Slovenia.

I’ve known for a long time that my father’s side of the family has roots in Eastern Europe.  I know that my grandmother had two Yugoslavian parents who emigrated to Oregon City in the early part of the century.  But, beyond that, my knowledge is fairly limited.  This is probably a result of the fact that I don’t ask my family enough questions.  Or that my grandmother does not answer question very well.  Or, I should say, she does not always answer them very precisely.  Her stories are very circular.  And as we know, circle have no real starting point and no ending point.  At least, no logical one.   By grandmother’s narrative style aside, I have a chance to visit former Yugoslavia, which is now the nation of Slovenia which is located on the east of Austria, north of Italy, and west of Croatia.  I would like to use this limited form of “mass” communication to thank my Grandmother Bena for getting me in touch with her sister (who I had never met) and her brother-in-law and supplying me with so much information on Slovenia and making my visit there a real possibility.  I have sent letters to some cousins in Slovenia and will hopefully receive a response from them in the upcoming weeks.  I hope to see the villages of both my Great Grandfather and Great Grandmother.  They were from different villages and did not meet until they both arrived in Oregon City.  I am excited about visiting Eastern Europe and getting in touch with my roots.  So often in my youthful rebellion I feel like my life and experience is an island.  That I am somehow separate from my family and those around me. The limited information I have discovered already has been eye-opening for me.  I can only imagine more great things to be learned as I move closer to actually going to Slovenia and discovering parts of my past I never knew about.  I really hope this works out.   

Crows: A Response by Drew Grissom

It has come to my attention recently that there is a certain feeling of animosity towards a certain two-winged creature that is prevalent all around the SPU campus. Like a broken record, daily I hear of students’ disgust for this animal, and his seemingly illogical way of living. I believe this animosity stems from a much deeper root of misunderstanding. I am here to dispel many of the misconceptions of our fiendish friend, the crow.

            Let my first begin by saying SPU students have not been known to be very open to non like-minded people. The image that comes to mind is of Christian Shields bashing his fists on a Bible (King James of course, NIV is for sinners) during the equality rider’s debate. I believe this closed-mindedness aimed towards any thing of dissimilar stance is hindering the SPU community of becoming a more tolerant university. This brings me to the crows themselves.

            Michael likes to bring up the point that the crows do not care for the environment. I find this ironic coming from Michael, who consistently tries to fuck Mother Nature by polluting the surrounding air with as much pipe smoke as humanly possible. However, this is neither here nor there; the point of this is that the crows are not environmentally unconscious of their behavior. They are simply teaching SPU students of the amount of waste we put in our trashcans daily. Have you seen crows around the campus? They are certainly not on their last legs, or pardon me, last talons if you will. These birds have a voracious appetite, and just the single dorm of Ashton seems to be sufficient enough sustenance for the entire flock of them. Living off our waste from the numerous half-eaten pumpernickel bagels from Noah’s, these birds have been able to sustain generations of their offspring. These black beauties are the original garbage men of God’s design. Surely, they should be revered for their capabilities of stewardship.

            Michael also likes to bring up the fact that crows seem to be violent creatures, consistently attacking the harmless members of our SPU community. To quote Michael, “Secondly, crows do not care about community. Simply, they attack people.  They are black violent rain drops that fall mercilessly on the good and peaceful.” First of all, this obviously racist rant is extremely unbefitting of the SPU community. If it was up to Michael I’m sure he would be here tomorrow with a wrecking ball in hand ready to tear down the John Perkins Center brick by brick. Racism perhaps is the most severe threat that the crows face today. The underlying racism that is still prevalent in today’s society is flung upon the crows from every direction. Like a mighty wind that blows the crows off of the path of freedom, we stomp the crows into submission. To quote the great freedom fighter Kanye West, “Racism still alive, they just be concealin’ it” We are concealin (excuse my Ebonics) the fact that we are racist towards our unknown black friends. Martin Luther King would roll over in his grave if he heard us talk the way we do about the crows The crow is simply a unifying force of reconciliation (which ironically enough, is what the John Perkins center is striving to do) on the SPU campus.  After all, what color do we get when we mix all of the other colors together? Oh, that’s right, black. The color of the crow. 

