Rachel Wrong

Riot Horse

2012-02-29T16:33:00.001-08:00

I love horses. Even though I know city horses are pissed and bored, and in the case of police horses, working, I still want to walk up and pet them and you know, run my fingers through their manes. When I was in second and third grade, I stayed after school for a program called CARE. My brother and I would hang out there for a couple hours until one of our parents picked us up. CARE was managed by this lovely hippie lady who read cool books to us and let us hang out and do whatever. At one point, my friends and I played "Jack the Ripper", which involved one person being Jack and the others wandering around the playground unwittingly until they were killed. They were then led by Jack to the jungle gym dome thing and forced inside, where they had to stay because they were dead and in a strange fog-filled purgatory. We loved this game. The odd thing about this game is that I distinctly remember overhearing a man (there was a man observing us on the playground. This is probably a red flag and he may have a Jack the Ripper type, but we are still alive today) say, "Jesus, nice game." He found our game disturbing. I find the fact that there was an adult man on the playground disturbing.

But anyway, the thing that proves I have always loved horses was that during my time in CARE I perfected an accurate imitation of the gallop on my hands and knees. This was not just running on my hands and knees. This was galloping. This skill was developed through watching a lot of horse movies, acting like a horse on a regular basis, and generally being obsessed with horses from a young age. It was uncanny. It was faster than any other method of running on hands and knees, and we regularly put mats out across the gym floor and had horse races. I always won. Always. Because, the gallop.

But anyway, this afternoon Kyle ran into my office to tell me there were horses outside. And there were. Apparently there's an Occupy thing going on down the way (which explains the giant puppet capitalist pig head thing we saw earlier) and the riot police and their riot horses are out. Look at the riot horse gear. So cute. I had to fight the urge to run out there and pet the horses in their riot gear.

That's all.

DFP (double fist pump)

2012-02-24T11:48:00.000-08:00

Florence + The Machine tickets are mine. I have to tell you, it was like watching someone you love run through a minefield or performing open heart surgery using blunt instruments. My nerves are shot. I was refreshing my browser, pushing buttons, mistakenly typing the wrong letters in that stupid code thing (for the love of god, why are they always so illegible?), and then waiting, waiting, and waiting until they finally came through. Liz got some too. We were on the gchat together, keeping each other updated on progress and hyping each other up. I'm not sure I would have made it to the other side if it wasn't for her. Going through stuff like that, it really changes you.

Anyway, happy Friday!

Here are some links to make your weekend that much better (if all you're doing is sitting around looking at stuff on the internet).

Robyn in GIF form. Prepare to be mesmerized. If you're not careful, this could be your Friday night.

This annoying article about living alone. Like people who live with other people don't do weird things. And since when is it totally quirky and only okay for single people to sing in the shower, do random home aerobics, or eat random things like a sweet potato for dinner? Please.

A dog on things. I want a dog.

And in that same ilk, Kim Jong-Il looking at things. I don't think I want a Kim, but the more that I look at this, maybe I do . . . .

Ask and you shall receive

2012-02-22T15:56:00.001-08:00

Sam made this bench for me and my shoes. Wow, right? Now I need to make sure that I don't cover it with superfluous clothing and detritus of life, so I can continue to appreciate all that recycled wood glory.

Taking a Break

2012-02-21T13:33:00.000-08:00

I'm never one to turn down much of anything. Cake. Fried food. Ribs. A glass of wine. I mean, life is pretty short and I like all those things. But lately, with winter and the general doldrums that entails, I've been on this cleansing kick. It's not a Cleanse. I don't do stuff like that and I think it's completely illogical to assume your body will somehow function better when trying to subsist on nettle tea or lemon juice or whatever. My "cleanse" will be brief and vague (I mean, birthday cake doesn't count because it's birthday cake), but I think it's good to do this kind of thing once in a while, even for a short amount of time. At the moment, I am abstaining from two things:

1. Sugar

But only kind of. The thing about sugar is that it's in everything. I'm not abstaining from fruit, or refusing to eat whole wheat bread with tiny amounts of whatever in it. But I am passing on desserts of any sort. It's hard. I love sweets. I have always been obsessed with sugar.

When I was young, probably about 10, I was visiting my mom at her work. She works at a hospital. She gave me a dollar so that I could go get a drink from the soda machine. I took that dollar and went to the soda machine, but then, once I was there, I noticed I was standing next to the candy machine (this story is horrible). Unable to control my urge for candy, I spent that dollar on a king-size Three Musketeers (not even the best of the candy bars!) which I took to the bathroom (so many germs!), hid in the handicapped stall (you know, just in case a nurse tried to stop me or something), and ate the entire thing. My memory is not completely clear, but I am pretty sure I told her the machine ate my dollar or some other depraved lie, and then was probably given another dollar to get something to drink. I totally got away with this. I'm not saying I was the worse behaved child in the world, but I would say I was average-to-poor at times.

So anyway. I'm giving up sweets for a while. I do this on occasion so that my body does not get so addicted to sugar that I wake up craving a bowl of ice cream first thing in the morning. Because that has been known to happen. This is called Resetting my Sugar Levels. It's science.

2. Alcohol

I feel like this is pretty self-explanatory. I don't have any funny stories about my 10-year-old self and alcohol.

What about you? Do you ever take a break from certain vices? Do you believe in Cleanses? Tell me all about your colon in the comments.

P.S. When I'm done with this mini-break from vice, I'm really excited to check this out.

The best compliment (almost ever)

2012-02-16T14:21:00.000-08:00

Look at this. Saturday night at Choptsticks will live forever on the internets (thanks Keighty). And by the way, it was Kyle's first time back since his now infamous engagement party and I'm happy to report that he left unscathed. He even ran into the guy who was holding his hand in this picture. Hilarious.

Happy Valentine's Day

2012-02-14T12:07:00.000-08:00

In keeping with my new leaf of being a total cat freak, here you go. Cats. Hearts. Love.

source

How do you feel about Valentine's Day? I've been seeing the usual backlash on Facebook (corporate manipulation, etc.) but to be honest, there's this part of me that is at peace with this holiday. I mean, the nostalgia factor is huge. I remember constructing an elaborate Valentine holder, the painstaking addressing of all those cards (I actually drew all of mine by hand and chose the recipients based on my fondness for them, so you know, best friend gets the awesome horse drawing, kid that smells bad and always wears sweatpants gets the slightly failed version of a moose in love), and the fact that candy was often involved. It was a good day. But then I got older and full of hate and was single for years and years and years and Valentine's Day became this annoying holiday that I usually celebrated with blush wine in a jug.

And now it's somewhere in the middle. It seems funny to take one day out of the year to celebrate your love for someone, but for some people, maybe it's the only day they really do that. I mean, it's probably the only day of the year that I construct an elaborate construction paper card for Sam with a super mushy message. St. Valentine is all right in my book. I've gone totally soft.

Le Weekend

2012-02-10T12:38:00.001-08:00

Oh thank goodness for the weekend. I'm heading up to the cabin tonight and hoping it doesn't rain on the mountain tomorrow, but there are a couple things going on that you should know about.

The One Motorcycle Show: All things motorcycle. Custom motorcycles, rare motorcycles, helmet art, motorcycle art, motorcycle music, etc. I am going because Sam loves motorcycles. He had to sell his motorcycle to move out here. Did I ever mention that? It's one of those things that makes him sad and if we ever break up he will probably use, "I sold my motorcycle for you!" as his parting shot. So. Motorcycle show. Saturday night. And probably the Sandy Hut to make the whole thing more fun.

Too Short: Yeah. Too Short is in town. Tonight! He's playing at the Roseland. What else should I say?

Cat Show are Dangerous

2012-02-09T13:47:00.000-08:00

So, I went to this cat show last weekend. I assumed it would be really weird and entertaining and filled with odd cat people wearing cat sweaters and clip-in barrette bows in the hair. I wasn't far off on that. Cat people are weird. I definitely overheard a lady introducing her prize-winning Siamese to a couple of cooing ladies. Or rather, she did some ventriloquist stuff and introduced "herself" to the ladies, as in: "My name is Sabrina and I'm a blue ribbon winner!"

We watched judges picking the cats up, lifting them, squeezing their legs, shaking a bit of tinsel to check their general interest levels, and we wandered around and peeked in all the different cat carriers filled with various breeds of exemplary felines. There was, among other highlights, a cat agility course. I'm sure you've heard the term "like herding cats." Cats are not made for agility courses. They are agile, yes. But they are uncooperative and lack the ability to respond to outside motivation. The first cat we saw on the agility course just walked around and rubbed its head on the little jumps and little bridges and little tubes. So dumb. We moved away and found a hairless cat to touch (not before applying a large amount of hand sanitizer to prevent the hairless cat from getting our germs).

However, the next time I wandered listlessly by the agility course (there was a lot of listless wandering. We were at a cat show after all), there was a tiny black cat leaping over the various features, lured by the possibility of catching a little feather on a string. She was amazing! I watched her go over the entire course. I was mesmerized. I was practically clapping every time she cleared an obstacle. It might have ended there but Sam watched where they took the little champion and came and got me from whatever cat cage I was poking at.

He took me over to the agility cat's cage and there she was, meowing and twisting around. There was a sign on that cage that said ADOPT ME. I reached through the cage and started petting her. She loved me. We loved each other. Sam watched in increasing dismay as it seemed that I did not just want to touch this cat, I also wanted to hold this cat, and then I wanted, seriously, to take it home with me. May the record show he was very supportive of this insanity. This cat had a thing going on. Like, a weird head twisting thing. And kind of a twitch thing. And when you picked her up, she flopped over like a broken fish. I asked about this, as I imagined this cat running around my home and purring in my ear and generally making me a happier person, and adoption lady said she may have had a stroke but rest assured, she was perfectly healthy. This may have deterred some people but this disability only made her more appealing. Stroke Kitty would soon be mine. The final step was calling my landlord and making sure cats were still allowed, as our lease had stated. And this is where the story gets sad.

Apparently my landlord is phasing cats out due to some crazy cat lady he rents to. He said no, sorry, and ended all of my cat-filled dreams. I had to say goodbye to Stroke Kitty. Sam breathed a secret sigh of relief while stating that he was extremely sad to hear that, and we left. I was heartbroken. I was so heartbroken that I was barely lifted from my malaise by the cat socks Sam bought for me as a surprise. I sighed heavily through the entire Super Bowl (even Madonna's half time show) and I thought about Stroke Kitty.

It wasn't until two days later, when I was compiling my last-ditch feelings-soaked letter to the landlord and emailing the agency about Stroke Kitty to make sure she wasn't gone, when I found out something else. Stroke Kitty is obsessed with having animal friends. Apparently I would not be enough. The agency told me that she needs a cat or dog friend in her life, or she yowls all day every day until everyone around her goes insane. This truly put an end to my dreams of adopting Stroke Kitty. But now I'm on a mission to get my cat-owning friends to adopt her. Anyone?

My Boyfriend is not a Main Course

2012-02-08T11:58:00.000-08:00

Wow.

MEN ARE JUST DESSERTS! from Everything Is Terrible! on Vimeo.

Source: Everything is Terrible

People I saw at the Graveyard Show, Vol 2.

2012-02-02T15:17:00.000-08:00

I never see celebrities in Portland, so when I saw one of the guys from Danava standing around between sets, I totally did the, Oh look, the guy from Danava, right? Right? thing to Sam and he said yeah, and then the guy from Danava looked at me, probably because hearing your band name, even if it's not said very loudly, is kind of like hearing your name in the middle of an otherwise inaudible conversation. He was wearing bootcut jeans and talking to a lady but I didn't notice her because I was too busy focusing on this mild almost-celebrity encounter. Sam asked me if I noticed her later, because apparently she was wearing this nutty white robe thing that maybe came up over her head, or included a head drape portion, or turban, and I had no idea what he was talking about. Apparently that's how excited I get about Danava.

People I saw at the Graveyard Show, Vol 1.

2012-02-01T16:50:00.000-08:00

Metal shows are just the best for people watching. You see so many interesting people and for some reason, they just stick out in my memory a lot more than the typical flannel-wearing, soft leather shoe, tortoiseshell glasses types. Take this girl for instance. I noticed her waiting in line for a drink because she had an enormous neck tattoo and I started thinking about how not tough my tattoos are and what I would get if I were to get a neck tattoo. Probably a manatee. And all I could really see was her torso because it was pretty crowded in there (sold out show!). But then, when I walked past her, it turned out that she was wearing these crazy lace bell bottoms and platform boots. Lace! Bell bottoms! Underwear!

Breakfast Club

2012-01-31T11:11:00.000-08:00

I really like breakfast. I feel like most people do, especially people in Portland. I mean, we wait for an hour at some restaurant, sit around, chat and drink coffee, and then we sit down and eat and chat some more, and that is considered an excellent Sunday morning. So, inspired by a friend of Colleen's who has a regular brunch get-together, I decided that Sam and I should have one at our house.

Sam sent out a text on Friday afternoon that inspired gags from some of our friends who think we are a gross couple because we suggest things like Breakfast Club, and suddenly we were on. People were into it. Everyone loves breakfast and apparently people don't book Saturday mornings the way they do Friday nights and Tuesday evenings. Everyone wanted to come. I had replies from friends I hadn't seen in months.

The plan was to take the waffle maker on its maiden voyage (Christmas gift from my mom) and we requested that people bring toppings and fruit and other protein things for sides. Of course, Sam and I slept in a little later than we should have, so when people started arriving, coffee was still brewing and I was frantically trying to whip runny egg whites into mountainous peaks, but my parents arrived and my mom took over waffle-making helm while I turned my attention to whipping cream into mountainous peaks. It was a success. There were multiple berry topping options, tropical choices, quiche, sausages (brought by The Sausage King), bacon, scrambles, and mimosas. Pretty much a huge mess of delicious waffles and other breakfasty things. Plus, the day wasn't even half over and I had already had quality social time with friends and family. We spent the rest of the afternoon skating at Pier Park and pretty much had the perfect Saturday.

I can't wait for the next Breakfast Club. (Liz and Jesse, did you say that it's your turn?)

Now with more Pig Roast

2012-01-26T09:53:00.000-08:00

Just to remind us that summer does exist in Oregon and it will come back some day, here are more photos from Pig Roast 2011.

From top: (1) Yes, it looks like a crime. A delicious crime. (2) Master BBQ-er. (3) Laurence, Kyle, and Sam went early to help set up. They were in charge of balloons, (4) and a sign for the road. (5) Down in the pasture discussing the likelihood of someone falling into the fire. (6) Liz made a beautiful pie (notice the pig on the spit).

How to Throw a Pig Roast

2012-01-17T13:36:00.000-08:00

If I were a more responsible blogger, you would already know about this. The pig roast happened in August. But as it is, I always end up lagging on this stuff and posting whatever happens to fall into my lap, so it has taken a long time. But that's not because it wasn't extremely special.

Find Reinforcements: Last summer (that is, 2010), I asked my parents to throw a pig roast. They have this huge brick smoker, they have land, they are nice people; all the necessary ingredients are there. But it fell through due to timing and we let it go. Cut to 2011. I had backup. Somehow Kyle Arthur got involved and you know, once my parents have pressure coming from multiple angles, they just kind of give up and say yes. I feel like at some point I said, "But Kyle Arthur just can't wait for the pig roast!" So we set the date and started planning. Laurence was coming up from SLC, friends were being called, plans for setting up were in motion.

Make it Official: Nothing says official like real invitations made out of paper that are sent through the U.S. postal system. I sat in my garage for an afternoon and spray painted a pink pig stencil announcement while getting high on the fumes. Then I mailed them to people. Official.

Make it a Potluck: There was so much amazing food! People brought pies, salads, snacks, etc. There was no end to the goodness, and no one had to spend the entirety of that beautiful sunny day slaving in the kitchen. Plus, Sam managed to swing a beer hookup and we had a couple kegs. Things were really falling into place.

