running up that hill

EAT ICE CREAM

hair down

Why do some people hold the phone to their ear to listen and then pull it away to speak straight into the receiving end? Doesn't it work the same way regardless of how you hold it? True, it looks a little more dramatic and urgent but the person on the other end of the line can't see that.

LISTEN TO COLD WAR KIDS

and now my heart is full

So...it would appear that nobody really reads this thing. I know that it's barely been a week but seriously, that's totally awesome! Now I don't have to pull any punches. Now I can say exactly what I want without fear of repercussion. First off, I don't like cats. And I don't think ignorant young people deserve the respect they think they're owed. And I hate how everybody thinks that everybody else is an idiot. Also, I'm a little saddened that nobody reads my blog. I feel that I've distanced myself over the years from those I once held dear. Maybe it's my fault, maybe it's me who hasn't called, maybe it's me who has been shunned. Either way, I don't have as many friends as I used to, and that's making me think long and hard about how I maintain relationships. I'm sure that I'm not abrasive, perhaps I'm not abrasive enough. Am I far too (sounds like fartu) self-centered for my own good? I think I'm more of a giver than a taker, but I may be wrong. It's quite possible that I'm not cool. Though I'm taking comfort knowing that nobody is going to read this, I'm also worried about the future of bryan. What if someday, somewhere, sometime in the future I get married, or worse, die? What if nobody shows up? so emo.....

LISTEN TO MORRISSEY but really I'm happy

just like a dream

With the clearing of the skies and the warming temperatures, Portlanders are emerging from their cocoons and abandoning their spring retreats. For the most part, this is a good thing. The sun's rays improve moods and, I've heard, health too. On my most recent waterfront foray during the lunch hour, I couldn't help but observe some top-notch tomfoolery. Joining the downtown regulars were the nine to five crowds, donning tennis shoes for a fitful jaunt down the west bank of the Willamette. The occasional homeless person could also be found, dotting the landscape and having a nap in the shade at the base of a tree. Accompanying them were the bearded twenty-somethings in their cut off shants, tattered vulcanized sneakers, and fitted t-shirts. They were nonchalantly enjoying a rousing round of 'bee throwing. This is all fine and dandy--totally expected. But there were a couple standouts that deserve mention.

One dude (white), clad in oversized FUBU shorts worn dangerously low and with an impeccably groomed chin-strap beard and goatee thing, was strutting his stuff. He had the lean and the limp in his walk and opted to go shirtless for good measure. I should also note that with his discman at top volume, all the passerby were treated to an a cappella version of some ignorant rap song. This guy was shouting some obscene stuff and doing the rap thing with his hands. "These motherfuckin' n****s be tripping, these bitches and hoes ain't listenin,'" was the part that I remember. It reminded me that good music can transcend class, culture and racial barriers.

Another guy was styling too. He had the ponytail and the baggy leather pants. He had the pierced eyebrow and couldn't stop playing with the stud in his tongue. And in a wardrobe choice that defied not only convention but logic as well, this dude decided to wear a fur-lined leather jacket. It's almost 90 degrees outside and this guy posts up in Pioneer Courthouse Square to send out the vibes in clothes that would keep a malnourished girl warm in January. It's possible that I'm missing something here and that he has a valid excuse to be wearing such ludicrous attire on a hot day. But whatever.

I like people watching and I guess I like making judgements based on appearance. Not my most redeeming quality but I don't think I'm alone either.

weeks past

selected photos (the non-incriminating kind)
lurking above the fog, preparing for the descent into San Francisco


hotel view
house/dog sitting. this is sienna. she's a terror but she's a sweetheart
rocking in the basement, disturbing the neighbors

the width of a circle

You've seen the public drinking fountains in the city, eh? They're constantly flowing? They're scattered across this fair city of Portlandia and have become kind of a distinguishing characteristic of Oregon's metropolitan epicenter. Anyway, it's been a good while since I've last tasted one of these fountains' cool water but in recent weeks, I've seen stuff that has convinced me to never get my mouth within 2-4 feet of these things. The first was a hobo instructing another hobo how to effectively use the fountain. He demonstrated this by covering the water-spewing hole with his stained thumb to shoot the water higher up, thereby making his drinking easier. Not only did he not have to bend over as far to quench his thirst and soak his parched mouth, but he was also able to wash the crums from his beard. It's actually nice to know that the fountains aren't a total waste--after all, they're helping rehydrate the city's homeless after a day's worth of binge drinking and random pill-popping. The second deciding incident happened today when I witnessed a pigeon, clearly pleased with himself after a satisfying shit, used one of said water fountains as a bidet. He hopped up on the rim of the fountain, maneuvered his anus over the mouth of the faucet and proceeded to clean his ass. He fluttered and, taking a cue from Nelly and P. Diddy's abhorrent song, 'shook his tail feathers.' Never again, I say. Never again will I drink from these water fountains.