            So what does Michael propose we do about the crow problem they ask? He purposes a forty-five-caliber bullet to the cranium that’s what. This is just another hypocritical solution of Michael. I have seen Michael at more peace rallies than Ben Climer, Sidney Sheehan, and the Dixie Chicks combined. Yet, the second a crow attacks Michael’s freedom, he unlocks the gun closet faster than you can say “Iraq War” It is obvious that the crow was just protecting it’s young, or maybe it was trying to build a new nest in Michael’s soul patch, who knows. All that is for sure is that the crow is in step with the American way of thinking. Michael looks like a terrorist from a far. And how do we fight terrorism one may ask? Easy, with pre-meditated attacks or clever bumper sticks.  The Crow, not having enough surface area to stick a love it or leave it bumper sticker on, was just protecting the terrified citizens of Emerson with a well executed dive-bomb attack. The terrified Emerson students were very thankful to the crow after they had reported sightings of a strange homeless man sleeping on their couches, and this seemed to be the culprit. I purpose we do something to recognize the crow’s heroism. We should give him 200 purple hearts and a Nobel Peace Prize. That, or maybe Michael’s beard to insulate the crow’s young in the cold winters.

            Where does that leave us with the crow? I feel sorry for the poor misguided SPU students whom consistently belittle and degrade the crow with their insistent mocking. Take pride in your plight persecuted crow brethren. There will one-day be a day where peace will run like the mighty Columbia through this great state of Washington. I don’t know when that day will come, but the English majors tell me it certainly isn’t when George Bush is president.

 

P.S I was the one who put out the cigarette on Eaton’s doorstep. He refused to give me more money to keep attending SPU. 

If I Could Sit Down and Play

I wish that I could sit down and play;

That I could create something original,

Put something new and beautiful into the smoke and

Red shaded lights and empty air—

Straight from my bloodstream and out through my lungs—

Out of nothing but a collection of mallets and strings, or

Brass and oxygen;

That I could connect to everyone in an instant

And to God who, like the music I’ll make is just as invisible but

No less real, and like those blue notes

Floats so easily yet with so much

Weight;

That I could have life firing from my fingertips

That I could make people move, snap their fingers

Tap their feet and we could completely understand each other.

What a wonderful way to communicate. What a way to speak and to listen

To strangers, my friends, my mother, my brother, my father, and that loving

Mystery that swirls in circles in between them all.

Because words get muddled and confused, but my music

Will be unmistakably clear.  Yet, it seems that

For now, my words will have to do.  I can make it work. 

I’ll figure something out.   But when all is

Said and done, I just want to be able to sit down and play.  

Ink

There’s the ink that runs out of pen when Simply left alone to form Lovely black lakes and undiscovered islands In a silent white ocean.   Then there is the ink that needs a hand, Fingers and a forearm to make anything Out of anything. It needs to be maneuvered and driven in Drunk circles, then dragged in ragged lines Back and forth to create the feeling of filling But little white spots always remain and smile up at me Like wicked little children–the kind That begin their lives by stealing candy and cigarettes Then move on to giving themselves tattoos of snakes and curse words And driving themselves off cliffs with the top down. I could focus for centuries on coloring in molecules and Particles not even an angel could pull up on chair on–blot out Those damned kids before they can even get a lisense–but it’d be Obvious by the mean, unnatural indents That I am in desperate need of a different pen. One that I can place gently sideways and let The eager ink spread beautifully like a swarm Of happy black locusts 