Entertain Them: There was a lot going on. My parents went out and got a vintage ping pong table (so cool), we got the croquet sets out, badminton was in full force, and Sam brought his bocce set. My mother (you never know what she'll come up with) set up a raffle system as well. All guests put their name in the hat and anyone who won a lawn game got to put their name in the hat again. Besides the lawn games, there was the pasture to explore, tents to set up (an aerobic feat of its own), and general wandering throughout an idyllic pastoral setting. And then the eating. And the socializing. And the drinking. And the karaoke. Yes. There was karaoke. The raffle took place near the end of the evening and most people received things of semi-value. Except for me. I went with the item that required batteries. It was a Christmas edition of Big Mouth Billy Bass.

Sing Something: So, Huy brought out the karaoke system and we all started going off on that. My dad had poo-pooed the whole thing (oh bah, karaoke) but shockingly enough, he and his friend brought the house down with their rendition of Whiskey Bar by the Doors, complete with synchronized dancing. We ended the night with a cathartic Bohemian Rhapsody frenzy, with everyone present standing in a huge huddle and screaming along.

Don't Fall in the Fire: I was a little worried someone would break something navigating the steep hill down to the fire pit, or even fall into the fire, but no one did, and we sat around the fire and told stories and whatever else you do around a campfire late at night.

Save Some Beer for Cleanup: As long as there's some beer left in the keg, there will be some people willing to stay around the next morning to cleanup and breakdown camp.

Basically, this was a magical event and it went off without a hitch. I hope everyone who attended will come again, as my dad has already planned his karaoke song for next time. I also hope it happens again because I did a really bad job of taking photos. So many photo opportunities, so few taken.

From top: (1) Balloons make it better, (2-4) Carl took like five pictures of us, just sitting there, (5) Sam wearing my french hat, (6) Colleen and Jocelyn in the old arena, (7) Captain Carl in the sunset, (8) Pancake breakfast, (9) Most Haggard Award.

White Stuff

2012-01-16T10:26:00.000-08:00

An illustration of us in all that snow.

Finally! It's been tough to be a snowboarder in Oregon. Opening weekend was apparently this epic day filled with light, fluffy, bottomless powder. I say apparently because I didn't go. I'm not sure why. I guess I didn't really believe it was going to be good. But I was sure we would see more snow soon. But I was wrong. That marked the beginning of a dry spell that seemed to last For----ever. The last couple weeks of Thanksgiving were dry. The entirety of December was dry. The mountain alternated between frozen ice block, slushy spring-like conditions, and rain. All the while the snow pack was whittling away and all the rocks and trees and grass (yes, grass) were showing through. Tragic times. January is usually known to be a dry month, but with an entire month of nothing preceding it, I really couldn't believe it. But now, finally, a storm has rolled in and we're seeing feet of snow stacking up. Sam and I drove up together, experiencing a rather harrowing ride, but once we were there we met up with Carin, Jocelyn, and Huy and saw nothing but powdery goodness all day. There wasn't a crappy run on the mountain. So fun.

Graveyard

2012-01-13T10:11:00.000-08:00

Hot tip of the day: Graveyard, a rocking psychedelic band from Sweden, will be at the Doug Fir on the 31st. I will be there.

Uncomfortably Numb by Graveyard on Grooveshark

Friends in Past Lives

2012-01-12T10:25:00.000-08:00

Today I'm meeting a friend from middle school for a drink. We were really close in middle school but grew apart in high school. I haven't seen her since then, but we recently connected on Linkedin. I'm really excited about it.

I find the way that friendships ebb, change, end, and begin to be extremely fascinating. There is just so much variation. Sam grew up with a bunch of cousins his age who were his automatic best friends, so he has these friends that he has known since before he was actually a sentient being. He is also very close to friends from high school. I don't really share this and only keep in touch with a few people from high school. Speaking of hometowns, I am also friends with a group of people who lived in Corvallis. While they weren't all close when living there, they have grown together and become closer friends as they've gotten older. I think that's really nice. It's also odd, because Corvallis continues to be this strange theme in my life. I'm always meeting people from Corvallis. I personally maintain friendships with only a few people from my hometown. I've never really used Facebook as a tool to catch up with those people and I'm not really interested in doing so. I don't necessarily expect our shared youth or shared hometown to mean that we need to maintain a connection. People change and grow.

But that doesn't mean I'm totally unwilling to make some effort. I mean, Charissa and I were in the same 4-H group. We were called the Spirit Catchers, which at the time, was a name that we thought completely magical. One of the Spirit Catchers' highest achievements was creating a float for the Newberg Old Fashioned Festival Parade. The float was a plywood barn on the back of a flatbed. As we rolled along we popped open little doors (painted to look like stall doors and decorated with our misshapen portraits of our horses) and chucked candy at people. While you would think this shared experience would automatically bind us all for life, there was a time when I lost touch with Charissa. Thankfully, we both moved back to Portland the same year and Charissa lost her phone during Arctic Blast 2009, prompting an email request for phone numbers. We reunited and have been friends ever since.

Anyway, I'm really looking forward to catching up with this old friend of mine. It could be that we have nothing in common anymore, or it could be that we could pick up where we left off, and become friends again as new people with shared experiences. New frontiers, even friendship ones, are always exciting.

On shortening up

2012-01-10T11:39:00.000-08:00

How do you guys feel about getting your haircut?

In high school I had long, thick hair. It was even longer than it is now, and it didn't have a lot of style to it. I wore it back all the time because it was so unruly. I had bleached one section and always dyed it hot pink or red. That was my style. During my senior year, I ended up doing work study and I worked at a camera shop.One day in the spring I decided to cut my hair. My coworker took photos of me as I chopped it all off at chin length with a pair of blunt scissors. From that day on, I cut my own hair. I always kept it above my shoulders, cut random chunks out of it, and sometimes dyed it black. You could call the style "messy mop". Eventually I decided to grow it out and that's when I realized I needed to bring in an expert. While randomly chopping works well for a short cut, on a long cut it turns into a disaster. I spent about a year in denial, with awkward hair.

When I moved back to Portland I gave in to the idea of professional haircuts and began to go to my stylist Karyn. She's totally awesome and I have always been happy with her haircuts. You can visit her at Gold + Arrow, which is totally, totally awesome. It's a newish salon over in SW and it's impeccably decorated. Macrame rope art, heavy wooden tables, the sweetest wallpaper I've ever seen, and a glass of wine with your cut. You will feel special and stylish. I certainly did.

But here's the thing. I kind of hate getting haircuts. Even though my hair was totally fried and frazzled and needed a cut like no other, it's never quite right when it's freshly cut. After I went home and washed and styled how I usually do (which is to say, not at all. I'm a big proponent of air drying), it just looks weird, and feels unpredictable, like my hair is taking over my head. The good thing is, this feeling always happens after I get a cut and then it goes away. In two weeks' time, I will be so happy I got my hair cut. I just have to wait it out.

The worst

2012-01-04T16:05:00.000-08:00

There is really nothing worse than a bad orange. I mean, on the scale of disappointments it's probably worse to not get the big job or win second place in the pie-eating contest, but really, when an orange is bad, it's just so bad. And you spent all that time peeling it. And it was going to be your one snack. And there isn't even one way an orange can be bad. The flavor can be sour or stale or that weird not-orangey overripe flavor (the flavor of disappointment) or it can be desert-dry inside, with the tiny segments inside the segments actually separating due to lack of juice. And they always look so good. It's not like a banana. You look at a banana and you know. It's either overripe or perfectly green. An apple you can tell by the season, the type, and by poking a little bit and judging the softness. There's just no telling with an orange. They're like attractive jerks.

2012

2012-01-03T13:08:00.000-08:00

Well, the flight from Chicago to Portland was pretty rough but 2012 is off to a good start.

I went out to Kankakee for a surprise visit to Sam's family. This was a very last-minute thing completely orchestrated by Sam's mother and a total surprise to Sam and everyone else in his family. It was pretty great. When I walked into the kitchen Sam didn't actually look pleased for at least 30 seconds. He just continued to stare at me with his mouth open like an alien had walked in the door. Eventually though, he did the proper thing and smiled and gave me a hug. We went ice skating (outside!) in Chicago, spent some quality family time at the Grant house, did some amazing last-minute thrifting at his cousin Megan's vintage shop Fancy Pants (I finally found a black leather jacket!), and then I attended a New Year's Eve wedding at which he was best man, and we danced, hugged, and toasted, and then I got up the next morning and got on a plane back to Portland. Again, the flight was not the best I've had, but well worth it. Surprises are fun.

Now, last year I kind of dismissed resolutions but there are a lot of things that I would like to happen this year. Things that I would like to make happen. So I guess I don't have resolutions but I have a lot of goals. It's good to have goals. One of my big goals is to do more creative things, art, writing, and otherwise. More crafting, making, constructing, and doing. More outdoor activities, random walks, and being confident in my creative abilities. More sewing, painting, and drawing. Sitting down and editing all my first drafts. I'm really looking forward to a productive 2012.

What are your goals for new year?

Happy Holidays!

2011-12-23T09:54:00.000-08:00

Oh my. In the spirit of giving, I certainly can't keep this treasure to myself. I found this post on The Hairpin. Weird arts-and-crafts, Christmas decorations, and the mysterious behavior of the elderly. Also, there is a Flickr set you can scroll through to see all of them. Christmas decorations are the best.

photo

I can't wait to go to my parents' house and bask in the festive glow. At my house, we usually get one or two new ornaments a year. There are a lot of classics, but my favorites (in terms of weirdness) are the homemade abominations that I made as a child. One of the strangest is this clear plastic lid with a bunch of glitter and tinsel melted to it. That was a school project. Another is a heart with my photo on it and the date that I oh-so-dyslexically threw on there (the nines look like p's). We are against ornament discrimination at my house. There is a huge array of creatures, styles, and random objects. We have a bunch of really, really old glass items from my dad's childhood, and his favorite: a little brass horse. My brother's tend to be lizard or reptile-themed, and we still put the little McDonald's happy meal toys on the tree (they were Disney character ornaments that probably sang songs at some point). Our tree is a hodgepodge but it is always a thing of glittering beauty, especially if you stand a few feet back. Around the rest of the house, there are assorted homemade swags, wreaths, and of course, my mother's Santa Claus collection. At some point, my mom began a Santa Claus collection and it really took off. It was like they were multiplying in the night. They always stood on the entertainment center around Christmas time in their varied, jolly bearded glory and when I was younger I used to play with them and organize Santa conventions. As you do.

I hope you all have a lovely holiday time with family and friends, and find a good way to bring in the new year. I'm convinced 2012 is going to be especially good.

Oh and by the way

2011-12-22T09:51:00.000-08:00

I shaved some of my head the other day! It's great. Expect more of that in the future. A week ago I had a dream in which Caitlin told me that she wanted to shave her head, but it was absolutely necessary that I do it too. I'm not saying that's why I did it, but as I thought about it, that definitely helped sway me. I have also been having dreams about playing the accordion, riding horses, and hanging out with Obama. All good things.

Finally!

2011-12-15T13:35:00.000-08:00

I know that most of you are bummed that rain is back in Portland. I'm sorry, but I'm not. I owe this sentiment to two things. One, this means that snow should start falling on the mountain. This means that snowboarding will actually be fun. The second reason? Those babies right up there. Bass Hespers. I should be a spokesperson.

I got them a couple weeks ago and then it dried out and got sunny and I have just been dying to wear them. You remember how it felt when you went school shopping and bought new jeans and new novelty sweatshirts and brand-new 96-crayon packs with a million colors and perfect tips? While you didn't entirely want school to start, you kind of did because it meant you would finally be able to break out your new treasures.

Well that's how I feel. I wore them today and they are glorious.

AWESOME Gift Guide

2011-12-13T11:11:00.000-08:00

So, after Kyle Arthur's wedding, a bunch of of us went back to our apartment. Sam had to break in through the window because he forgot his keys, we brought the leftover kegs in, and we were supposed to like, keep the party going, but that kind of fizzled after about ten minutes and then we were just hanging out. I put on The Last Unicorn (one of my favorite movies in the world) and there was even a redheaded guy hanging out who I didn't know or really notice. A few weeks later he confronted me at The Woodsman Tavern (great new restaurant on Division!) and was like, " Weren't you in Kyle's wedding? I watched The Last Unicorn at your apartment."

Eventually we got hungry. We decided to order pizza. And for some reason, we made Alexa do it. She was one of the least sober and throughout this conversation with the pizza guy she kept saying, "Yes! Yes! I want the AWESOME crust. Yes to AWESOME crust." And we really didn't know what to think and some of us kind of thought that maybe she wasn't really talking to anyone and the pizza would never come. But it did! And it was awesome! Apparently AWESOME crust is a real thing. It involves a dusting of garlic salt and herbs, I think.

Anyway, whenever I say or think the word "awesome" now, I think about Alexa and the AWESOME crust. And in my head I say it like that in all caps. I have been perusing various gift guides on the internet and have selected the most AWESOME things that I have seen. Get these for somebody in your life. Or maybe just yourself.

Lomokino Camera
This is truly awesome. Johanna (look at her great blog) got this for her boyfriend and I am totally jealous.You can make instantly classic videos with 35mm film. It just looks like so much fun.

Pocket Piano
A mini-synth for the musical person in your life. Infinitely cooler than the annoying Ipad app.

Polaroid Camera
Classic and fun and the sort of thing that you don't go out and buy for yourself, because you already have a serviceable digital camera, but let's be honest. If you had a polaroid camera you would end using it all the time instead of your boring digital camera. You can get the new school version, or a refurbished old one.

Redwood Forest
Tiny trees? Not only tiny trees, but a species that was thought extinct and was recently discovered in China? Truly wonderful. And good for the air.

Friday Morning

2011-12-09T10:19:00.000-08:00

I've been on this health kick and part of that involves finding inspiration for maintaining said health kick. So I'm eating my toast and burnt coffee this morning, flipping through this magazine and this fitness guru is all, "Get up and do something for you every morning. Even if you can't work out, you should get up and do some situps and whatnot." And I'm thinking, Yeah. Yeah! I can do that. On the tail of my elation comes the realization that such things are impossible. They are probably possible for some people, but not for me. The only consistency to my mornings are the tornado-like force of my attempts to get out the door and go to work. Take today for example:

6:45: Sam wakes me up.

6:45-7:00: I lie in bed. I tell myself that I am trying to remember my dreams and this is very important to my creativity and general well-being, but really, I'm just lying in bed.

7:00: I actually get out of bed. This happens incrementally. I have various pieces of clothing lying next to the bed so that I can put them on without getting out from under the covers. I do this and then I get up. I do not make the bed.

7:10: I walk to the gym. It's freezing. I wake up every morning with the goal of going to the gym before work (because I never go after work) and then I set my alarm for later and burrow under the covers because it's very dark and it's very cold and surely I will make myself go after work. But not today! Today I go.

7:15: There is a huge RV painted like a energy drink can in front of the gym. Are there touring Extreme Racquetball teams? It appears so. The gym is incredibly crowded for some reason. There are three different trainers taking clients around and this group of guys doing synchronized jumping jack/push up/weight lift routines. I glower at everyone and do a smattering of light exercise: few minutes on the rower, some bicep curls and whatnot. Then I shower and go home.

8:00: There is nothing to eat. I have one piece of sourdough toast and the heel of a loaf of wheat bread. The heel is small. It burns and shrivels up into this little black fungus-looking thing. The coffee is burnt as well. I read the fitness magazine from 2007 to get inspiration for my day.

8:20: I planned my outfit the night before (to save time), so this will be quick and easy. I just need some black tights. I have a bag full of tights in the closet which I blindly root around in for awhile before taking it and dumping it out on the bed in desperation. I have two brown pairs, one grey pair, various striped pairs, one navy pair, and various fishnets. None of these are black. This is shocking. I will have to wear the stupid thigh high pair. It turns out I only have one of these.