In conclusion, I know as well as you, everybody gets thirsty, everybody needs water. It's the same desire and necessity for satiation that drives a zebra to dip his lips into a crocodile-infested waterhole; he knows the risks but they don't change the fact that he needs a drink. From now on, I'll just drink water elsewhere, from another, more trusted source.

WASH YOUR HANDS

teste teste 1 2 3

Does anybody even read this? Am I alone with my inane thoughts in this little corner of cyberspace that I like to call GimmeDanger? If you do or have read it, please por favor si vous plais (fr. sp.?) bitte leave a comment. You don't even have to say anything. just mash the keyboard a few times a;lsdghopauietm. Thanks gracias merci danke.

where thrills are cheap and love is divine

My computer sucks. It doesn't want to work for me. So now I write at work or on somebody else's computer. And that's why no photos for the last month or two.

But check this: some dude in San Mateo, California got mad at his wife because she was calling him short. In his anger and frustration, he grabbed her in a bearhug-like grip and set to work tearing off her lip. He bit it off and spit it out. As charges were filed, doctors tried in vain to reattach the lip. No such luck. Now this lady probably looks like one of those goofy little guys from the Quizno's commercials awhile back. Sucky.

Also, some kook tried to microwave a baby. FOR REAL! I guess he crammed this kid in there and hit the defrost button. The baby lived but she's pretty burnt, hella radiated too. The mom, 20, was gone and left the baby in care of her husband, 19. The husband is studying to become a preacher and both parents have blamed the whole incident on the devil. They claim that Beelzebub told him to do it. This happened in Texas of all places. Sucky.

And George Dub just declassified a bunch of intelligence in order to defend his Iraq war policy. There's stuff in there about thwarted attacks on our home turf and how Bin Laden was setting up operations in Iraq. Basically, BushMan is trying to rationalize what the American public, in a recent poll, has deemed completely irrational. And now he's trying to scare us again and generate fear palpable enough to warrant bloodshed. Sucky.

Though all this and more is sucky, I'm going on a nice woodland vacation this weekend with my buddy. And that makes me happy.

WATCH THE PLANET EARTH DVDS, LISTEN TO THE MISFITS.

eight months of solitude

MARQUEZ. Holy hell. That last post of mine is absurd to the max. I'm still trying to decipher it. Not only was I fading in and out of the black-out zone, but I think that my fingers were shifted from their 'home base' position.

So the band finally played a show. Though it was far from polished, we filled the time we were given. It was easily one of the greatest times I've had in awhile. It excites me to know that there's more to come. To hell with the naysayers, we'll play behind chicken wire, Jake and Elwood style, just to get them rocks off. Oh yeah, and the SF trip last week was totally awesome. Photos to come?

LISTEN TO THE YARDBIRDS (early stuff, the Clapton years)

it's not enough

john thunders said it. it's not enough. I cam count on diamonds. rubies as well. oh big deal baby, i still feel like hell. foreign language sci fi. lengua means tongue, don't eat it, speak it. with it. spaghetti con marinara y meatballs. magic. the sound ums is the sound of horses. neighs havbe it, ayes do noooooot. drhat fills yourt. yougurt, straw banana. dip something e ully tasy. mango, apple slie. or cashew. old men can't type. too old. they thinks is a hov for ladiesl=. i once jugggles orfe two scarves. I'm coordiated vy only barely

jjuggle this berr;u dide.......u so. i'd rrathjer ta;l avbpit spm,ebpcu e;se///////////not me. night buddddy. MAFGIC to be born is to die, buried alive or who what'd the why...to the top of sk;y, the cake of the pie.

smell it........rEvolution. times are changing and physical bone struntures is too. too much drunk man thinnking he's smart just cause he wa=rat suit........ bad typeeee. lis-

text swim like fish in reef. predators lurk, turltes monitor. a new zone. environments of inaccesibility breed hartak...hweart ache.e

somehjooooo
the frim was cool enolugh to give noewa;lksdjf.,sdf asdfbnaklsjihfp O3WUR

text and violence

Fill me with apples. I feel like cement. We celebrate spontaneity but if it interrupts something of relative importance, we scorn it. Hurt feelings can’t be sufficiently explained or defended and as turmoil results, nothing gets resolved. Sometimes I think that resolution is unattainable. Does that make me a defeatist?

HARVEST

I wrote this a couple months back when I had a bellyful of booze and a deep reverence for the genius of my favorite Canadian troubadour: Neil Young. I tipped my bottle, opened a fresh one, pressed play on the player, and set to it. It's like Philip Seymour Hoffman as Lester Bangs said in that movie, "just to fucking write." My tippy tappy typist fingers couldn't keep up with my racing mind but nonetheless, the following resulted.

“See the lonely boy out on the weekend.” A young man who “can’t relate to joy,” can’t express his feelings, “can’t begin to say.” Only one man could say it so eloquently, so curtly. That man is Neil Young. Accented with plaintive steel guitar and his ever present acoustic, strummed so subtly, Mr. young creates a sense of longing in his listener. Punctuated by harmonica solos, ‘out on the weekend’ remains a country-folk staple and a reminder to the youth that their dream may not always lay in wait around the corner.

