Reptilia

Defying all of my previously held conventions on biology, a female komodo dragon has given birth without having her eggs fertilized by a male. A virgin birth--this is myth fodder, man. I learned that in rare instances, when the female doesn't have access to a male (often in captivity), a process called parthenogenesis takes place. Asexual reproduction. Beth said the same thing happened in Jurassic Park and I believed her.

meanwhile...

...I was still thinking. Wool gab? C'mon Queenie, let's get with it!

Lonely Planet Boy

I'm a street walking cheetah with a heart full of napalm...the world's forgotten boy. So I had to share some space on the bus today with a stinker in the morning and a stinker in the evening. The first was a large man with a soiled flannel, untied boots and stringy hair. The second was your average poopy-smelling guy. Invading my nasal cavities, both of their scents offended my sense. Of smell that is.

State of the Union speech tonight. Pretty uneventful. He just kind of reiterated previous assertions and maintained his convictions. As expected, he's still marching to the rhythm of some drum I'll probably never hear. But he called out some guy in the crowd, a conspicuously seated black man, who gave the pres. the thumbs up and pointed back at him while mouthing the words 'you the man' as if Bush had just thrown him the game-clinching touchdown pass. I think I must've missed something.

So this is one of the beers that I like to drink. Henry Weinhard's Blue Boar Pale Ale is "a smooth, aromatic, Irish-style pale ale...crafted using premium Columbia Valley two-row barley and double-hopped with Cascade hops for easy-drinking flavor." You can find it in any NW grocery store, quickie mart or gas station and it's often pretty cheap. I like drinking it, it makes me feel cool and a little sophisticated. It's a poor man's microbrew and it's a northwest staple. But, strangely enough, I've never seen it on tap. Anyway, the packaging was always really cool to me. The design was carried over onto the bottle's label as well. It looked really old and classic--hell, there was a boar on a crest surrounded by barley and old-timey script. The boar was depicted in profile with gnarly tusks justting out from under his lips. It looked like an etching or something in a really dated style. If anything, it was familiar to me. So I go to pick some up at the local retailer, Frederick Meyer's in this case, and walk down the beer aisle. Not finding what I sought, I walked back up the aisle, this time paying closer attention and scrutinizing the section where I expected to find my elusive elixir. Yet again, I was skunked. Where was the damn Henry's man? I wanted that green bottle with the boar so I could empty its contents into my belly. In due time I found it, but upon closer inspection, it was clear that the packaging with which I had become so familiar had been changed. And for the worse, I might add. The original design had been suspended in place of something far more plain, bland and less distinct. See for yourself. I wonder how many other people walked right by this without noticing it. Whoever's running the show over at Henry's blew it. That thing looks busted man. Buckled and boring. I suppose I'll still drink it though. Maybe I oughta just get a cool coozy to mask the new label.EAT A TWIX BAR, LISTEN TO DUSTY SPRINGFIELD, TREAD LIGHTLY

the Nature of the Experiment

...taking me in increments.

So listening to people talking on their cell phones is now my biggest annoyance. I understand that people have business to attend to, friends to chat with, and plans to make. But doing it at top volume within the confines of a bus is a different story altogether. The relative solitude that is my morning and evening commute is a time in which I like to collect my thoughts, rock the pod, read, and generally try to relax. I'm not alone here either. The morning and evening bus into and out of downtown Portland is usually filled with the business class. These people dress well and a large percentage of them read. Imagine our vexation, chagrin, and exasperation as the calm is interrupted and we're all forced to listen to somebody describe the tedium and the minutiae of their day to whoever is unfortunate enough to be on the other end of the line. Oblivious and unaware of their intrusion into the only respite many of the other bus-riders may find from their busy day, these serial cellers don't realize that all everybody else wants is a little peace and quiet. A little time to read and wind down after yet another downtown day in corporate America.

Oh yeah, it snowed a week or so ago. My office was closed and I still got paid!