8:35: The outfit has to change. I go through the whole process again. I pick out shoes. I brush my teeth, makeup, etc.

8:50: I have to wear different shoes. I can only find one of those. I run around the house frantically, unevenly, because I'm only wearing one shoe.

8:55: Shoes on. Can't find my keys.

8:58: Keys are in the bowl. I lock up, run out, and grab my bike. The house looks like it has been ransacked.

I'm curious. Who out there has a morning routine?

Christmas Came Early!

2011-12-08T09:49:00.000-08:00

Oddly reminiscent of the cacophony of sound pouring out the pachinko parlors, I have found my favorite video of 2011. This comes to us from Kyary Pamyu Pamyu, the new queen of Jpop (japenese pop for you rookies). Her first hit was Pon Pon Pon, released in July. Apparently Fred Durst is a fan? That's how you know she's good. Sidenote, she's also a purveyor of fake eyelashes (which may or may not be promoted in this video. That's for you to decide). Look out for the maximum awesome past the two-minute mark.

The Anti-Gift Guide

2011-12-07T15:03:00.000-08:00

I have been deep in the depths of holiday gift planning/buying/pondering. It's a big deal. How do you say "I love you and I think you're awesome" to all the various people in your life without bouncing your rent check and beginning the year with a cup o' noodles and a forty of malt liquor? That's a different post. Today I would like to talk about revenge. No need to ignore your enemies during the holidays, you might as well remind them of your presence with a gift wrapped in shiny paper. Take advantage of Christmas this year and show them how you really feel.

Coal: Cliché, yes. But it's also an old classic. Christmas is a time of tradition.

Blankets Stewed in Disease: Also a classic. Not only are you referencing our illustrious history as a nation, but here in Portland people would be overjoyed to receive a new Pendleton blanket. Bonus if they post a photo of themselves running around a meadow wrapped up in said blanket before meeting their demise.

Novelty Gifts: These are in every Goodwill. They are left over from Christmases past. They are waiting like bombs to be opened. Bad paintings of odd subjects, computers from 1990, those Trolls with gems in their stomach, Billy Bob the Singing Bass (I unwittingly selected this from the prize pile at the pig roast and now will own Billy Bob forever. Sam made him sing for me this morning. It truly is torture), strange objects made for tourists out of shells, odd figurines, etc.

Everyday Items: On an ordinary day, you might be pleased if someone walked up and gave you a wastepaper basket, a can of tuna fish, or a container of dishwashing fluid. On Christmas, when it's wrapped in nice paper, it's heartbreaking.

Ill-timed Jabs: Did this person recently get dumped? You should give them a "Cooking for One" cookbook. Are they unemployed? A briefcase. Overweight? One of those mini trampolines. The list goes on. Be creative.

The Ultimate: I'm not sure it gets worse than this: a used personal effect. A friend of mine once received a used tube of lipstick. So shocking. I think it could be worse though. What about used white cotton tube socks?

The worst for me was probably the Barbie tent I received when I was 10 or so. Even if I had any interest in getting inside of a Barbie tent, I was too large to fit inside it.

What's the worst gift you've ever received? The best?

Goldrush

2011-12-05T11:33:00.000-08:00

I attended a holiday party last Friday that was completely bedazzled by characters in gold lamé. It was wonderful. I mean, really, nothing says holiday like gold lamé. I used to have an aversion to gold and would only wear silver jewelery. Somewhere in the past year or so, I've done a 180, not unlike my sudden discovery and love for navy blue. Here are some gilded things to brighten your Monday. I'm certainly in need of some brightness.

1. Le Sportsac (zany) 2. Nixon watch (ballin') 3. Bass Weejuns, Classic shape in limited edition Gold!

Funday Friday

2011-12-02T10:31:00.000-08:00

Did you guys ever see this? Hermes show from the fall? I meant to share it ages ago but never did. So here you go. Magical, no?

I don't know if you ever play this game, but when I'm walking around in the woods I usually end up discussing what type of Tolkien character I would be. I grew up reading The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings books obsessively, and naturally I like to imagine that I too could be some Middle Earth character frolicking around in the woods. I like to think that I would be an elf. I would carry around a bow and arrow (see above), wear various leather things, and have a pet hawk on my shoulder. When my friends (and boyfriend) are feeling like total jerks, they tell me I would be a hobbit. Or worse, a dwarf.

Small Talk

2011-11-30T10:24:00.000-08:00

Oh man, so after all this talk about holiday parties I've actually been invited to some. To holiday parties filled with people I won't know. Which means I will have to small talk. Which means it will be awkward. Which kind of makes me not want to go. Which is lame because I was the one who thought it would be fun in the first place

It's just, I don't want to talk about my job. Oh well, I do this thing mumble mumble technical words spoken so quickly no one could understand but yeah I like it and I work with good people and yeah, I mean, I'm interested in pursuing new work, but I mean, in these tough economic times, but yeah. Oh. It was nice to meet you.

And I don't want to ask you where you're from.

Oh. Gaston. Nice.

Or.

Oh Michigan. I haven't been there.

Me? I'm from Newberg. Yes, the beach is nice. But Newberg is not near the beach. Yes, that's Newport. Ha. Ha.

And I don't want to talk about how we know the host because then it becomes this thing where you basically admit that you're not really friends, just acquaintances really, and are probably in their email address book under the label People to Invite to Cocktail Parties (B-List) and then it turns out the person is like, their best friend, and they're like, Yeah, I've never seen you before so I thought maybe you were just a random. Joke!

And how do you get out of a conversation when you don't know anyone else? In a normal situation someone who you know would come up and say, Oh hey. Let's gossip about so and so's new boyfriend, and you excuse yourself (or not, depending on your level of intoxication) and then you guys go cackle in the corner. But at a party with people you don't know, you just get to the point where there's nothing left to say but neither of you see anyone else you can latch on to and you start chugging your drink faster and faster as the conversation goes on until you can stop and say, Oh look. I need a refill. And then you run.

It's daunting. But I'm better than that. I will not let Holiday Party with People I Don't Know beat me. I'm working on a mental list of conversation starters that don't center around work or where you're from or how you know the host (Example: What's your favorite dinosaur?). I can be that person.

Workout Dignity

2011-11-28T15:44:00.000-08:00

My main reason for joining a gym was that I needed a respectable place to work out. For many, many years I was gymless. My workouts consisted of pilates mat exercises, sporadic jogging, and those random toning workouts they present in womens' fitness magazines. I would do these in my living room (if no one was home, or in the privacy of my room, if someone was home). These random toning workouts also required cardio which I supplied by adding moves stolen from Flashdance and MC Hammer videos. When I lived in 834, Heidi always knew when I was "working out" because I would disappear into my room, weird thumping noises would commence (as I bounced around my room with weights in my hands), and I would reappear with a red face and disheveled hair. It was not for the eyes of others.

I knew I was going to have to relinquish my secret workouts once Sam and I moved in together, but that was a small price to pay. I mean, I enjoyed them, but my dignity was worth maintaining. Working out at the gym is like a pantomime of exercise. The smooth glide of the elliptical trainer, the effortless slide of weights on cables. Those machines are made for maintaining your cool in public. You can't come back from Donkey Kicks. You can't come back from the Twister combined with the 5-pound weight Fist Pump (patent pending).

I'm not sure what happened this weekend, but the illusion came crashing down. Perhaps we were both still drunk from the toddler-thigh-sized maple bars we consumed earlier that day at the Huckleberry Inn, but I suddenly found myself doing team ab workouts with Sam, to a mix he had created (it seems solely for the purpose of working out) and suddenly all bets were off. He was doing these manic pushup things while I danced around with hand-weights to Jerk it. Red Fang came on and we were both headbanging and leaping around the living room. We suddenly traded and he was spinning around in circles with the hand-weights while I lunged around with my hands on my hips. It could only be described as a diabolical workout frenzy.

And we shared it. He may never look at me the same, but at least he knows.

Reading Rainbow

2011-11-22T11:53:00.000-08:00

In light of our current lack of sunlight, I've been reading like a fiend. In the summer I read less because I feel guilty for sitting inside when there is any hint of sunshine, so this absolutely disgusting weather is my green light for obsessive novel reading.

I just finished Jonathan Frantzen's Freedom. So good! An investigation of a love, marriage, a family's path through life ,and the choices we make in the face of infinite choice and well, freedom, this book is a total page turner with inspiring prose, well-crafted characters, and an all-encompassing nowness that is refreshing and accessible. I recommend.

I'm nearing the end of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (thanks Rachael) and it's been enjoyable as well. Since I was just there, it's nice to read something that takes place in Brooklyn and recognize the street names and all that. Graham Street! I was just there!

I'm looking for my next victim. Any suggestions?

Time to Party?

2011-11-18T10:07:00.000-08:00

Okay, my inbox has been flooded lately with all these ads for special holiday dresses, festive accessories, and the like. Also, around this time the the lady magazines start giving you tips for how to avoid becoming fat at all the holiday parties you attend (like there is a never-ending parade of holiday parties, like your calendar is booked to the brim), such as: only drink low-calorie white wine and eat a protein before the party so you won't fill up on cream-cheese filled puff-pastry. So, what I'm thinking is, well, two things.

One, I love dressing up and this whole festive party dress thing is really appealing. I am the sort of person who will buy some crazy sequined dress (like the one above) with the thought that I will be able to wear it at some event at some time in the near future. Basically, this advertising is directed at people like me. Also, I love delicious snack food that is served with toothpicks. Who doesn't? I wouldn't even follow those tips, I would not eat a full meal before I attend the party and I would just wholeheartedly enjoy that delicious scallop wrapped in bacon.

Two, I'm never invited to holiday parties. I mean, if you believe magazines and advertising, there are people out there holding charming, cocktail-attire soirees at which they serve eggnog and hot whiskey drinks, and everyone is covered in glitter, and there's mistletoe, and pompous laughter, and the evening ends with dancing and maybe a very classy gift exchange in which things like gourmet olive oil and tickets to Cirque du Soleil are traded. But I don't know these people. I'm not even sure they exist. But if they do, these parties are happening without me. And I think it's tragic.

My call to all of you is to host some sort of glamorous function that requires wearing fancy clothes. And invite me. Mostly because it will be fun, and also because I want an excuse to wear sequins (and I have some real treasures stashed away for the gift exchange).

How to Pick Up Portland Girls X

2011-11-16T11:22:00.000-08:00

I went to New York last weekend and it was glorious. There is nothing like a long weekend to ward off the impending doom of winter doldrums. While I was there, I basked in the differences of the coasts, the odd sartorial choices of stray dogs, the neverending food and drink opportunities, and the slightly more aggressive path that East coast males feel obligated to take. I have a single friend there; we went out to bars and talked about various dating disasters and feelings and all that shit. Along the way I had some epiphanies.

Be a Metal Guy: Somewhere between the Bushwick Social Club and Ontario (Canada-themed bar, woodsy is in) I had an epiphany. My friend should be dating a metal guy. Metal guys are awesome. They always have been. Remember? While some of you were busy being dorks in thin cotton turtle necks and Charlotte Hornets starter jackets and playing Nerf football, the metal guys were wearing their black t-shirts covered with horrifying things under a sheepskin lined denim jacket and scratching band insignia into their binders with a protractor. They can play instruments, they have an encyclopedic memory of bands and rock history, and they will never make you listen to some song that they made using an Ipad app.

The more I pushed this epiphany on my friend, the more I convinced her and myself. Metal guys are dorks but in an awesome, unselfconscious way. They don't like a band because it's cool, they like it because it rocks. They are loyal. They don't jump on bandwagons. They have nice hair. We went to a rock show on Saturday night and my friend was impressed by the amount of guys present, though the cute baby-faced one did turn out to be a girl. Either way, the crowd showed a refreshing enthusiasm that has been missing since dudes stopped dancing and started perfecting the toe tap. Metal guys will always have my vote.

Get Aggressive: West coast guys could learn something from East coast guys. I'm not saying you should try on some sort of Jersey Shore affectation, but there was a refreshing amount of eye contact in the bars. A random sidewalk approach even occurred, which obviously, was spurned but represented a determination that is sorely lacking here in the land of pines and rain. Let's be honest. People go to bars to meet other people. I'm not sure why, because it appears to be practically impossible, but when one is single, one goes to bars and looks around and hopes there is someone there who finds them attractive and loves kittens, gluten-free beer and dead-stock Levis as much as they do. Stop pretending you don't want to meet a lovely lady at the bar, make actual eye contact with someone, and maybe try to chat with her.

Try the Internet: Not just for sexual predators and women who are obsessed with marriage, cats, and long walks on the beach. Apparently everyone is doing it. There is no shame in internet dating. It may in fact be the dating mechanism of the future, and someday people will feel awkward and embarrassed when telling the story of how they met on a ferry when her hat flew off and hit him in the face. Not convinced? I know someone who is dating an attractive stripper. This happened via a popular free online dating service. Seriously. It doesn't mean you're ugly and desperate, it just means you want to date someone.

Going on a trip!

2011-11-09T12:24:00.000-08:00

I'm heading over to New York tomorrow to hang out with friends. I have tentative plans to go to a Russian bath house, a flea market, and hope to come back with some gems. For some reason this song keeps playing in my head whenever I think about my trip, so you know, there's that.

Sordid Side of Town

2011-11-08T11:39:00.000-08:00

Let's talk about the sordid side of getting married. The bachelor and bachelorette parties. They're weird right? Maybe I don't really get it because I grew up without television and my parents are the kind of people who didn't have the parties before they got married (not because they didn't like to party but they just didn't), but . . . . I guess I just don't really get it.

I understand having a night out with your friends. I think that's nice. But shouldn't they be a more fun version of a usual night out? There seems to be this American mythology and expectation surrounding the notion of the bachelor party. I've attended a couple bachelorette parties and they have all varied pretty drastically, but there always seems to be penis paraphernalia and veils. For they guys, you see the ramped up version in movies like The Hangover and Very Bad Things, like, this is your last chance to touch a bunch of boobs and possibly have sex with someone (which somehow isn't cheating) before you are doomed to a horrible, monotonous existence with the one you love. This seems really counter-intuitive to the whole concept of marriage but the industry supports the idea that this is the guy's last night as a single man. There was even a show called Stag: A Test of Love. This show filmed the bachelor party and then showed it to the fiancee the next day and then filmed their horrified response. That was an actual show.

So, I didn't really know what to expect when I went to Kyle's bachelor party. I was the only girl, which was fine, but definitely awkward. We got a back room at Pho Gia and set Kyle up at in a table in the center like it was last supper or something. I brought him a gag blow up doll I snagged at a garage sale, which we all tattooed with a Sharpie, and then we went to Sandy Hut for drinks and jello shots. The blow up doll was surprising popular. Or maybe not so surprisingly. He was pretty great.

If I have a party, I just want to go camping with my friends. What do you guys think? Are traditional bachelor/bachelorette parties an important part of getting married? Am I missing the point?

It's All Over

2011-11-07T10:11:00.000-08:00

Wow, what a weekend. Being in a wedding is hard work, but also, not really because you're doing things like being a good friend and dressing up and smiling and drinking lots of wine and eating food and talking to people. So, you know, not like going out and chopping down a tree or something, but also not as easy as sitting around in the Romance Killers all day and watching television.

Kyle and Emily did such a great job planning this wedding, and having been around for the whole planning process, I know they worked really hard, but also focused on the good stuff and didn't let it get all consuming. The result was so festive and fun and unique to them.

There was so much laughter and excitement and smiling. I got to see all my friends who don't live here because they all came out for the wedding, and it was just really great to see Kyle and Emily surrounded by the people they love, affirming the fact that they love each other. Highlights included getting ready at the Nines (thanks again Darci and Liz!), the story of how Kyle and Emily came to be, Emily's sweet catfish poem, certain unnamed men crying in the audience, the really awesome photo booth*, listening to the toasts (and giving one which was terrifying but also very exhilarating), girl's time in the bathroom complete with illicit whiskey swigs, talking with the bride and groom's parents about the bride and groom, dancing to Robyn, delicious chocolate cake, dancing with Laurence (he came up from SLC!), and finishing up the evening at our place with The Last Unicorn and pizza from Dominos complete with Awesome Crust.