Dramatic Evil

The last two movies that I have seen in the theaters have been very dark, violent and included characters who personify the purest forms of evil.  I have not seen characters who made me so uneasy just by their presence on the screen. When my good friend Drew Kreeger made a visit to Seattle from Germany two weeks ago, we decided to go see There Will Be Blood with Daniel Day Lewis and that kid from Little Miss Sunshine. Not the cute little girl but the kid who goes ape-shit in the car after finding out he can’t see colors.  The movie is basically about the expansion of the United States and the discovery of oil in the early part of the twentieth century.  More specifically, the movie is about a certain enterpreneur named Daniel Plainview who is shrewd, determined, and purely evil (although this does not make the character simple, his evil is most certainly complex).  He is able to manipulated and take advantage of entire communities, co-workers, friends, even his own adopted son who he only raises so to have a cute face around for possible buyers.  Lewis does an incredible job and even though the story itself can be slow, the movie is worth the price of admission just to see him perform and completely capture your attention for three straight hours.  I found out later it was three hours long and found that hard to believe because I was so into the entire experience.  Sidenote: Johnny Greenwood scored the soundtrack.  And, as we know, whatever Johnny Greenwood touches turns to gold.   The other sunflowery film I attended was No Country For Old Men, adapted from the book by Cormac McCarthy.  The plot of this movie involves a average-Texan dude who runs across a drug deal gone wrong and ends up with about 200,000 dollars in a black bag.  The only problem is that there is a psycho killer on his trail trying to get that money back.  The movie was very well done is many respects, but the best and most intriguing part of the movie was Antoine Chugar: the hit man hired to find the money and kill the unlucky man who has it.  More than any other psycho killer character (Kevin Spacey in Seven, Anthony Hopkins in Silence of the Lambs, you name it) that I have seen, Chugar had me genuinely nervous any time he was on screen.  If he (Javier Bardem) does not win Best Supporting Actor, well, I don’t what, but it won’t be good.  Both of these movies address how evil can enter people and how possible (if at all) it is for it to ever escape.  Is it choice?  Is it fate?  Does it have to be this way, and how does one make it different?  The most interesting scene in No Country took place near the end in a dialogue with Chugar and a woman he has come to kill and it addresses some of these issues.  It goes a little something like:  Woman:  You know, you don’t have to do this.  Chugar:  They all say that.   Woman:  Say what?  Chugar:  You don’t have to do this?  Woman:  Well, you don’t  Chugar offers to flip for it.  Chugar:  This is the best I can do.  Call it.  Woman:  No.  I ain’t gonna call it.  That coin has nothing to do with you doing this.  Chugar:  This coin got here the same way I did. If you don’t mind violence (especially in No Country) want something a little outside of the box, and  want to see the personification of evil, I would  definitely recommend going to see these two movies.  Definitely two of the best movies I’ve seen all year.  

Back(board) in my life.

For much of my life winter was synonymous with basketball season.  Especially in high school, my winter months were occupied by basketball.  I played two games a week.  I practiced everyday that I wasn’t playing a game and I might go some ball on the weekends too.  In between all of the times I was actually playing basketball, I was watching it.  I watched my brother play at Willamette or went and saw games at Western Baptist or some other college.  On the rarest of occasions I might see a pro game in Portland as well.  I miss playing basketball competitively and I miss watching my brother play, and I also miss watching college ball on TV.  My vision of university life before I got to college was whirlwind of pizza, orange soda and collegiate sports.  Sadly, this was not the case.  When I got to school, I became almost completely disconnected from NCAA basketball.  I got into the habit of not watching TV, and that has been a good thing for sure.  But, the ugly side of the coin is that I stopped watching all TV–not just worthless MTV dating shows and the Price is Right–including college hoops.  And holy hell, I have missed it.  My March Madness brackets have become God-awful, and last year I didn’t even fill one out!  Blame it on my erratic schedule or my English major or my lack of a cable connection in my house, but I have had a problem.  I have become disconnected with a sport that I love: the blessed game of college basketball.  I am glad to say that basketball and I have redone our vows.  Right now I am watching Duke trying to protect a six point lead against Florida State.  Last night I got to watch Michigan State win and I’ll probably watch number one NC dominate after Duke loses to FSU for the third year in a row.  I have been playing ball once or twice a week with my high school basketball nemesis Brian Classen.  Brian hated me in high school because a)we crushed South on a consistent basis and b)I was a shirt grabber but never got caught.  Also, I have been able to announce games for the school radio and video streaming service.  It gives me the chance to talk about the finer points of basketball and why no team should ever have to play a zone defense.  After our time apart, basketball and I are doing well again.  We’re talking to eachother, we listen, we communicate.  I apologize for the time I’ve been away and basketball has forgiven me.  I promise, I will never neglect to fill out a bracket ever again.  This I swear.  Big thanks to Kelsey Lewellen and Emily Sadler for letting me hang out in your apartment, even when you’re not there to watch your TV and eat your chips and salsa.  And cookies.  And juice.  And Ritz crackers and cheese.   

