2009-03-24T20:21:00.000-07:00

The diacritical scribbler strikes!

Florida Room

2009-03-23T12:23:00.000-07:00

For the sake of Jessica's privacy I digitally smudged her last name.
Apparently one can have a good time in the Florida Room men's room. Make a note of it.

And even more NW Stencils

2009-03-22T12:23:00.000-07:00

Sperm whales, forks, and COMM? Is there a pattern?

Stencils in NW

2009-03-21T12:23:00.000-07:00

More Northwest. Curioser and curioser.

NW

2009-03-20T12:23:00.000-07:00

Northwest Portland has a lot of art going on. Weird, as it is the most white-washed fucking place in the city.
And I figured Jesus more for a Judo Air kinda guy. Was Animal Chin actually Jesus in disguise?!

FEELIN' SWAYZE!

2009-03-19T12:23:00.000-07:00

SE 31st & Belmont

2009-03-18T12:23:00.000-07:00

Again, I don't usually post graffiti thrown up with permission, but this is some good frickin' art. I love the Easter Island-like spray can head figures in the second pic.

Randomness

2009-03-17T12:23:00.000-07:00

Well, I neglected to write these locations down. Most are from the NW industrial zone of Portland. The Sad Bunny and the Lost Cause are down by the river over a wall and well hidden from prying eyes. That might explain why they are so sad.