*Kyle Carnes set up the perfect photobooth. Here's a post about it.

Wedding Weekend

2011-11-04T12:53:00.000-07:00

As most of you know, I am a groomslady in Kyle's wedding. It's happening. The bachelor party went down last night, complete with a private room at a pho restaurant and a novelty toy blowup doll christened something Branson (Chuck maybe? From Death Wish? I don't know). I was a partial attendee last night. Partial because I only went to dinner and then to the Sandy Hut and ducked out once strip clubs became the main topic of conversation. More on that later. Anyway, the rehearsal and rehearsal dinner are tonight! The wedding is tomorrow! Everything is happening so quickly.

To get everyone in the wedding mood, here are shots from the last fantastic wedding I attended. Lauren and Ben were married down in the redwoods on Lauren's family farm. It was a beautiful wedding and included the added benefit of a weekend away and the adventure that came with it. I'm pretty sure we all walked away with some stories.

Congratulations to Kyle and Emily! And belatedly, once again, to Lauren and Ben.

New Favorite Band

2011-11-03T10:57:00.000-07:00

Just when you think you will be stuck listening to the Beach House (or whatever) album on repeat forever, a new band jumps out from the hedges. I mean, they're not new, but new to me. Mr. Gnome is from Cleveland, Ohio, which is also the inspiration for one of my absolute favorite Youtube clips. Barille's voice shares the keening edge of Karen O's, their guitar/drum combo rocks, and their cover art is comfortingly weird. What else could you ask for?

Winners

2011-11-02T09:37:00.000-07:00

I want to thank you all for participating and entering all your great, creative entries in this contest. It was really fun to read everyone's stories and see your creative talents in action.

Also, just to remove the anonymity factor, our contestants were:

Elizabeth Burnell-Untitled

Johanna (Johanna's mom)-A Scary Halloween Story... A True One

Kyle Arthur-The Long March to the Bathroom (A True Story)

Gabe Rodriguez-The Haunted House (or, Deuce Numm-Bertew gets his First Pube

Sam Grant-Numbered graves photo

Kyle Carnes-Getting killed on the stairs photo

Emily Dart-Mclean-Creepy clown photo

Alexa Heidrich-The Origins of Elias

Benjamin Dayton-The Godforsaken

And by popular vote the winners of This Contest is Haunted are Emily Dart-Mclean's creepy clown photo (apparently that's her at age seven) and Benjamin Dayton's The Godforsaken. Nice job, you guys.

You win a copy of neo-classic slasher film Scream. Yay!

This Contest is Haunted Tie-Breaker

2011-11-01T11:23:00.000-07:00

Tallying up the votes for this contest has been like watching an epic horse race between Man O' War, Secretariat, and Seabiscuit (minus Toby Maguire who obviously ruins everything). What? You've never been obsessed with books about racehorses? Forgive the reference and contribute to the ultimate tie-breaker. There is a three-way tie and only two prizes. I need you to vote for your number one favorite out of these three. Please vote in the comments. The top two take all.

1)

2) The Godforsaken

Denver’s annual zombie crawl is upon us once again. Last year was my first encounter with this disturbing phenomenon, having just moved to the city from Wyoming a few weeks before All Hallows’ Eve. I’ve since discovered that the living dead are drawn toward urban areas as there are just far greater opportunities for feasting on human flesh than out in the sticks. I had never before encountered so many fucking zombies in my entire life.

Sure, you have your enterprising ones disguised as traveling salesmen or delivery drivers come to the ranch every so often, but being loners, these specimens are easily dealt with, relatively. You can spot them by their jaunty walk, and occasionally then have scars of gaping wounds, but they usually know enough to cover those up. Three guns are necessary. At least a twelve-gauge rifle, the biggest shotgun you can get your hands on, and a pistol with a decent kick. An initial shotgun blast to the midsection slows them down as they approach—don’t wait to see what they’re selling, to be sure, they’re peddling your goddamn demise—after the first shot, they’ll be dazed but don’t think you’re done. As they’re staggering and screaming all fucked up like—faking pain is a tactic they employ—you have to run up, getting as close as possible, and sink the rifle shot into the cranium. The pistol is for back up at close range only. And you better hope to Christ you don’t have to use it. Once they’ve stopped moving, you have about twenty minutes to sever the legs and arms, and what’s left of the head. If you wait too long, they will reanimate on your ass. This is the worst part because the smell is horrendous, and contrary to popular lore, those limbs do not easily separate from the body. Each part must then be buried at least 7 feet below ground and not within a fifty-yard radius of any of the other parts, neither from that particular zombie, nor from any others you’ve previously buried. Each spot must be clearly marked.

I was shitting dynamite when I discovered Denver’s substantial zombie population and the lack of adequate land to dispose the fuckers in. And on top of that, realizing that amazingly, I’m one of the only people in the city who knows how to properly kill and dispose of a zombie, I damn near called it quits and moved back home. But I stayed, if only for lack of money.

A year has passed, and tonight those godforsaken bastards will erupt from the ground like a gonorrheic discharge upon the streets of Denver, and they won’t leave until they’ve had their fill of human flesh. Knowing I can’t possibly eliminate the entire zombie population from Denver has been disheartening as all hell. I’m just one fucking guy after all. But that’s not stopping me from doing my damndest for the protection of the human race. A zombie infestation can get out of control faster than a Wyoming cop’ll have their hand up your ass under the pretense of a narcotics crackdown. For shit’s sake, I’m not going to let that happen.

Dressed in full camouflage, I carry a golf bag with my guns, a hacksaw, some beef jerky for fuel, and a water canteen, to the alley next to Dos Locos, a major stop-off on the zombies’ annual prowl. I hide behind a dumpster roughly twenty-five feet back from the street. A Dia de los Muertos celebration is in full swing. The playful mariachi music falls on my ears in stark contrast to the unsavory task at hand.

My plan is to pick a large male out of a pack as they pass by the entrance to the alley on their way to devour their unsuspecting victims. I’m hoping the first kill will be sufficient to scare many of the zombies back to their graves, because I just don’t have the man power or the space to sever and place more than one or two of them. If this fails, the vile, rapacious fucks will surely tear me limb from limb.

The first batch to pass is no good. Mostly females and skinny ones at that. Hard to shoot and won’t spook any of the others. Just’ll piss them off. I wait for another twenty minutes or so with no good shots. I get hungry and break into the beef jerky. Just as I’m taking a swig off my canteen the perfect specimen appears. Tall and wide, surrounded by a group of about ten other zombies and a few people dressed up for the Day of the Dead fiesta who don’t know any better. Luckily the idiot humans are on the periphery of the bunch. I drop my canteen and grab the rifle; the shotgun would probably hit the humans at this range. I aim and fire. The big sonofabitch goes down. No stagger at all. Everyone else is screaming and running away like I planned. The big one is on its back writhing. I reload and run up, center the barrel’s end near the temple. The mariachi band has stopped. The whole fucking restaurant is deserted save for two guys peaking around the corner of the building watching me. I fire again to end it. The decayed brains splatter my hands and face. The two guys look scared. One of them turns and vomits. I wipe my face with my sleeve and yell to them that everything is OK. It’s dead, I say, and the others have fled back to their graves. We are safe for another year! They run. It’s an understandable reaction from someone who’s never seen a zombie killing. I figure they’ll be fine, and set to work quickly sawing the limbs off. In the approaching distance, sirens blare, and I know everything is going to be alright.

3) THE HAUNTED HOUSE (or, DEUCE NUMM-BERTEW GETS HIS FIRST PUBE)

Not so very long ago and not so far away, an unsuspecting new family moved into the spooky, decrepit fixer-upper on the corner of Bones Blvd. and Skeleton Street. The old-fashioned piss-yellow Victorian was obviously haunted yet inexplicably appealing to the merry-go-round of buyers who, like clockwork, moved in and then out, always screaming and frazzled when they turned over the keys back into the hands of Dolores Doodie, the neighborhood real estate agent. Year after year, Dolores would do a little Annette Bening-in-“American Beauty” routine in the newly cleaned, empty house, giving herself a pep talk along the lines of “I will sell this house today!” despite the moaning and groaning soundtrack continuously provided by the floorboards and walls of the home. And year after year, an attractive new family would swoop the place up, high on the dreamy hopes of fixing the place up and reviving its full potential as a neighborhood cornerstone.

SPOOKY MUSIC

And so, not so very long ago and not so far away, the Numm-Bertew clan pulled into the driveway of the old haunted house on the corner of Bones & Skeleton, their blood-red Previa minivan sparkling in the moonlight (they had driven all day from their former hometown and arrived at their new home only once the sun had long set).

SPOOKY MUSIC
The family battled cobwebs and the lack of a porch light before reaching the front door, toward which little brother Deuce was extending his open hand when the thing clicked, croaked, and screeched open without any damn body turning the knob. Deuce’s two older sisters gasped in terror at the haunted house cliché, clinging to each other for protection in an inexplicably sexy way, with both sisters’ visibly pert nipples standing at serious attention in matching tight tank tops as the moonlight cast down upon nothing else but their boobs. Little Deuce paid no heed to his super sexpot teen sisters, of course, owing to his lack of pubes and the fact that, until kids get pubes, haunted houses are still cooler than boobs.

As usual, mom and dad were suddenly nowhere to be seen. Deuce Numm-Bertew and his wet hot American teen twin sisters were technically orphans, you see, but the ghosts of their dearly departed parents were so concerned for preserving the virginal purity of their should-be porn star daughters that they manifest themselves physically in a blood-red Previa whenever the twins were about to lose it to a football team and whisked them away, along with little Deuce, to a whole new hometown and a whole new life.

Just then, a BLACK CAT/JOLT OF SPOOKY MUSIC jumped down from nowhere and scared the shit out of the twins, literally. Deuce rolled his eyes, mumbled “typical” under his breath, and pushed the front door all the way open, revealing a dark gaping expanse into which he bravely stepped. Faced with the classic dilemma of whether to remain on the scary front porch where you and your hot twin just sharted in unison or follow your little bro into an even scarier haunted house, the girls opted to chillax with their poop on the porch and pray for a football team to come along and deflower them in the moonlight.

Inside, Deuce groped pathetically in the cobwebby darkness with the hope of finding a light switch. Little fool was too young to know what everybody does by the time they get pubes: that haunted houses don’t have light switches, and that the place is only illuminated when the demonic powers that be are damn good and ready to light a bitch up. Just then, JOLT OF SPOOKY MUSIC/LET THERE BE LIGHT!!! All at once, the haunted house was ablaze with jack-o-lanterns, hundreds of carved pumpkins lit from within by candlelight, each and every last one of them bearing a strained, constipated expression that was neither sinister nor intimidating yet also not sad or even ironically dopey.

JOLT UPON JOLT OF SPOOKY MUSIC as the house itself begins to shake, quake, even, with the bizarrely straining pumpkin faces becoming even more bizarrely strained with every passing moment. Little Deuce wasn’t scared, though, because having spent all eight of his living years with twin teen hottie sisters with severe sharting anxiety, Little Deuce recognized the nature of these expressions almost immediately.

Without hesitating, Deuce became a man: he grabbed an axe from the nearest place where axes are kept and ran for the nearest mainline pipe. With one fell swoop, as the house was groaning and moaning and heaving and hoeing all around him, hundreds, no, thousands, of groaning, moaning, heaving and hoeing jack-o-lantern faces aglow with the look that only backlogged feces can be blamed for, Little Deuce slammed the axe into the sewer pipe as hard as he could, freeing his new home of her lifelong suffering with one valiant gesture, the act that made Little Deuce just plain Deuce.

And so at that very moment, when the most infamous haunted house on Bones/Skeleton burst from within to flood the entire neighborhood with decades worth of pent up poop and pee, Deuce got his very first pube, becoming a man. As for the house, well, it was no longer haunted at all, freed of the ghosts of feces past and allowed to breathe and be free at long last. With the first rain came a little less poop on the streets, then the second rain and so on, and by the time several years worth of torrentially rainy winters had passed, the formerly haunted house (and the three or so square miles immediately surrounding it) looked good as new.

And so Deuce Numm-Bertew lived happily ever after, with lots of pubes and a poopy twins fetish as his main companions, plus the annual Christmas card he sent to the realtor Dolores Doodie, thanking her for another year in the house she sold his ghost parents.
ORCHESTRAL CLIMAX!!!

THE END

Happy Halloween

2011-10-31T13:20:00.000-07:00

I hope everyone had a great weekend. Mine was definitely action-packed. I was a dead bride, complete with scary makeup, a handmaid black veil (thanks Caitlin), and bouquet of weeds. Sam was Driver, and yes, he sewed that scorpion on the back of his jacket all by himself. I would like to remind you all to vote on your two favorite stories/photos. Links to all of the stories are in the post below. At the moment we have a three-way tie, which simply will not do.

It's time to vote!!!

2011-10-28T09:38:00.000-07:00

Today is the the day. This is your chance to participate in the democratic process and vote for the winners of This Contest is Haunted 2011.

I've thought a lot about this, and since we have three photo entries and many more stories, I would like you to vote for your two favorites, regardless of category. In case you are undecided, you may find all of the entries here, here, here, and here.

Please vote in the comments, or if you would prefer to be anonymous you can email me at rachel.wri@gmail.com. I will tally up the results on Monday.

Go!

This Contest is Haunted IV

2011-10-27T10:52:00.000-07:00

Wow. Here are the final two entries for the finest creative horror-fest I have ever been witness to. I had no idea my friends were more talented than the writers of Child's Play (I saw it for the first time the other night. It was actually pretty stupid), but you are. You really, really are.

8) The Origins of Elias

I first met Elias when I looking at a house in Mississippi as a potential roommate. Al and Elias were sitting on the couch on the front porch when I pulled up on my bike. We began dancing that dance of getting to know each other, except I’m pretty sure they were just making sure I wasn’t too straight-laced for the house. The most interesting part of our exchange was when I reciprocated in asking where they were from. Al, a pleasantly round and jolly sort, replied he was from Arizona. Elias, being the weasel-y looking odd sort, replied he was the result of a bad night for two drunk badgers who had eaten rancid tacos.

Despite this first encounter I moved in, and quickly learned that Al, and especially Elias, were fans of whiskey. And wine. And chain smoking on the front porch ad infinitum. Al worked at a factory in Swan Island, and although he commuted by bike, one day he was able to come back with an industrial sized spool of rope. Elias, being the questionable character he was, decided to work on his knot tying. The apex of his efforts coincided with one night I had people round for dinner. We were eating our communal flan dessert when he entered the room with a series of nooses tied onto a length of rope. He proposed an experiment, which was not received well by the group.

But I digress. This is meant to be a scary story. In case the idea that your Craigslist-found roommate wanted to hang you and your friends (and for how long had he been planning this?) wasn’t terrifying enough. In which case I will flesh out the mysterious origins of Elias. Or how the night of his conception begat the man who interrupted my dinner party with a suggestion for a group hanging.

It had indeed been a very bad night for those two badgers. Normally without second thought for would-be predators, these two brazenly drank agave fermented in the bowels of New Mexican hell to hallucinating excess. They feasted on their spicy spoilt trash tacos until their stomachs were distended and grotesque. Belching and emitting the most foul of odors they caroused wantonly throughout the forests. Until, that is, they were accosted by it.

It was a stringy haired whore; whose body was covered in pulsating herpes blisters that popped in such rapid succession it was like young innocents blithely stomping packing material. Its thin lips barely concealed teeth blackened by tooth decay it had developed while still in its mother’s syphilis infected womb. It was bent over, afflicted not only with bread back, but severe spinal disintegration. Surely this sorry collection of diseased cells with a pulse was on the verge of imminent death. It was. However, that biological impulse to procreate gave this monster one last ounce of strength, when, having encountered the badgers, it overtook them and had its way. I mean, its way. Nasty nasty sex acts that that I will not pass on. Think R. Kelly multiplied infinitely. The badgers did not survive.