Kosmos

Have you ever thought about enormous you are.  How incredibly vast you are.  How many stories you have.  How many things you think about.  How many reasons you think about them.  How impossible it is for someone to define you.  How many memories you have.  How many things you have felt in your life.  How many people you’ve known, missed, loved, hated, talked to, looked at, smiled at, touched. How deep you are.  How many skills you have.  How many dreams you’ve had.  How many things you’re capable of.  That you can think about God.  That you have some part in the universe, and that is it not a small part.  There are no small parts.  There are vital parts.  There are things that exist, and if they didn’t, the whole thing would fall apart.  How if you weren’t here, if you didn’t exist, the whole thing would fall apart.  How needed you are.  Important could not even begin to describe it.  How many things you can change.  How you can change God’s mind.  How far you can reach to the west, to the east, to the north and south and directions we don’t even have a name for.  That you will never fully understand him or her.  That you’ll never fully understand yourself.  That should not be a sad thing, that is not a testament to the limits of your mind, but a great truth of your vastness.  Michael Miller, a cosmos, a universe.  Mari Andrew, a cosmos.  John Miller, a cosmos. Paula Green, a cosmos.  Kiley Gray, a cosmos.  Drew Miller, Drew Kreeger, Tyler McCann, a cosmos. You, him, her, everyone, a cosmos.  I hope none of us lets ourselves be simplified or ever simplifies ourselves.  Never.  That there is a never and a forever and that we are.  

Bread and Marijuana

“Bro, I just smoked some sweet herb.”

I could tell.  I’ve been to enough rock concerts to recognize someone under the influence of the Great Green Mellow Maker.  His eyes were swollen, bloodshot and distant.  They looked past me focusing on nothing and everything at the same time.  He wasn’t looking at the objects behind me, just past me. Or, he wasn’t looking at anything at all.  He was pretty stoned.

He had approached me slowly from outside.  The opening to the shop I work at is tall and wide so everyone feels welcome.  I had seen him walking across the street.  He held up his jeans with his right hand and walked bowlegged past the parked cars, his left hand swung loosely by his side.  He waddled near the middle of the street so the cars that drove by had to swerve right to get around him, but he was more or less oblivious.  He was too relaxed to be bothered with the possibility of being clipped by a BMW or a UPS truck.  Once he got past the big green garbage bins and in front of the white lit entrance of City Fish he turned slowly, scratched his chin and crossed the brick-laid street, and sauntered straight—or as straight as he could propel himself—to the olive oil shop that I stood in. 

He came in the opening and under the dull hanging light. There was a big yellow table in the middle of the shop.  It had all the olive oil samples and bread on it.  I stood on one side.  He stood on the other.

“Bro, I just smoked some sweet herb. Do you know where I can my hands on some Indian food?  I only got a couple of bucks and I got some mean munchies right now.  Mean munchies.  Do you know where I can get some cheap food?”

He finished his question then noticed the chunks of bread sitting in baskets on the sample table in the middle of the shop and I saw his bloody blue eyes open wide.  Sotto Voce, the store that I work at, makes a good business on olive oil for a couple of reasons.  The stuff is good.  I know.  I get two free bottles a month.  I give one bottle to a friend, and I use the other bottle on the pasta that I cook for myself every other night.  It also sells because people can come in and sample it.  Wealthy tourists buy it either because they convince themselves they need it, or they feel bad for spending time in the shop and not leaving with a bottle or two.  They like the hand-carved table and wine glasses and bread baskets.  But, free bread is a universal attraction.  So, the amount of people come into the shop who can afford a thirteen dollar bottle is the same as those who couldn’t buy a stick of gum. 

My cannabis companion studied everything intensely.  He tried to make sense of the bottles, and the glass and the weird, goopy liquid they contained. 

“What is this stuff bro?” he asked and licked his lips. 

“It’s, uh, olive oils and vinegars.  The one at the end there is balsamic vinegar.  It’s pretty spicy, but everything else is olive oils,” I replied as I had trained myself to do.  I have a routine memorized, so most of the day I’m on auto-pilot.  My buddy Drew Kreeger got me the job.  It seemed like a fun thing to work in the Pike Place Market.  I had to get a job anyway, so why not make it interesting, I thought.  Because that’s what you do.  You go to college, you do your homework, you get a job and a girlfriend.  So, that’s what I did.  Expect the girlfriend part. 

“So, I can just try it?” he asked and waved his pointer finger around the table.

“Yeah, man.  Go to town,” I said, thinking soon after that maybe an open invitation to food was not the best reply.