“I was almost there at the top of the stairs.” Examine this line. What does it mean? The singer instructs us to “dream up, dream up with the promise of a man.” What, pray tell, are we to dream? A more prosperous future? Contentment? Peace and wellbeing, perhaps? Either way, one can’t help but tap their foot to this simple rhythm. Though “I see you give more than I can take, I only harvest some.” Yet again, more questions than answers as Neil’s song leads us to further analyze the lyrics we’ve just heard as the next verse presents itself. The feeling of loss and helplessness are further hindered by the driving beat, devoid of busy and hard-to-follow percussion and instead complemented by simple, cro-magnon beats that force the listener to give in to his inner caveman. Shun the cymbals, damn the hi-hat, and pay heed to the tribal thumping.

The old man, presented a view of his past through the eyes of a young man, is likely overwhelmed by the change in times. Such is the case of this banjo-permeated treasure from Mr. Young. We’re reminded that everybody needs somebody to love, old or young; love conquers all. The quest for companionship rules. Neil’s song reminds us that an old man’s death is never a tragedy.

A heavily orchestrated song fades out with the plucking of a harp and leads us to ‘Alabama,’ an electric guitar-driven number that calls to mind such forgotten institutions like confederacy and slavery. Bad mojo.

The applause gives way to a lone guitar, backed by a piano, a bass, and a set of drums. The guitar part itself is subdued, seemingly restrained from its full glory and withheld from its utmost capability. Following the first verse, which speaks of hard, agricultural labor and the struggle to survive, the instruments begin feeding off each other before climaxing in subdued glee. It’s as if a tired farmhand, weak from his toil in the fields, is letting loose his inhibitions, however weary he may be. Though the piano is the foundation of the song, the heavy-hand-picked electric guitar fuels the fire, cultivating the song’s crop and helping to reap what Neil Young has sown. This song made me cry once.

"my my," they sigh

So it seems that the number of requests for concealed gun permits has skyrocketed since the Virginia Tech shooting. Does this really make sense? One potential concealed gun owner defended his decision to carry a hidden firearm: 'I would've liked to see what would've happened if there were more guns in that school building.' I paraphrased that, but the gist remains unchanged. This guy, and many others, are saying that more people need guns in order to stop gun violence. That means your coworker or someone could be carrying a gun for your protection. Citizen cops--vigilante justice almost. It scares me more to think that people in a crowded public space could be carrying weapons and would be ready and willing to unload their clips in this crowded public space the minute they detect a real or imagined threat. On the flipside, more lives could be saved. But that's not necessarily what would happen. It just seems like a silly rationale; it makes no sense to me that more guns would do anything to help curb gun violence. The real solution, if there even is one, lies deeper than that. Unfortunately, I don't have the answer. I didn't invent the rainy day, I just own the best umbrella.

we all belong

Check it: there is a dude I work with who looks like Kip Dynamite and acts like Dwight Shrute. He is ripe for to make fun. I could tell stories for hours, nay days, about this dude and his quirks but something just happened that seriously made my day. Ok, so I'm blogging at work but I'd probably forget this if I didn't get it down now.

He's here in my office zone, talking about God-knows-what, when he offers this bit of advice: "Like Yoda said, 'there is no try, only do.'" I repeat the quote in the crappiest Yoda voice I can muster in the hope that it will incite him to do the same and thereby provide me with more fodder for future chuckles. By the way, recounting these incidents, both in my head and for others in the office, is a major source of amusement. Ok, so he comes back with his Yoda voice and it's seriously spot-on. His dedication to the delivery was hilarious. I'm stifling a smile as I tell him how good his impression was. Now he's beaming and clearly proud of himself; it's as if I just gave him the greatest compliment ever, the highest praise and the recognition he so desperately craved and, moreover, deserved after years of honing his craft. He thanked me graciously and told me that I too could gain this exceptional talent through "practice, practice, practice."

Wow, I just read that back to myself and it sounds like I'm really making fun of him. He's not a bad dude, just kind of quirky. Plus, he never fails to make me laugh [at his expense, though].

LISTEN TO THE LIBERTINES' WHAT A WASTER. HELL, LISTEN TO THE WHOLE DAMN ALBUM.

puertas a mi derecha

Some heavy heavy shit these days. Aside from the sullen outcast opening fire on his fellow students at Virginia Tech, we've got new anti-discrimination legislation working its way through the Oregon House on its way to the Senate. In other news, a veteran NBA referee was suspended indefinitely for singling out a player and tossing him from the game. But I could care less about that.

Sometimes I think about the future--my future. I wanna know what is to be. To see what life's cut out for me. I waiting for my fate, cause I know I've done wrong. I wanna know just what's in store for me.

PUT ANOTHER LOG ON THE FIRE FOR ME