However, due to the incredible amount of biological activity that resulted from the combination of tequila from hell, trash tacos, herpes and tooth decay, a fetus developed. Not more than 2 days later, when it had taken its last breath and evacuated its bowels for the last time, Elias emerged. Mostly formed and ready to crawl his way to 4187 North Albina. Ready to scare us, scare us all to hell.

9) The Godforsaken

Denver’s annual zombie crawl is upon us once again. Last year was my first encounter with this disturbing phenomenon, having just moved to the city from Wyoming a few weeks before All Hallows’ Eve. I’ve since discovered that the living dead are drawn toward urban areas as there are just far greater opportunities for feasting on human flesh than out in the sticks. I had never before encountered so many fucking zombies in my entire life.

Sure, you have your enterprising ones disguised as traveling salesmen or delivery drivers come to the ranch every so often, but being loners, these specimens are easily dealt with, relatively. You can spot them by their jaunty walk, and occasionally then have scars of gaping wounds, but they usually know enough to cover those up. Three guns are necessary. At least a twelve-gauge rifle, the biggest shotgun you can get your hands on, and a pistol with a decent kick. An initial shotgun blast to the midsection slows them down as they approach—don’t wait to see what they’re selling, to be sure, they’re peddling your goddamn demise—after the first shot, they’ll be dazed but don’t think you’re done. As they’re staggering and screaming all fucked up like—faking pain is a tactic they employ—you have to run up, getting as close as possible, and sink the rifle shot into the cranium. The pistol is for back up at close range only. And you better hope to Christ you don’t have to use it. Once they’ve stopped moving, you have about twenty minutes to sever the legs and arms, and what’s left of the head. If you wait too long, they will reanimate on your ass. This is the worst part because the smell is horrendous, and contrary to popular lore, those limbs do not easily separate from the body. Each part must then be buried at least 7 feet below ground and not within a fifty-yard radius of any of the other parts, neither from that particular zombie, nor from any others you’ve previously buried. Each spot must be clearly marked.

I was shitting dynamite when I discovered Denver’s substantial zombie population and the lack of adequate land to dispose the fuckers in. And on top of that, realizing that amazingly, I’m one of the only people in the city who knows how to properly kill and dispose of a zombie, I damn near called it quits and moved back home. But I stayed, if only for lack of money.

A year has passed, and tonight those godforsaken bastards will erupt from the ground like a gonorrheic discharge upon the streets of Denver, and they won’t leave until they’ve had their fill of human flesh. Knowing I can’t possibly eliminate the entire zombie population from Denver has been disheartening as all hell. I’m just one fucking guy after all. But that’s not stopping me from doing my damndest for the protection of the human race. A zombie infestation can get out of control faster than a Wyoming cop’ll have their hand up your ass under the pretense of a narcotics crackdown. For shit’s sake, I’m not going to let that happen.

Dressed in full camouflage, I carry a golf bag with my guns, a hacksaw, some beef jerky for fuel, and a water canteen, to the alley next to Dos Locos, a major stop-off on the zombies’ annual prowl. I hide behind a dumpster roughly twenty-five feet back from the street. A Dia de los Muertos celebration is in full swing. The playful mariachi music falls on my ears in stark contrast to the unsavory task at hand.

My plan is to pick a large male out of a pack as they pass by the entrance to the alley on their way to devour their unsuspecting victims. I’m hoping the first kill will be sufficient to scare many of the zombies back to their graves, because I just don’t have the man power or the space to sever and place more than one or two of them. If this fails, the vile, rapacious fucks will surely tear me limb from limb.

The first batch to pass is no good. Mostly females and skinny ones at that. Hard to shoot and won’t spook any of the others. Just’ll piss them off. I wait for another twenty minutes or so with no good shots. I get hungry and break into the beef jerky. Just as I’m taking a swig off my canteen the perfect specimen appears. Tall and wide, surrounded by a group of about ten other zombies and a few people dressed up for the Day of the Dead fiesta who don’t know any better. Luckily the idiot humans are on the periphery of the bunch. I drop my canteen and grab the rifle; the shotgun would probably hit the humans at this range. I aim and fire. The big sonofabitch goes down. No stagger at all. Everyone else is screaming and running away like I planned. The big one is on its back writhing. I reload and run up, center the barrel’s end near the temple. The mariachi band has stopped. The whole fucking restaurant is deserted save for two guys peaking around the corner of the building watching me. I fire again to end it. The decayed brains splatter my hands and face. The two guys look scared. One of them turns and vomits. I wipe my face with my sleeve and yell to them that everything is OK. It’s dead, I say, and the others have fled back to their graves. We are safe for another year! They run. It’s an understandable reaction from someone who’s never seen a zombie killing. I figure they’ll be fine, and set to work quickly sawing the limbs off. In the approaching distance, sirens blare, and I know everything is going to be alright.

Round III of This Contest is Haunted

2011-10-26T13:54:00.000-07:00

Three contestants for the photo portion:

5)

Round II of This Contest is Haunted

2011-10-25T10:29:00.000-07:00

3) The Long March to the Bathroom (A True Story)

When I was around 9 years old, my newly formed family (mother, new step-father and step-brothers) moved about 20 minutes outside of Corvallis, OR into a wonderfully large multi-level home that was on a few acres. Now coming from a town, I was not immediately ready for the shock of not having your neighbors right outside your bedroom window or the absolute silence and darkness that came at night. Dealing with the dark and silence at night was easy living with my new brothers in the adjacent rooms, that all change within about 7 months of living there. My mother and step-father were getting a divorce and we would be getting the massive house to ourselves.

As soon as my step-brothers and father moved out of the house, it took on a whole other vibe. It became terrifyingly empty with all these crazy shadows cast by the moonlight coming in from the long row of windows that seemed to be present in each and every room of the house. The very worst part of the house now seemed to be the separation of the family living spaces from where my room was, what used to be a blessing for three young boys was now a gauntlet of terror each night I had to make my way to the bathroom.

This long march came to a terrifying head one clear evening in October with a bright moon. I needed to use the bathroom as any boy who is scared of leaving the safety of his warm blankets for the cold hard truth of not wetting the bed. I made my way out of my room and down the hallway trying not to look out the window in case some monstrous beast was just outside waiting to catch a glimpse of me and snatch me right away. I lost this battle of wills and peered out into the late night. Our backyard was an acre long grass field populated with a few garden beds and a sprinkling of small trees lining the property. At the very end of our property line was a tall stand of trees at the peak of the hill illuminated from behind by the moonlight. At first I could not believe what I was seeing standing in between two of the trees at the very top of the hill and thought my mind was just playing tricks on me. That was when it moved. This humanoid looking thing was walking the ridge of the hill and must have been at least 9 feet tall when compared to the trees. It lumbered along stopping occasionally and just stand still. I was rooted to the spot in absolute terror and couldn't even let out a peep. I had been terrified of something like this ever since I had seen an episode of Unsolved Mysteries covering sasquatch (aka bigfoot) and now years later I was seeing one in my own yard. To this day I swear it stopped and looked down the hill directly at me and its eyes flashed red for a brief second, then lumbered over the hill out of sight.

If I thought I was terrified before of the walk to the bathroom, I can't start to explain the horror that walk was for the rest of the six months we lived there. Anytime I needed to go to the bathroom at night I would jam my pillow on the side of my head that the windows faced and walk as quickly as my legs would carry me all the while picturing a huge bigfoot right outside of the window waiting for me to take a peek.

4) THE HAUNTED HOUSE (or, DEUCE NUMM-BERTEW GETS HIS FIRST PUBE)

Not so very long ago and not so far away, an unsuspecting new family moved into the spooky, decrepit fixer-upper on the corner of Bones Blvd. and Skeleton Street. The old-fashioned piss-yellow Victorian was obviously haunted yet inexplicably appealing to the merry-go-round of buyers who, like clockwork, moved in and then out, always screaming and frazzled when they turned over the keys back into the hands of Dolores Doodie, the neighborhood real estate agent. Year after year, Dolores would do a little Annette Bening-in-“American Beauty” routine in the newly cleaned, empty house, giving herself a pep talk along the lines of “I will sell this house today!” despite the moaning and groaning soundtrack continuously provided by the floorboards and walls of the home. And year after year, an attractive new family would swoop the place up, high on the dreamy hopes of fixing the place up and reviving its full potential as a neighborhood cornerstone.

SPOOKY MUSIC

And so, not so very long ago and not so far away, the Numm-Bertew clan pulled into the driveway of the old haunted house on the corner of Bones & Skeleton, their blood-red Previa minivan sparkling in the moonlight (they had driven all day from their former hometown and arrived at their new home only once the sun had long set).

SPOOKY MUSIC

The family battled cobwebs and the lack of a porch light before reaching the front door, toward which little brother Deuce was extending his open hand when the thing clicked, croaked, and screeched open without any damn body turning the knob. Deuce’s two older sisters gasped in terror at the haunted house cliché, clinging to each other for protection in an inexplicably sexy way, with both sisters’ visibly pert nipples standing at serious attention in matching tight tank tops as the moonlight cast down upon nothing else but their boobs. Little Deuce paid no heed to his super sexpot teen sisters, of course, owing to his lack of pubes and the fact that, until kids get pubes, haunted houses are still cooler than boobs.

As usual, mom and dad were suddenly nowhere to be seen. Deuce Numm-Bertew and his wet hot American teen twin sisters were technically orphans, you see, but the ghosts of their dearly departed parents were so concerned for preserving the virginal purity of their should-be porn star daughters that they manifest themselves physically in a blood-red Previa whenever the twins were about to lose it to a football team and whisked them away, along with little Deuce, to a whole new hometown and a whole new life.

Just then, a BLACK CAT/JOLT OF SPOOKY MUSIC jumped down from nowhere and scared the shit out of the twins, literally. Deuce rolled his eyes, mumbled “typical” under his breath, and pushed the front door all the way open, revealing a dark gaping expanse into which he bravely stepped. Faced with the classic dilemma of whether to remain on the scary front porch where you and your hot twin just sharted in unison or follow your little bro into an even scarier haunted house, the girls opted to chillax with their poop on the porch and pray for a football team to come along and deflower them in the moonlight.

Inside, Deuce groped pathetically in the cobwebby darkness with the hope of finding a light switch. Little fool was too young to know what everybody does by the time they get pubes: that haunted houses don’t have light switches, and that the place is only illuminated when the demonic powers that be are damn good and ready to light a bitch up. Just then, JOLT OF SPOOKY MUSIC/LET THERE BE LIGHT!!! All at once, the haunted house was ablaze with jack-o-lanterns, hundreds of carved pumpkins lit from within by candlelight, each and every last one of them bearing a strained, constipated expression that was neither sinister nor intimidating yet also not sad or even ironically dopey.

JOLT UPON JOLT OF SPOOKY MUSIC as the house itself begins to shake, quake, even, with the bizarrely straining pumpkin faces becoming even more bizarrely strained with every passing moment. Little Deuce wasn’t scared, though, because having spent all eight of his living years with twin teen hottie sisters with severe sharting anxiety, Little Deuce recognized the nature of these expressions almost immediately.

Without hesitating, Deuce became a man: he grabbed an axe from the nearest place where axes are kept and ran for the nearest mainline pipe. With one fell swoop, as the house was groaning and moaning and heaving and hoeing all around him, hundreds, no, thousands, of groaning, moaning, heaving and hoeing jack-o-lantern faces aglow with the look that only backlogged feces can be blamed for, Little Deuce slammed the axe into the sewer pipe as hard as he could, freeing his new home of her lifelong suffering with one valiant gesture, the act that made Little Deuce just plain Deuce.

And so at that very moment, when the most infamous haunted house on Bones/Skeleton burst from within to flood the entire neighborhood with decades worth of pent up poop and pee, Deuce got his very first pube, becoming a man. As for the house, well, it was no longer haunted at all, freed of the ghosts of feces past and allowed to breathe and be free at long last. With the first rain came a little less poop on the streets, then the second rain and so on, and by the time several years worth of torrentially rainy winters had passed, the formerly haunted house (and the three or so square miles immediately surrounding it) looked good as new.

And so Deuce Numm-Bertew lived happily ever after, with lots of pubes and a poopy twins fetish as his main companions, plus the annual Christmas card he sent to the realtor Dolores Doodie, thanking her for another year in the house she sold his ghost parents.
ORCHESTRAL CLIMAX!!!

THE END

Round I of This Contest is Haunted

2011-10-24T10:28:00.000-07:00

Okay, here are a couple entries for the scary story category. We'll be voting for our favorite at the end of the week. Enjoy!

1) Untitled

Donna always knew there was something strange about their family dog. Her daughter had picked her out from the pound, and despite the puppies that were eager for her attention she went straight for the old mangy black and gray mutt with yellow eyes. Unlike the other dogs that were yelping through the cages this one sat in the back of its kennel alone, somber and disinterested, that was until her daughter walked by. His eyes followed the little girl, apparently unaware of any other presence in the world. Donna wasn’t surprised that her daughter had picked him, she was always a little different, and they seemed a perfect pair.

The dog, Vince, followed her everywhere. He was her shadow, would respond to any order she gave, and would never make a sound. When others would approach, he would look forward with chilly yellow eyes, and bristled hair, causing them to take an unconscious step backwards. Meanwhile, Sarah would grin with a smile that suggested something between comfort and pleasure.

It was early spring, and Donna had finally gotten an evening off and coordinated a new sitter to come over so she and her husband could enjoy a night on the town. At 8:00pm the doorbell rang, and a peroxide blonde woman in her early 20’s stood on the stoop shaking off her umbrella. Donna gave instructions to the woman, and told her they would be back by 11:00pm at the latest, then walked her into the living room to introduce her to Sarah. Sarah and the dog barely acknowledged the young woman when she came in, and continued watching an animated show about birds.

As soon as Sarah’s parents were gone the woman grabbed her cell phone, and started texting away. Then she grabbed the remote and switched the channel over to watch reruns of the Jersey Shore. Sarah was not thrilled. She glared at the woman, and ordered, “Change it back”. The babysitter ignored the 5 year old and kept watching. Sarah tried to grab the remote and the babysitter, startled pushed Sarah away, asking if she wanted “time-out”. Having fallen on to the ground as she was pushed, Sarah cuddled closer to Vince, and began talking ever so quietly to him about the mean girl.

When Donna and her husband returned home, the lights were off and Sarah was in bed with Vince sleeping by her feet and the babysitter nowhere to be seen. Slightly concerned, Donna woke Sarah to ask where the sitter was. Sarah simply said that the baby sitter’s boyfriend came over, they watched a terrible show about “Snookie”, played hide and seek, and now the babysitter was gone. Donna was rightfully appalled and tried to remember to erase that contact, thinking the woman obviously didn’t even deserve to be paid for the evening.

Summer was just starting to show up, and Donna found herself in the back yard hauling dirt, and preparing to plant her tulips. After digging for a few minutes Donna noticed a patch of yellow about 6 inches down. Confused she kept digging, not quite understanding what she saw. Waves of nausea washed over her. Her desire to run was overruled by the shock of recognition. She looked almost the same as that day she’d come over to watch her daughter, only instead of pink gloss and a smile, there was torn flesh where her bottom lip used to be, and a massive bite across her neck, which had ripped out her trachea, and left her spine visible.

The scream of terror she had finally been holding back spilled out, and rang through the neighborhood. Donna turned around to run and call the police, only to find her daughter and her dog, staring at her with yellow eyes peacefully sitting on the porch.

Sarah smiled at her mother, and said, “Vince, mommy wants to play hide and seek with the babysitter.”

2) A Scary Halloween Story.....a True One.