Trying to piece together the sampling process, he took note of the toothpicks and the small chunks of bread.  Then, he grabbed a toothpick and began to fill it with as many pieces of bread it could possibly could.  He wanted to make every sample worth the effort.  He dipped the bread deep into the wine glass and swished it around clockwise trying to take some floating herbs and spices with the miniature sourdough sish kabob.  On the way to his mouth, much of the oil ended up on his green jacket and most of the bread remained the glass. 

“Oh bro, sorry about that.  I lost my bread in your wine there,” he said and didn’t hesitate to fill up another toothpick. 

“No worries, man.  It’s olive oil actually.  Don’t worry about it.  I can fish it out later.  It’s part of the job.”

“Cool, cool.  Olive oil huh?  Hmm.”  He swallowed the bread quickly and tasted the oil as an afterthought.  He looked up at the lights and licked his lips some more.  “Good stuff, bro.  I like it.  Is it cool if I try some more.” He smiled.

“Absolutely.  Have as much as you like.” I smiled too.

Any other time I would not have given such an open invitation to someone who had no intention of buying anything and who introduced himself by telling me about the sweet herb that he had scored.  But, it was the dead of winter, no one had come in the shop my entire shift, and I had done nothing but stare at the floor for the last four hours.  That day, I was so bored that I began to imagine what my toes would be like if had faces and could talk.  I thought deep and I determined precisely what personality belonged to each toe.  The big toe was demanding and kind of a control freak.  The little one was a major flirt.  I also discussed literature with Hobbs, the pigeon.  His full name is Hobbles.  He is the one unfortunate bird not blessed with speedy reflexes.  His right foot (or whatever you call the things that pigeons walk on) is mangled.  I’d bet that it got run over by a bike or a Vespa.  Or maybe he just got drunk one night and feel asleep on some railroad tracks.  He limps in front of the store waiting for falling bread and pecking other birds in the feet to dominate the territory.  Hobbs agreed with me that Emerson was important to American literature but didn’t agree with the whole notion of the Oversoul.  I could see his point.

Needless to say, I welcomed the human interaction.  People that are drunk and people that are high are incredible conversationalists.  They have no problem saying, or trying their best to say, exactly what is on their minds.  With the average sober patron, I have to go through the song and dance of asking where they are from and what they do for a living before they open up and talk.  Users, on the other hand, will gripe, sing, yell, and tell stories just because they can. 

“Yeah man.  Try all that you like,” I said again.

“You’re a nice guy, bro.  I mean it.  This whole town is nice and I’ve seen them all.  I’ve been around.  I’ve been all over the country, and this town is the nicest.  People walk around in Seattle.  They go out.  They do things.  They meet people.  They go outside, even when it’s cold as hell like it is right now.  In LA man, people never go outside.  They never get outta their cars.  Atlanta too.  The people aren’t as nice there.  People don’t walk around in Atlanta either.  You got a good town, bro.” 

He spoke fast even for being toked up like he was.  It made me wonder how fast he talked when he wasn’t high. 

“Yeah, man.  I like it too.”  I did.  I loved Seattle.  It was an adventure moving up not knowing a single soul; having to figure out bus routes and etiquette; learning how to know if a homeless person is lying or if they really need five bucks for their friend’s emergency dental operation.  To a suburban kid, anything that isn’t basketball or video games is an adventure.

I stood in the middle of the room and watched him try to stab the bread with his toothpick, dropping the bread-chunks on the floor and spilling oil on his jacket.  He moved from glass to glass told me all about the towns that he had visited and the random jobs that he kept over the years.  He was a young guy.  He couldn’t have been more than 25 or 26 years old, yet he been so many different places and done so much.

He didn’t have any plans.  He had no real ambition, but to see the world.  I wished that I could have no plans, but that doesn’t satisfy a politely curious aunt or uncle.  A lot of people make plans not because they want to accomplish something but because they need an answer for Uncle Conrad and Aunt Jenny. 

I envied the guy.  He had been to Atlanta, and Boston, and New York and Houston and every other Podunk town in between.  I wondered if I could do that.  Could I take off and go somewhere new without the security of knowing job to work or an apartment to move into?  Could I prosper or even survive without an established network of friends and family to watch my back and take care of me? 