I'm now reading the Motley Crue book. It's called The Dirt and it is a disgusting look at 80's excess. Filled with the foul language, misogyny and depravity you'd expect from a bunch of drug-addled and drunk rock stars, this book has it all. I got it over the weekend and I'm about halfway done. It's like these guys had a death wish. They destroyed themselves for years and lived (barely) to tell the tale, however embellished it may be. Whatever, it's only rock and roll. But I like it.

love myself better than you

...nevermind...

So Nike, bless their hearts, donated $9 million to Oregon public Schools. How very generous. Consider this though: the tax breaks that Nike so desperately fought for from the state effectively deprive the public schools from an estimated $40 million that they would otherwise be granted from 2007 to 2009. Nike: so gracious with their billions earned from sweatshop labor and overpriced sneakers. Morty Seinfeld once said that in order to turn a profit in the garment industry you needed "cheap fabric and dim lighting." Whatever, some of the shoes are cool and I still buy them. But for the record, Nike oughta be taxed like any other entity. It seems that the state of Oregon is so intent on keeping big businesses and the jobs they provide to Oregonians in Oregon that they've lost sight of what's really important.

READ A BOOK or THE NEWSPAPER or SOMETHING.

confessin' the blues

Stone cold Steve Autism. Roll away that stone, man. It's wierd, the city practically shuts down, pulls the plug and ceases operation the minute snow and ice invade the landscape. It's eerie. I'm the last living soul in a seemingly vacated ghost town. Moreover, I'm shocked when I check the internet and see that the world continues to turn despite inclement weather in the Portland metropolitan area.

I snow skated yesterday. Some guys I know built some stuff in a park and we all rode. The science of stoke quenched my appetite for extremity (extremeness?). I haven't skated forever but yesterday I got to slide a lil ledge, take a drop, and thread the needle. Everybody landed something cool-it was so fun. Earning cheers tend to make this dude feel cool.

EAT DING DONGS, GET BUSY

shine a light

A new year. A new job. A new jacket and a revitalized effort to change things for the better. My past holds few regrets and I welcome the future. In my life, I've loved them all, said John L. or maybe it was Paul Mc.

You ever see those metal dudes? I'm not talking about the dudes with leather or spikes or boots. I'm thinking of the misunderstood kid in high school with the silk button-up shirt, flames printed along its seams, and the computer programmer style all black shoes shoes tied up like footballs. He's trying his damndest to grow that goofy metal beard, all long and pointy on his chin. With the sides of his head shaved, his long hair is often dyed some wacky color and pulled back into a ponytail. I love it when people express themselves, it's who they are, and it's refreshing to see people who don't really give a shit what others may think of them however uncool they look to the judgemental populace, myself included. That was one hell of a run on. Sometimes I think about editing these things before I post them, but that defeats the point. Stream of consciousness is what I'm going for. I just wish my hands could keep up with my minds. Ghostface Killah is a firm believer in stream of consciousness, listen to supreme clientele, it's staggering; leaving fools in the angel dust. James Joyce? I think he was on that boat too. I should read more.

So I bought a book. And now I'm reading it. A Season in Hell with the Rolling Stones chronicles the recording of the band's famed 1972 album Exile on Main Street. The story has renewed my affinity for all things Stone. Basically, they're the shit. Mick Jagger sings these words on one track near the end of the album and it kind of sums up the turmoil within the band, specifically the love/hate working relationship between him and Keith that fueled their collective genius:

When you're flying your flags
All my confidence sags,
You got me packing my bags.
I'll stowaway at sea,
You make me mutiny,
Where you are I won't be,
You're gonna be the death of me.

That ish is raw kid. He wrote some cool stuff sometimes. I'd be a Pinochio if I said otherwise.

Minor annoyance: people who wield their intelligence like a sword. They cut people down on the regular. It's rude to be belittling. Sure, you're smart, cool, but do you have to make others feel dumb? I've witnessed this firsthand: the short, gruff statements in that vindictive, know-it-all manner and the meek, shoe-gazing responses. It's so sad watching someone get humiliated. I'm embarassed for them. Why do people feel the need to assert their dominance in matters so trivial? What's worse is that I think these people don't even know they're being disparaging. It's simple--lighten up, change your tone. You'll make more friends.

ONE SONG: DEAD FLOWERS by THE ROLLING STONES or TOWNES VAN ZANDT