When the kids were all small I worked at K-Mart as an overnight stocker. I would come when everyone left for the night. They would lock me in, then in the morning when the store reopened I went home. The only other person in the store when I was- was a guy who ran the floor buffer once every couple weeks. Can't remember his name but lets call him Larry. Also, back then K-Mart stores all had little snack bar/grills in the back of the store. My sister was a cook in this snack bar. All this being said, let's continue the story.........

One night as I arrived for work I walked back to the snack bar to talk to my sister. Let me add that you had to walk past aisles 1 through 12, then past the health and beauty aids dept before you got to the snack bar.) She was all flustered and told me the story of what had happened that afternoon. She had served lunch to a couple of women there and while they were eating, one of the women started to cough and choke. The other woman was alarmed and trying to help her but she couldn't stop choking. So the woman was trying to help her friend out of the store and outside to see if she could catch her breath.....but right at the end of aisle 9 the lady collapsed. She was spewing blood violently out of her mouth and convulsing. She died right there at the end of aisle 9 of an aneurism. As I walked toward the locker room to put away my purse I looked around at the end of aisle 9 and although maintenance had cleaned up after all this there were little blood spatters on the floor, on the baseboards around the checkout, and most horrible of all, there was a big display of Fiddle Faddle on that end cap (shop talk for the shelves at the end of an aisle) and there were spatters of blood all over them. My first job that night was to remove those boxes and discard them.

The next time I came in, I tried to avoid that area as much as possible. Someone had filled the end cap with those gallon sized jars of Vlassic pickles. That evening when I was stocking I heard a loud crash. I went to the front of the store to find that at the end of aisle 9---- three jars of pickles had broken on the floor. I cleaned them up but the hair on the back of my neck was standing up and I was scared shitless!!! Later that evening I had just finished putting up a whole aisle of plastic ware...baskets and trash cans and stuff, and was all the way back to the storage room when CRASH!!!!!!! I went over there and everything I had put on the shelves was in the floor. I said fuck it and left it there on the floor. I was terrified. The next morning, when I told the manager and a couple clerks they laughed and told me I just had the heebie jeebies.

The next time I worked, Larry was there to do floors. He usually went and got a lawn chair and watched TV in electronics till about two hours before the store opened and then would hurry and finish buffing the floors. Well this night I was feeling not as scared because I knew he was there at the end of Aisle 7 watching Sanford and Son and nothing would happen. Wrong. About a couple hours into the shift he came and found me in the back of the store and his face was white as a sheet. He told me to come up to aisle 8 (that's where all the typewriters and adding machines were.) Anyway, there was this electric typewriter just click click clacking all by itself. Scared me shitless. I told him to unplug it!!!!!!!!!!! He hit the power switch that was hooked to the whole section of typewriters and it stopped clicking. He kind of chuckled nervously and I went on back to work. About an hour later I heard him scream and call my name like a little girl. I ran up there and it was typing again--by itself---with no power source.

Larry never cleaned the floor that night, he stayed in the warehouse with me. And he never came back to work again.

Weekend!

2011-10-21T09:38:00.000-07:00

I'm headed out to a magical adventure at Pacific City, stomping grounds of my youth and site of many an hour whiled on the beach with Corona and rolled-up jeans. There's a big dune. I will be running down it. Have a great weekend!

Real Life Conversation 1

2011-10-20T07:19:00.000-07:00

I'm in a wedding in a few weeks and I'm on the groom's side. I'm not wearing a bridesmaid dress, nor am I getting my hair and makeup done with the other bridesmaids, so I'm a little bit worried about looking mannish and dowdy, or possibly confusing older people who think I'm on the boys' side because I actually have a penis or am hoping to have a penis in the future (I picture them explaining it to each other in hushed voices while they pass kleenex around, You know, like Chaz Bono on Dancing with the Stars).

In an attempt to circumvent this awkwardness, I asked my friend Darci, who is an esthetician, if she would be willing to do my makeup on the day of the wedding. She was glad to, which was exciting, and last night we were talking about what I could do. We also discussed my hair. I have a lot of it and I am not much of a hair stylist so we were talking about a few different options.

Me: I was thinking I need to wear it up. Something with braids maybe?

Darci: I can do braids! I braided John-Robert's hair.

Me: Yeah, I saw the picture.You braided his hair in cornrows.

Darci: But actually, it would probably take five or six hours. I'm not sure I would have time.

Just imagine it.

Kyle and Emily, I'm going to have cornrows at your wedding. There may or may not be beads at the end.

Get Ready

2011-10-19T09:44:00.000-07:00

I purchased the prizes for This Contest is Haunted yesterday. One for best photo and one for best story. I want it to be a surprise but I also can't wait to tell everyone because it's awesome.

I'll give you a hint: 90s. 1996 to be exact.

Send me submissions by Monday!

The Joys of a Signifcant Other, Chapter 2

2011-10-18T10:15:00.000-07:00

Adjusting to real life. This is a huge step, right? Real life vs. romantic comedies/literature/my brain after absorbing all that stuff. My ideas about being in a relationship have changed a lot. I mean, back when I didn't have a boyfriend, I totally had a boyfriend. A future boyfriend.

He was, of course, not real, but he was always nice, was an artist or a writer (but not a flaky, stupid, self-centered one) and we would do super romantic things like watch the sunset, eat dinners cooked by him, have brilliant conversation always, and we would live in Paris, and then travel around the world in a sailboat, and live sustainably off the land in the woods somewhere and somehow it wouldn't be boring, etc. etc.

Future boyfriend was obviously not real nor attainable. Probably not even biologically possible. So you know, when you embark on a relationship you have to give up on your ideals based around Future Boyfriend. You also can't make ultimatums because they never work (except for maybe the one where you leave your partner if he hits you. That's a good ultimatum).

I once believed that I would never live with my significant other before marriage because living alone is awesome and then after marriage, you get the new joy of moving in. I don't know. I knew a couple that did that and they were happy, so I took it as my own. And all of the sudden we were talking about moving in together and I was into it. Weird. But when I started talking to my friends about moving in with the boyfriend, they told me, "You will clean. All the time. You will be the cleaner. That's just how it is." And so I freaked out and bought Sam a toilet brush. That's not true. I actually asked him if I could buy him a toilet brush and he said no. Fortunately my panic was unfounded, he cleans all the time.

I also recall a time when I tried really hard to look nice. You know, so Sam would continue to be attracted to me. I made effort to look nice when we hung out. I really did. It's not like I wore makeup to bed or anything, but you can't look like slob, right? Over. Sam actually bought me an enormous pair of heather gray sweatpants and I wear them all the time and they have an awkward grease spot on the crotch where I probably dropped a piece of pepperoni pizza or something. And the sweatpants probably aren't a good thing, but I don't think throwing them away will change the fact that Sam has seen me in these sweatpants.

And you know there are the moments when things aren't perfect (often because I get really mean when I'm hungry and other things usually related to me) and we are not skipping around and laughing and holding hands, but that is also sadly, part of having a relationship. It's still something I'm coming to terms with.

Oh. Another lie I told myself is that we would never work out at the gym together. Because those couples are gross. But it has happened. We have done circuit training in the gym in the morning and the worst part? It was fun. And we are gross.

I'm sorry. This must be hard to hear. But there's nothing better than the real-life confessions of a person in a real-life relationship with a real-life person to curb idealism.

Wait, so you're not going to be wearing a dress?

2011-10-17T12:11:00.000-07:00

Kyle and Emily did their engagement photos with Kyle Carnes Photography this weekend and they are totally awesome. I mean, look at that photo. This shoot was special to me for several reasons. One, I'm in Kyle and Emily's wedding. Obviously, they aren't sticklers on gender roles and rigid tradition because I am a groomslady. Two, I was an initial supporter of their idea to have a 50s style gender role reversal photo shoot, threw out some ideas in the brainstorming session, and was very much looking forward to seeing the end result. Three, I was there for the conversation between Kyle and Kyle, during which, the proverbial lightbulb went off and Kyle C realized he wasn't going to have to shoot Kyle Arthur in a dress and make it look like a Norman Rockwell painting. Apparently there has been some links missing in the communication. Lastly, the shoot took place at our house. I'm pretty proud of the home that Sam and I have put together. I think it's very homey and well-decorated (obviously completely objective) and it gives me a lot of joy to see it in the background of these photos. Go to Kyle's blog to check out the rest.

New Favorite Style Blog

2011-10-14T11:13:00.000-07:00

Remember when I discussed the merits of the Urban Weeds style blog? Well, after I did, Caitlin made a comment that the subjects were always so generic and made it look like all Portlanders wear skinny jeans, tall boots, and have children. Caitlin's assessment was true. And we don't all wear skinny jeans, tall boots, and have children. So after that, I really couldn't enjoy the blog. I would notice a new post, click to find a lovely black and white portrait and then scroll down to be completely and utterly deflated by some boring leggings/dress/boots/ peacoat combo. But I still look at it because it's fun to see people in Portland and also because I'm a little bit of an internet martyr (Seriously. There's this one blog I read only because I think the person is really annoying. Why?).

However, there is relief from the khaki-clad, squeaky clean of Urban Weeds. I have found a new go-to style blog: Portland's Pretty. Marissa is funny, doesn't take herself too seriously, and finds a wide variety of looks that she sees fit to print.

Here are some recent shots from her blog:

The Last Sasquatch Vol. 4

2011-10-12T10:58:00.000-07:00

From top:

girls

rachael and kali dancing in the pit

alexis

sunset

More Inspiration

2011-10-11T16:12:00.000-07:00

Don't forget, the deadline for This Contest is Haunted is coming up soon. Send your entries to rachel.wri@gmail.com. At this point, I only have a couple entries which means automatic prizes for you creative and daring souls. If you need extra inspiration I highly recommend the Milburn's Haunted Manor. Featuring a haunted house, haunted forest, and a haunted pitch-black maze, a completely horrific evening is guaranteed. You will cling to your friends, you will shriek, and you will spend your downtime doing that high-pitched, awkward giggling that happens when you've just had the shit scared out of you. Good times.

Lucky

2011-10-07T11:46:00.000-07:00

I've been reading the posts on We are the 99 Percent and thinking about how lucky my friends and family are.

The Last Sasquatch Vol. 3

2011-10-06T07:15:00.000-07:00

From top:

Kali's space, Kyle's hiking boots

Stage and sky

Pod in contemplation

Rachael found a dread

I KNEW it!

2011-10-04T11:49:00.000-07:00

Remember my prediction that American Apparel would attempt to bring back the thin cotton turtleneck? I wanted it to be a joke, I truly did, but I flipped open a Mercury yesterday and found a three-part ad featuring the thin cotton turtleneck. Shocking.

An unfortunate item that I wore for the number of years that I was not dressing myself, the thin cotton turtleneck is one of those things that adorned moms and children alike in the 90s. Sometimes it had patterns (my mom had one covered in tiny Mickey Mouses) but usually it was plain, solid, and most definitely neck warming. They are somehow unflattering, something about that tube of fabric extending up your torso right to your chin and the awkwardly tight sleeves. The only thing worse is the mock turtleneck or collarless shirts for men. And of course, you can now get them in any number of different finishes and colors from American Apparel. Jeez. They've brought us bodysuits, guacho pants, and turtlenecks, who knows what sort of horror is left.

Predictions? I'm afraid to make anymore, because they'll probably come true.

This Contest is Haunted

2011-09-30T15:35:00.000-07:00

Hey friends. You are creative and talented and attractive and you love Halloween as much as I do. Time to express your creativity and general delight in the macabre with the first annual This Contest is Haunted. Send me your original scariest stories and photographs for the chance to be a crowned a Champion of Horror (just like Stephen King but without the weird face and coke problem).

There will be two categories: Photographs and Stories. You may enter pieces in both categories if you wish and there is no limit to the number of entries.

Photographs: Please submit your own original photographs in a digital format. Almost anything goes, something dead that you found, a creepy self-portrait or tableau of your friends, but I would prefer that everything you do is legal (no snuff photographs or weird, real-life torture stuff).

Stories: Stories should not be more than about a page long (500 words or less). They can be true or completely fictional, as long as they are terrifying. Note: I will not be editing these, so make sure you proofread.

Submit your horrifying photos or stories by October 24. The top five finalists for each category will be selected by a panel of judges. The top five will be displayed on this blog and the champions will be decided by a public vote.

There will be prizes for the champions. Not like, a trip to a Hawaii or anything, but not something lame like a stick of gum either. Exciting prizes!

Please send your entries to: rachel.wri@gmail.com

Here's some inspiration: the newest trailer for the Couch Street Massacre.

Fear

2011-09-30T10:11:00.000-07:00

I remember the first time I was ever really truly terrified by a movie. It began with Indiana Jones and continued on throughout each awkward phase of my life. This is the loose timeline:

5 years old: Watched Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Terrified when the bleeding heart was ripped out of that man's body.

6 years old: Watched Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade: Terrified by the man's head rolling out of the mist. Had a nightmare.

Grade School: Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, Goosebumps, Lois Duncan

Middle School: Dean Koontz, Stephen King, my dad hiding in the orchard at night when I had to go out to the barn and then jumping out and scaring the living shit out of me.

13 years old: Scream came out, followed by gems like I Know What You Did Last Summer and Final Destination. Often filled with an irrational fear of something coming to get me when washing my hair in the shower with my eyes closed.

14th Birthday Party: Watched the Exorcist for the first time. Actually, didn't watch it because I was covering my face with a pillow.

15 years old: Tried watching the Exorcist again with Charissa. She made me turn it off. We watched it again the next morning all the way through, it was almost worse in the light of day.

16-18 years old: Caught up on classics such as Halloween, Psycho, etc.

21 years old: Watched the Grudge in a movie theater in Auckland. Reverted to pre-teen levels of fear of the dark.

28 years old: Remembered how great scary stories are when Caroline told us stories about the haunted house she grew up in. Further inspired by her gift of Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark Vol. 1.

also

**Decided to have a scary story and photo contest complete with real prizes (no Big Billy Bass for you)**

Details coming soon.

Girls!

2011-09-28T10:42:00.000-07:00

I've been listening to the Father, Son, Holy Ghost album on repeat. It has this wonderful nostalgic guitar vibe and also takes me back to the 90s when I was obsessed with Pink Floyd. This is the first song on the album and definitely the most peppy. Note the awkward crop top. Speaking of crop tops and the 90s, Sam and I watched "Fear" last night. I had never seen it. The 90s Seattle fashion with all those underwear-skimming skirts, knee high tights, and crop tops is just priceless.

What a story though; the whole thing really escalates. One minute it's harmless roller coaster handjobs and the next thing you know people are smoking out of crack pipes and Mark Wahlberg is tattooing "Nicole 4 Eva" into his torso and snapping necks in the woods. Amy Brenneman drills through someone's hand! The ultimate moral of the story? Don't have sex with Mark Wahlberg.

Dos and Don'ts of Backpacking with your Significant Other

2011-09-27T10:49:00.000-07:00

Sam and I hiked up to Santiam Lake last weekend. It was our first backpacking trip as a couple and really couldn't have gone better. However, like any new experience, it will provide a template for our next attempt. Some things were perfect and some things could use some adjustment.

Do: Wake up at 5:00. Start out the morning with coffee and toast. Read your boyfriend the Savage Love column when it is particularly shocking.

Don't: Forget to change to your tail light. You will be pulled over on I-5 and almost have a heart attack.

Do: Make sure you know where you're going.

Don't: Forget your notebook/sketchpad/directions in the car.

Do: Find the perfect walking stick.

Don't: Decide to pee behind a tree at the exact moment some hikers are coming around the bend. Stopping midstream is uncomfortable for you, plus the hikers will feel awkward about having to walk by some girl standing silently behind a tree while holding her pants around her waist.

Do: Bring delicious turkey sandwiches with avocado and basil. Eat them on the shore of Duffy Lake and feel good about your foray into the outdoors.