I envied his dreadlocks that he wadded under his oversized stocking cap.  I guess if you were a traveling pot smoker, it would only be natural to get dreads.  It seems like when you’re on the road it only makes sense to either dread your hair or shave it off, because you wouldn’t want to have to take care of it.  I planned to dread my hair last summer.  I grew it out all year, I researched how to start and care for dreads, and I even called some inner city barbers to see how much the whole thing would cost.  In the end I backed out because I realized that white people don’t look good with dreadlocks.  Really, only black folks can pull them off.  White guys look like they’re trying too hard, or they look dirty.  Black guys with dreads look straight fucking cool. But, I can still grow a beard and I use it as I expression of rugged individualism.  I wanted to rebel like this guy; just take off and never look back. 

“I got a temp job holding traffic signs.  You know, like the slow/stop thing.  But, they haven’t called me all week.  I don’t know why.  I need the money, bro, so I can move on to Vancouver.  I like this town, but I haven’t been to Vancouver yet.” 

And he chewed his bread and looked around the store, digging on everything he saw.  He stood on one of the side on the table.  I stood on the other.

I wanted to take off to Vancouver too.  I wanted to hitchhike.  I wanted to fall asleep under bridges and in fields.  I wanted to trespass.  I wanted to live like Jack Kerouac and Woody Guthrie and see America sitting on a sack of grain in the middle of a boxcar.  I wanted to meet Vietnam vets and people who talked like Neal Cassady and Randle McMurphy from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest; guys who could swear poetically and tell stories like a modern day Homer; guys would told dirty jokes and wheezed and coughed when they laughed, guys who didn’t pretend to know everything but could tell you a thing or two about women and how to roll a good cigarette, guys that could survive almost anything, guys with no teeth,  guys who knew the difference between want and need, guys who looked like Moses or a young Walt Whitman.   

Suddenly, my inebriated amigo stopped his sampling spree and outside, very deep in thought.  He turned to me and swallowed another toothpickful of bread. 

“You got the time, bro?”

 “Yeah.  It’s half past five.”

 “Damn, bro.  I’ve been here like an hour eating all your bread, and your wine, and your oil and stuff.  Sorry man.  I’ve been up in here like cookie monster, just munching away.  I got to take off though, man.  I got to meet somebody.  Take it easy, bro.”

“You too, man.  Take it easy,” I said and little up my hand in sort of a half wave.

Then he reached across the table and shook my hand, then started to head out the entrance toward the street.  I wanted to grab his hand and say, “Hold on!  Wait a minute.  Let me grab my bag.  Screw the temp job man.  I’ve got enough money to get to Vancouver.  Let’s go.  I haven’t been to Vancouver since I was a kid, and I’ve never seen Boston.  I’ve never gotten in a fight or been arrested.  I’ve gone hungry or been broke and cold and tired.  I’ve never lost track of what’s on TV or what movies are coming out.  I’ve never called someone from a payphone.  I’ve never sent a postcard from Chicago or Chattanooga, Tennessee.  I’ve never learned how to read the sky or how to jimmy rig the transmission of VW Bus.  ”  I wanted to close down the shop early and lock in there all my goals and ambitions and every idea I ever had of what I thought my life turn out to be. 

But I didn’t.  I made my mother proud.  I shook his dry, cracked hand and leaned against the table that holds the cash register.  He was on one side.  I sat on the other.  I saw him waddle out, holding his pants up his right hand.  He took off his cap and I watched his dreadlocks bounce away out into winter’s mid-day darkness.      

I’ll do something about it

I did nothing on new years eve.  I thought about going out to a bar and mixing and mingling with some beautiful babies, but then I remembered a few things about myself.  1) I don’t like loud and endless booty rap 2) I don’t have that much money to spend on overpriced beer 3) large groups of people make me very tired 4) I would have been by myself and I have no real interest meeting drunk women at a loud, crowded, booty rap filled bar.  So, I stayed home, read some Walt Whitman and watched Carson Daly look like an ass with a headset while Tiki Barber discussed the new, earth-friendly confetti being thrown on the people below.  Also, I did step outside to watch the firework come over the hill somewhere around Fremont.  I didn’t watch long because it was very cold and I didn’t have any socks underneath my Birkenstocks.  In the midst of this uneventful bringing-in of the new year I did decide a few things for myself.  My first goal is to have something published in a printed journal.  Granted, I love seeing my reviews on Burnside every other week or so, but I just think it would be extra special to have my words in print.  I want to be able to take an idea, or an event, or a person (as you can see, I have done a lot in deciding my topic already), write about it, then rip it apart, look at it from every angle and make it perfect.  Second, I want to write more on this blog.  I need to figure out how to split up things into sections and tabs.  I’ll try to have a section for music, nonfiction, fiction, poetry, etc.  I’m sure someone can tell me how to do that.  Lastly, I want to tell people how I feel more.  I want to transcend social barriers and customs and be able to talk to strangers, and speak with unashamed honesty to my friends and neighbors. Wish me luck.