Don't: Forget that your Northwestern spirit feelings are no match for your boyfriend's Midwestern over-obvious logic. Forgetting this will send you across the Misleading Meadow, up the Road to Doom, past the Lake of False Hope, across the Barren Burnt Pine Wasteland, and finally into The Land of Early Death where you will finally realize that there is no way you are going the right way.

Do: Turn around.

Don't: Assume that your journey is over now that you are at Santiam Lake. The truth is, you are going to walk around the lake to get to the farthest campsite and the fact that you thought you were done makes this a million times more difficult. Try not to lose it.

Do: Give your girlfriend some space. Let her walk down the trail thinking she is by herself. This is beneficial for two reasons: (1) she will get her second wind, and (2) you will have the opportunity to watch her struggle to get over a down tree for three minutes. It will give you great joy.

Don't: Forget the marshmallows.

Do: Set up an awesome campground complete with tarp awning and firewood pile while your girlfriend naps in the meadow. She will be impressed.

Do: Eat a delicious pasta dinner and then sit around the fire and talk about how awesome you guys are at backpacking.

Do: Say something like, "Oh man, I wish I had brought a little bottle of whiskey" and then once your girlfriend agrees that would have been awesome, pull out the little bottle of whiskey you brought. Again, she will be impressed.

Don't: Try to use the water filtration pump by yourself. Apparently, for you, it's a two-person job.

Do: Enjoy breakfast and coffee while sitting on little rocks on the shore of the lake. Watch the clouds whip overhead, the fog spin over the lake, the fish rise. Be glad you are in the mountains.

Don't: Start hiking with every warm piece of clothing you own on your back. Once you really start walking, you will almost keel over from the heat.

Do: Enjoy your walk back to civilization and then head straight to your girlfriend's parents' house where you can shower and then eat a warm home-cooked meal.

The Last Sasquatch Vol. 2

2011-09-26T07:25:00.000-07:00

From top:

Kale and Kyle love hats

Kyle in Kali's hat

Up

Wool and fur

Good Morning Music

2011-09-23T09:42:00.000-07:00

The first thing to pop up on my ipod this morning. What a great way to start Friday.

The Swifts

2011-09-22T16:07:00.000-07:00

Oh wow. I saw the swifts last night for the first time. My friend Colin was extremely disappointed to learn I had lived in Portland for several years now and hadn't seen them.

For those of you who don't know, Vaux's swifts are migrating south right now. At sunset they find a large, hollow place for their entire traveling party to nest. Fortunately for us, the Chapman School up in NW has this giant chimney that has been designated one of their spots. There was festival atmosphere up at the school. Children were sliding down the hill of dried brown grass on cardboard boxes, people were enjoying picnics with goat cheese salad and white wine, and slowly but surely the swifts began to gather in a cloud over the school. I arrived about half an hour before the sun began to set. There were a few flocks of birds circling high overhead but as Colin and I chatted, the flock grew and expanded and you could see groups wheeling in the sky, converging from various directions, and growing in mass. They're tiny birds and at times they almost disappeared in the sky, depending on the angle of their wings against the last bit of light. As the sun began to set, they zeroed in on the chimney and the flock became tighter and more intense. Finally, a single bird picked up the courage and they were all diving in, spiraling down in a gigantic tornado of birda. It kind of looked like this, but far more magical:

The swarm continued for ages at a dizzying consistency. At one point a hawk swooped by and the crowd booed, but who could blame it? It was like the best kind of swift buffet. As it got darker, there were only a few lonely stragglers attempting to find a place inside the chimney which I can only imagine was stuffed to the gills.

If you haven't see the swifts, you have to. Go now, before it's too late.

The Last Sasquatch

2011-09-20T08:31:00.000-07:00

All shot on slide film.

From top:

Bryan Davis at Stonehenge

The haunted house

The stage

Kali and the sunset

The bus

Hate/Love

2011-09-19T10:39:00.000-07:00

Ah, I guess I'm not as angsty as I used to be, because I can't remember the last time I compiled all the things I hate and described them to you in detail. Looks like it was in April last year.

But I have to tell you, I was waiting at a busy intersection today and the light turned green and I started to pedal but my foot slipped and I hit my shin on my pedal and almost fell off my bike and I screamed and this really slow round lady passed me as flailed around (I had passed her earlier) and then I was stuck behind her for a few blocks. And my shin is still aching. So, in honor of my pain:

Hate

People who carry helmets but don't wear them: I get it. Helmets are dorky. Tragically so. But if you have gone through the bother of purchasing a bike helmet and then decided to take it with you when you left the house, why not just put it on? In two days I have seen two people biking around with bike helmets attached to (1) their messenger bag, or (2) their handlebars, and I really can't think of anything stupider. My only consolation is that it's Darwin's theory in action.

Hipster jokes: Yeah, yeah, hipsters are really annoying and soulless and they ruin everything and everyone under the age of 35 is a hipster except for you and your friends who are really cool and yet somehow aren't hipsters. Who cares? Let's move on. Hipster jokes are OVER.

Wetsuits: While I am loving surfing, I'm not sure if I've communicated how horrible wetsuits are. Imagine trying to put on a onesie that is over 4 millimeters thick and three sizes too small for you. Because it's supposed to keep you especially warm, the only path of entry is through the neck hole at the top of the suit. You have to squeeze your body through what amounts to a cervix while it resists with every fiber of its neoprene being. Then there's taking it off. Your wet body in the suit creates the kind of vacuum seal that canning perishable item requires. Again, being born is an extremely accurate simile. And this whole process is a necessity every time you go surfing.

Love

Nature shows in action: Sam and I went for a walk this morning and we witnessed a stand-off between a housecat and a baby opossum. It had such huge eyes and a very intimidating hiss. It finally disappeared into dark under the steps. However the cat went under there too. I know not its fate.

Old couples who know how to dance: We went to Oktoberfest in Mt. Angel this weekend and saw this great family polka band (Caitlin's future husband!). All of these old couples in lederhosen were up and skipping around, doing all these great dances moves and just generally looking awesome.

House Parties: You know, I hadn't been to a house party in a long while. We ended up at one this weekend, and I made new random friends, did some dancing, ate some cupcakes, saw from friends that I didn't expect to see, and then had a nice late night walk home. House parties are so much cosier than bars. I didn't know most of the people there, but everyone assumes you're somehow affiliated and treats you like a friend.

Faster than Lightning

2011-09-15T13:24:00.000-07:00

Surfing was only one highlight of the past weekend. Some of you don't know this, but I actually have a secret skill. I am a race car driver.

That is a slight exaggeration but every once in a while I go to the track with my dad and I drive his BMW race car. It's a 1991 318i that he has Frankensteined into this amazing tiny but powerful beast. Roll cage, huge engine, racing slicks, short shifter, and probably a million other things that make it fast and easy to drive. I usually go out to PIR (Portland International Raceway for the laypeople) but this weekend was a special treat. We went out to ORP (Oregon Raceway Park for the laypeople; car people love acronyms) for a special racing weekend.

This track is a crazy rollercoaster. If driving PIR is like driving in Houston (flat), driving ORP is like driving in San Francisco. There are banked turns, drops, dips, places that you drive straight and fast even though you can see the track due to all the little dips, and weird off-camber spots were you just hope your car doesn't fly off the track. Sometimes it does. There were plenty of dust clouds billowing over the course of the day, but I emerged victorious in that I didn't go off track or ruin my dad's car. He is usually my instructor when I go to these track days. Having Tim Wright as your instructor means that you hear a lot of, " MORE THROTTLE DON'T BRAKE MORE THROTTLE GO FOR IT!!! and then you go for it. It was definitely my favorite track day so far in my limited history of track days. Now you know who to call when you need a getaway driver.

Do you have any secret talents I should know about?

Sneak Preview

2011-09-13T08:55:00.000-07:00

I finally developed some of the film that I have sitting around (yes, you finally get to see Sasquatch photos). The wonderful thing is that every single envelope is like opening a Christmas present. The bad thing is that I literally have no idea what they are anymore. The problem with this is that Sam volunteered to drop them off and pick them up. He had a few rolls he wanted to develop as well. He dropped them without incident. It was when he picked them up that things got awkward.

Now, I worked at a camera shop for awhile in high school. Our policy was to offer to look through the photos with the customer so they could ask for corrections if they wanted. Often people were surprised we looked at the photos while developing them. I developed countless rolls of film and bore witness to a million shitty teenage party pics, awkward family photos, detailed photo documentation of a stuffed animal collection, two dudes and a stripper in a hotel room, christenings, graduations, marijuana plants, puppies, Haystock Rock, pretty much everything that could be documented with a camera. If something was particularly hilarious you would save a print to show the rest of your coworkers. We rolled our eyes at blown out, out-of-focus disposable camera pics, backlit portraits, and the people who wanted us to magically make them look better. The only thing you were required to report are photos of child pornography. The rest was fair game. That doesn't mean I wouldn't go out of my way to let someone know I thought their photos were lame (For instance, asking the businessman with the stripper if he would like to look through his photos in an overly sincere voice). Basically, people who work in camera shops are punks.

So, Sam goes to pick up the photos and receives a fair amount of grief from these kids. They're doing your classic knowing commentary and eventually throw out, "So, I guess you really like to party huh?" Sam is clueless. "Let's just say there are a few photos of a . .. uh .. . phallic nature." Sam is shocked. He looks through them. He doesn't recognize anyone in the photos except for Liz. It's a party and no one is really wearing clothes. He brings them home to me. Most of the people I don't recognize but it slowly comes back to me as I flip through the photos. The disposable camera I took to the "Anything but Clothes" party. We all have that water-logged look of people who were soaking their livers in beer on a regular basis. As I flip through it becomes apparent that someone took my camera. The photos are blurry and random. This camera thief first photographed people I didn't know, the floor, people's feet, and then he apparently tired of that and decided to photograph his penis. Horrible. And he had a Prince Albert piercing. More horrible.

Poor Sam.

Big News

2011-09-12T13:40:00.000-07:00

I bought my first surfboard! This thing could practically catch waves by itself. It's the Shuler Cosmo, an 7'5 egg that's thick in all right places, with long-board stability but the maneuverability of a short-board. More importantly, the Cosmo will ride well in pretty much anything. As a weekend surfer, I don't get to be choosy about conditions and this board will never be the limiting factor in how much fun I'm having (that would be my skills). Shuler Surfboards is located in Seaside and it's pretty great to have the opportunity to support a local shaper.

We took it out for its maiden voyage yesterday and I had a fun day, even with inconsistent sets, wind, frigid waters, and a cloud bank that sat on the coastline all day while Portland enjoyed summer. Sam had his most epic belly flop ever, I saw Kyle Carnes stand up, and Jeremy, well, Jeremy caught waves because that's what he does. All the time. Poor Rian forgot one of her booties (look!). Not really acceptable on the Oregon coast (I was in a wetsuit, hood, booties and gloves) but she still stuck it out for awhile, winning the Toughest Surfer of the Day award. She also took that photo up there.

Killian Martin: A Skate Illustration

2011-09-09T13:24:00.000-07:00

This is amazing. Apparently Killian Martin's from Spain, started out as a gymnast and then turned to skating. His style is an odd fusion of the two, fascinating, and totally different than other skating I've seen.

Brett Novak directs.

Charles Bradley Tonight!

2011-09-08T14:30:00.000-07:00

At the Aladdin. This is going to be so good.

Like sand in an hourglass

2011-09-07T11:21:00.000-07:00

What happened? It seems like summer is already over. I mean, the weather is finally gorgeous but all of the sudden it's September and leaves are starting to blow around on the road and occasionally the wind wafts in that smell of must/opportunity that only really comes in the fall. I still have so much to do.

As a true Oregonian, I always feel an intense sense of guilt whenever it's sunny outside and I'm not taking advantage of it. So much guilt I can't even live with myself. I think with all the gray this summer, we're all feeling like we haven't taken full advantage of all that summer in Portland can offer. There are always a million things on my list for the precious days that the sun graces. That backpacking trip I always mean to take, the impromptu barbecues, more surfing, more swimming, more sunbathing, lazy afternoons on a porch with white wine and ice, late warm nights biking home from dance parties, flower picking, picnics that last all day, tomato eating, hikes early in the morning when the sun is just beginning to rise, evenings on the bluffs with the sunset.

Agh. I have so much to do. You do too. Let's make some last-minute plans.

The Greatest Invention of All Time

2011-09-06T11:28:00.000-07:00

I know there has been a lack of postings lately, but work has been insane. Like, working late nights, working the weekends, getting up obscenely early insane. I started to get kind of delirious. Maybe not really in touch with reality, but that's when the creative juices really flow. At some point in there, I came home late and started making up a lunch for the next day. After a series of unfortunate events which you may be able to discern from the advice spelled out below, I came to a realization. I have discovered the money-making idea that will make me a millionaire. I jotted it down and have been saving it for when I would actually have time to share it with you. And here it is:

Talking tupperware. Just imagine if you had someone there to save you from opening a container filled with six-month old bean dip. Or what if the ketchup bottle told you the lid wasn't on before you started shaking it all over you and your date and the people in the booth behind you. I can't even fathom how much better life would be. It would be like trying to imagine what people did before there was electricity or wrinkle-reducing eye cream. This is the future.

Travel Tips for the Discerning Couple

2011-08-23T09:54:00.000-07:00

Sam and I had a really amazing vacation. We got along really well, we did a lot of fun things, we ate a lot of cheese and chocolate pastries, and Sam is now blond due to all the time we spent on the beach. However, on our last morning in our apartment in Barcelona, we began to recap the trip. Sam said that we were traveling as a couple experts and should probably write a guide book. I snorted. And IT began. We alternated our travel advice, moving farther and farther from any hope of civility. Our travel companion Gibbons, was pretty convinced we were about to break up, while we laughed hysterically with each retort.

1. Remember, this trip won't be about what you want to do, it will be about what your boyfriend wants to do. Prepare to give up your hopes and dreams.

2. Realize that it's okay to go to bed angry.

3. Rest assured, anything you don't plan will be a total shitshow. Remember to take it in stride.

4. Remember to bring extra warm clothing, because let's be honest, your girlfriend won't.

5. Be prepared to live on baguette and coffee. You won't be able to eat at the places you want to eat because your boyfriend won't have any money. Budget meals are part of the travel experience.

6. Remember, as the male and natural caregiver, you won't have any money because you will pay for everything.

7. Maintain a straight face while telling your boyfriend that he looks great in his new spanish suspenders.

8. Be prepared to experience the full effect of your girlfriend's bowel movements.

9. Resign yourself to spending a large amount of your trip being lost, as your boyfriend won't be able to read a map. Try not to question his manhood.

9. Prior to your trip, spend some extra time at the gym. This trip is not about seeing the sights, it's about being your girlfriend's bellboy.

10. Perfect the "block and sweep" to ward off unwanted advances . . . from your boyfriend.

11. Remember that it is your fault when your girlfriend drops a pocketful of belongings, including a pocketknife you bought in France, onto a group of tourists in the street six stories below.

12. When you go surfing in southern France, try to come to terms with the fact that your boyfriend will have no idea you were caught in a rip for 20 minutes and almost drowned because he will be too busy surfing. When he asks if you saw him catch that wave, resist the urge to punch him.

13. Realize that the knife debacle was not an isolated incident. Don't let your girlfriend hold your camera while standing on a raised walkway at the dinosaur exhibit.

14. When you feel like talking, your boyfriend will want to sleep. When you are tired and want to sit in silence, your boyfriend will want to talk.

15. Sometimes it's better to end long vacations with separate flights.

Voyage

2011-08-01T16:19:00.000-07:00

I'll be gone for awhile. Work has been a total slog the last couple weeks because I have been throwing all my energy into preparation for tomorrow. Departure to Europe! We're renting a camper van for a portion, surfing, staying in a surf camp trailer park, wandering, eating cheap, visiting friends, and (from what the reviews say) staying at the worst hotel in Paris. I will not be using the internets while I'm gone, but I should have some good stories when I get back. Also, I will probably make Sam stand in front of funny things so you will have to look at some vacation photos too.