The only logical explanation

I don’t mean to sound paranoid, but someone is after me.  More specifically, someone is after me and my bike.  They, whoever they are, had nothing to gain from their destruction, but only wished to torture me.  And they suceeded, damn them!  Take careful note of the events laid forth, and you’ll soon agree that I have been a victim of an elaborate conspiracy. I bought my bike on Craigslist for 75 dollars from an Eastern European gentleman in Northeast Seattle.  It seemed in good shape and certainly worth the price I paid.  It rode like a dream for weeks and I was happy.  But, then mysterious things began to take place.  All of which point to, again, a secrect effort to turn me against my bike. One night I fell asleep at Drew Kreeger’s house in Ballard.  I had to leave early in the morning to ride to work.  I noticed as I rode down the steady delcine towars Old Ballard that my brakes did not do much to stop my momentum.  My back brake worked to a limited degree and my more important front brake was entirely useless.  I had to brake mostly with my feet which, as you can no doubt imagine, is less than safe.  I realized later that a switch was conviently turned up, rendering my brakes useless and my ride dangerous.  I sure as hell did not turn that switch.  Well, who did?  This was not the last time this would happen. On another occasion I was housesitting (in an apartment, but I think the term still applies) for some friends who lived out on Greenlake.  I got to watch their Pug, Gatsby, all week and hang out on Greenlake and watch OnDemand episodes of Flight of the Conchords.  And eat free food.  And get paid.  It was a perfect situation…until disaster struck.  I parked my bike on their back deck which led out to a community courtyard.  In the morning, when I walked outside to begin riding to work again, I noticed that something had been taken out of my basket.  The dirty bastards had taken my bike lock.  The lock was useless to them since they did not have a key to it.  This proved to me that whoever was after me, did not seek to steal anything material from me but sought to take away my comfort, peace of mind, convience, and perhaps even my life.  This event also proved that whoever was at work was a professional.  Who else could sneak into an apartment, undetected?  My theories were further proven in another event.I again spent the night in Ballard and ventured to work down 15th street on a clear blue morning.  Since I am required to wear shoes at work, by decree of some oppressive anti-sandal regulation, I put my beloved Birkenstocks in my basket.  When I arrived at Pike Place, one of my sandals was missing.  I vaguely remember being passed by another bike on my right that morning.  The only logical explanation is that the said rider took the one Birkenstock out of the basket.  My heart was beaten and torn by the loss. Then the final straw.  Last week was the worst for the me and my bike.  As I was riding up a steep hill towards my home late one night, I noticed that my gears were making a funny noise.  Then I heard a metallic clank against the pavement and saw that my rear derailer was completely falling apart.  I had to walk the bike the rest of the way home and made plans to get everything fixed the next day.  I took my bike into a bike shop and had them fix the derailer so I could at least get back to riding.  While there, I decided to make a few other small improvement, such as new handlebars and breaks, among other things.  With the addition of parts and labor, this proved to be a fairly expensive procedure. When I got my bike back the next day I could have not been happier.  My bike and I were starting a new chapter.  The bike rode like a dream, and looked damn good all the while.  I decided to take the bike out to Ballard.  Just as I reached Market Street, something horrible happened.  My frame completely broke.  It didn’t bend, or morph.  It snapped.  An old man who witnessed the event said he had never seen such a thing.  I was more than suspicious.  And then it all made sense.Who would have the most to gain from my loss of a bike?  Oil companies.  The evil oil companies have work tirelessly on associating my bike, and in turn all bikes, with misery.  That is why all these horribles things have taken place around my bike.  When I think of a bike, the oil companies want me to think of danger, loss, greif, and destruction.  It’s the only logical explanation.  They want me to completely throw away the idea of riding a bike and buy a car and spend unthinkable money on their gasoline.  Nice try Exxon Mobile.  But it won’t work this time.  Next time, try screwing with someone who could actually afford a car.