We'll see how it goes. I'm often late for things. Sam is often late for things. Last time I went to Europe I had to sprint to every flight, train, and subway I was meant to catch. We may be a tragicomedy force to be reckoned with.

Poor Man's Missoni

2011-07-26T09:19:00.000-07:00

I know not everyone loves when I talk about fashion (ahem, guys). But it's an important part of my life. While it may not appear that way (Hey Rachel, you're wearing jeans again. And a t-shirt. Really breaking some ground) I occasionally like to see what's going on in the high fashion world. It's times like these that I often get really sad about my life. One, because I'm short and high fashion is made for tall, willowy people with bony knees. Two, I will never be able to afford that stuff. Three, knock-offs of the really, really good stuff never make it to you and me. It just doesn't happen. By the time it filters down through ready-to-wear to the inspired-by styles that grace local hangers, it is often a sad, misshapen version of the glory it once was. Burberry trench to Victoria's Secret trench over a push-up bra to sad-sack trench in shiny, synthetic fabric that smells vaguely of plastic.

However, it is good to dream. And Missoni's Fall 2011 ready-to-wear is pretty dreamy. It's like Lisa Franke in water color. Cotton candy pastels, grunge cuts sweetened by embroidery, snake skin bombers, sunset sweaters, flowing skirts, and those boots. The snakeskin boots are my favorite part.

I don't know if anything like those boots will ever end up in stores that I could afford. But these Jeffrey Campbell Litas are probably your best bet for a general approximation of color and texture, though the silhouette is obviously a completely different ballgame. The only advantage is that these would get me a few inches closer to tall, though alas, without the willowy.

*photos from style.com

Something to do

2011-07-21T10:35:00.000-07:00

I'm going to see Missile to the Moon tonight. That is, if it isn't raining. If it is raining, I will probably be inside somewhere, complaining about the weather. That's what I do now. I talk about the weather.

We saw Troll 2 last year at this very same rooftop movie series and it totally exceeded my expectations. The experience should be slightly different this year, as Filmusik is putting it on. Besides being oddly spelled (does it make you feel slightly exasperated when K is substituted for C for dramatic effect?) the group creates magical original performances combining film with live music, dubbing, and sound effects. Charissa's boyfriend Scott wrote an original score for Missile to the Moon and will be conducting tonight. Troll 2 did not have a live score. It was the original score and dialogue in all its glory: "Nilbog is goblin spelled backwards!!!! "I'm going to pee on our dinner!!!! Grandpaaaaa!" Anyway, I need to let go of Troll 2. It was great, but I'm sure Missile to the Moon will be great too.

Here's NW Film Center's synopsis:
In this wonderfully absurd sci-fi tale—definitely not made by rocket scientists—scientist Dirk Green catches a couple of escaped convicts hiding out in his backyard rocket ship and forces them to help pilot his ad-hoc flight to the moon. As plot thickening would have it, another scientist and his fiancée happen to climb on board at launch time too. After Green dies in a freak accident caused by a meteor shower, the makeshift crew finds there is cheesy life on the moon after all: oddly ambulatory rock-monsters, the sinister female ruler Ledo and her scantily clad moon-babes, and awesome giant spiders that look like they may have been made by inspired, but only moderately gifted, third graders.

I love third graders.

Seattle Ho!

2011-07-19T15:51:00.000-07:00

I paid a visit to Alexa's new home a few weeks ago. True to form, I am only now posting about it, but it doesn't make the adventure any less special. Jocelyn and Ruby (her trusty canine companion) and Carin and I rode up in a cloud of glory, passing through some foreboding rain showers only to find a glorious sunset behind the skyline. As usual, I was starving and on the verge of panic by the time we arrived (I don't know why I don't keep an emergency stash of granola bars on me at all times). I sent Alexa a text telling her we were ten minutes away and that supper better be on the table. It was a joke of course, but one of those jokes that's not really a joke because you hope with all your heart that it's true. Her reply: Oh just you wait.

She greeted us with sangria and roasted root vegetables and we ate and drank and took over her kitchen and made it a miniature dance club. The floor was shaking. We then went out on the town but it was Pride Week and bars everywhere were stuffed to capacity and blasting techno. We made our own fun and admired some mid-century furniture along the way. The night closed out at a strange place with boys go-go dancing on cubes. I believe this was due to Pride, but I'm not actually sure. Either way, the evening was an adventure.

Saturday involved a wonderful brunch at Smith (by suggestion of Nate, one her roommates). He really came through. Check this place out. I am pretty proud of our breakfast spots in Portland, but Smith was a serious, serious contender. Dead animals on the wall, cutting board plates, bloody mary's filled with pickled vegetables, and really great food. I had the BLT and it is highly recommended. We spent the rest of the day milling around, eating food, sitting in the sun in the backyard, and bbq'ing. Alexa and I ran to her local and took two of the worst photobooth shoots of all time. What an embarassment.

Sunday was coffee and reading in the sun at the cafe down the street, and then we caught the bus down to the Pride Parade to meet up with Carin. Drill routines, ribbon dancing, pony play, glitter, and pasties. For a very interesting recap of the Pony Play segment, please refer to Alexa's blog here and here. A description and a rebuttal. Fascinating stuff.

We made the trek back to Alexa's house and spent a few quiet moments in her kitchen booth with some mac n' cheese before making the trek back to Portland. I left with a expanded love for Seattle in my cold heart. Thanks to Alexa for a perfect time.

1. Seattle. Obviously. 2. Sleater-Kinney Road. That is rock history right there. 3 and 4. Haven't you ever wished that you could step through some shrubbery and find a magical world? Maybe we did. 5. Pride Parade flair. 6. We got friendship bracelets because we're friends. 7 and 8. We found Carin by the fountain. She was wearing her mermaid dress and she gave us glitter eyes.

American Beauty

2011-07-18T11:25:00.000-07:00

It was Charissa's birthday yesterday*. She made a massive, three-story carrot cake bedecked with cream-cheese frosting and invited friends to meet her at Roadside Attraction to eat it. Charissa turns a year older and we get cake. It was a fantastic trade. To celebrate Charissa's birthday, I gave her a book that will help her age with grace and dignity. It's called The American Look-How It Can Be Yours.**

This book includes gems like recommendations for regular massage from a home masseuse (masseurs are creeps), the ideal weight (100 lbs=5 foot woman, add three pounds for every inch above 5 feet and don't forget to subtract a few pounds from your allowance if you have a small frame), wrapping your hands in cold cream when performing the countless tasks around the house that require gloves (dishwashing, scrubbing, gardening, picking things up off the floor), and what to do if you get cellulite (she has no idea since she's thankfully never had cellulite). All this is supplemented by countless photos of her doing American things like running down the beach, posing in 80s workout gear with her leg up on a bar, lying on a chaise lounge with her surprisingly unattractive child Gaston, or just standing there, being fabulous.

I highly recommend it. If anything, it's great to know how much time you're saving by avoiding the American Look. If I ever wrote a beauty book, it would be very brief and to the point. It would involve recommendations like, "You don't need to wash your face!" and "Makeup is time-consuming!" and "Burritos are delicious!"

* Happy birthday!
** Check out this link if only for the review. It's priceless.
Photo from here

Consequences: A Drama in Three Parts, Part 3

2011-07-15T11:31:00.000-07:00

III

Saturday dawned bright. Our only full day at Shi Shi, the day for leisurely breakfast, morning cocktails, tidepool exploration, swimming in the ocean, dancing in the sand. When life is this idyllic, it's only natural (from a dramatic story perspective) that tragedy is looming. As a foreboding David Lynchian soundtrack floated on the wind past our unhearing ears, we came up to the second camp to say hello. Nathan (Team Seattle), someone I had met earlier that day when I was distracted by the task of turning 48 eggs into breakfast tacos, was lying in the sand against a piece of driftwood. His nose, his whole face really, was turning a garish shade of red. "Do you have any sunscreen?" I asked him.

"They have some at camp, maybe."

"You should use some. It looks like you're burning."

He grunted an acknowledgment that communicated he wasn't a sunscreen kind of guy. I moved on.

We spent the afternoon swimming, running up and down the beach, and had a quick lunch at the Seattle Camp before going back to Portland camp to rest and relax for a bit. I read a chapter of The Hobbit outloud. We had cocktail hour. And then we got dressed and prepared to head back down to Camp Seattle for dinner. Gabe and his crew were providing a hot dog and chili feast, and Camp Seattle had promised a massive bonfire. It was, indeed, a massive bonfire. Practically the size of a funeral pyre. We arrived to half-naked friends stoking a pyramid of driftwood taller than me. After roasting hotdogs on a smaller cooking fire, we moved to the bonfire which was now roaring merrily. We sat down on driftwood logs circled around the fire, passed whiskey around, and began story hour. This involved someone standing up and telling a story about someone else in the group. The person featured in the story was the next person to stand up and tell a story about someone else. The bonfire raged on. It was so hot you couldn't stand close enough to roast a marshmallow.

It was then that Bob appeared. But no one saw him. Almost no one heard him. He might have passed unnoticed but for the events left in his wake. He slouched into our circle, looked into our eyes, and whispered in Nathan's sunburnt ear, "Firewalk with meeeeee." And so Nathan did. In an act of bravado (and stupidity), Nathan attempted to run up one of the half-burnt logs that leaned across the bonfire. He did not succeed. He half-fell, dropped a foot down, and managed to get to the other side. Seconds later, Greg did the same slightly more successfully. What followed was loss, darkness, mayhem. Nathan surrounded by his friends in the far-off low tide, his moans, the night pressing in, the fire burning pitilessly.

The story comes fragmented. Some of us had already gone back to the Portland camp, some were lost to whiskey, some to fear and helplessness. I saw his blackened shin but his foot was only half in the light and covered in sand. At a loss, I went back to camp and fell asleep in my tent. Darci and Caitlin stayed up through the night and pouring water over his burns. Greg lay in his tent whimpering, his feet burned as well, but not so badly. Someone's cell phone and a call to 911. The Coast Guard and Search and Rescue came down through the forest on ATVs, I imagine them looking like the men searching for E.T. in the forest, all flashing lights and noise in the night. A helicopter was called and circled over the beach at sunrise, took Nathan away around six in the morning. We woke up to mangled stories and confusion. Darci's description to the dispatcher: "Nathan, earmuffs." He covered his ears. "It looks like a dead person's foot."

The happy ending to the story is that he's okay in the he-will-live sense. There are the bills for Flight for Life, the hospital stay, and skin grafts that will come later, but alive and in debt is probably better than loss of a foot to gangrene. Another positive is that it's quite probable that he will never make this exact mistake again. One can hope that his firewalking days are over; he walked and came through on the other side.

Consequences: A Drama in Three Parts, Part 2

2011-07-14T10:42:00.000-07:00

Shi Shi is epically beautiful. Rock formations, sandy beaches, a strangely diffused light similar to those scenes in movies when people think that they've died and they talk to a loved one for awhile who's all lit up and glowing and gives really great advice. We arrived, laden with heavy packs, to find real sunshine. This feels like a miracle on the Olympic Peninsula. We set up our camp, jumped in the ocean, and watched the sunset while some of Team Portland prepared dinner on an open fire.

I should probably explain how this worked. The Shi Shi Beach trip had its humble beginnings three years ago. I had been dreaming about checking out the Olympic Peninsula and brought it up with John-Robert (JR) who lives in Seattle. JR had been weaned on tales of his dad wandering around at Shi Shi Beach and we decided to follow through. The original group: Gabe, JR, Darci, Alexis and I, set out from Seattle and spent one night at Shi Shi. We loved it. We vowed to go back. Last year we expanded to two cars (one from Seattle and one from Portland) and spent two nights. Each of us were responsible for a shared meal for the group and we ate incredibly well all weekend and fell in love with food sharing. Fast forward to this year. Twenty-five people. Madness. Mayhem. We had a group coming from Portland and a group coming from Seattle, six cars, and still were attempting to plan shared meals in an organized fashion. Team Seattle did not seem as in to the idea of food sharing but this was only assumed on our part due to their lack of internet presence. There was talk of eating members of Team Seattle if things went awry.

Team Seattle had set up a camp a mile and half down the beach from where we settled. This worked out well, as there are various rules in place to preserve the pristine nature of Shi Shi. They came down to dinner and we sat around the campfire and told stories and talked. It was a modest fire. It was getting late and clouds were rolling in from the ocean when Jocelyn turned to me and said, "This makes me think of Bob."

The conversation turned to Jocelyn repeating, "Fire walk with meeeeee" in a creepy voice while I made various high-pitched noises of discomfort.

I hope you've seen Twin Peaks. It's great. Bob is basically evil incarnate and appears as this hideous grey-haired figure who appears in visions, nightmares, and mirrors. Lynch makes this character move incredibly, unnaturally fast, snapping his teeth and growling, and the whole effect is something straight out of a bad dream. Let's not make too little of this. David Lynch is the king of foreshadowing. Why this five second long still of the lacquered box on the mantle? Why close the scene with a zoom into her glassy eyes? Why would Jocelyn think of Bob? It always has meaning. You just have to pay attention.

Consequences: A Drama in Three Parts, Part 1

2011-07-13T10:12:00.000-07:00

There comes a time in everyone's life when they make a really stupid decision and have to face the consequences. For some this comes late in life, for others it comes early. I have made many stupid decisions in my day. Sometimes I have received punishment in direct measure to the crime, and other times I have managed to squeak by without measurable effect. The Fates are fickle.

The first time I truly remember being punished for my actions was when I was about four years old. We still lived at the first house I ever knew, in St. Helens. I was eating cereal for breakfast and my dad was sitting across from me at the table. I feel like he may have been reading the newspaper. I'm not sure. What I do know was that I was also drinking apple juice. I had finished my cereal and left the sugary milk in the bottom of the bowl. I didn't enjoy drinking leftover cereal milk, something my parents forced me to drink so that my bones would be the sturdy pillars of health they are today. In direct defiance, I poured my apple juice into my milk. "Look," I piped up, "I mixed them." I'm not sure what I expected. Probably a pat on the head and suggestion to go play. What I received was a steely glare.

"You will finish that." I'm sure I responded in some negating fashion. "You will finish that before you leave the table."

After many protests and the horrible realization that my dad was sticking to his guns, I took a sip. Do you know what apple juice and milk mixed together tastes like? Shit. It totally tastes like shit. I drank the whole thing.

The great thing (or perhaps the sad thing) about mistakes, is that the possibilities are endless. While I never mixed apple juice and cereal milk together again (and thankfully have never tasted that concoction since), I continue to find creative ways to do stupid things. I'm pretty sure that most people experience this unless you are so boring that you hardly do anything at all.

My friends are not boring. It is quite likely that Shi Shi Beach has never witnessed a debacle like the one it saw last weekend. We had our annual Shi Shi Beach camping trip last weekend, and while it was beautiful, joyful, and otherwise magical, not all of us escaped unscathed.

Tune in tomorrow and prepare yourself for a lot of Twin Peaks references.

How an empire is built

2011-07-12T14:52:00.000-07:00

I think you know how much I love Jeffrey Campbell shoes. They're crazy and wonderful and well-built. The creative finishes, huge platforms, and the sometimes strong resemblance to other, much more expensive designer shoes* (I would never say knock-off) means that I am constantly admiring and oftentimes purchasing yet another pair. At times my devotion to a particular pair of shoes has a resembled an odd religious fervor, even obsession. The term cult-status is not far off the mark: the popular models sell out in days and people start distributing them on Ebay at substantially raised prices; I'm not the only person who loves this brand. But like any empire, they couldn't just leave it at shoes, they had to keep building. Jeffrey Campbell is making bags now. Why not?

Of course this bag has color and fringe, the two things I like most in a bag. I'm doomed.

Summer Cover

2011-07-07T10:13:00.000-07:00

I spent a lot of time in the sun during Fourth of July weekend and it was totally glorious. Two river trips and a visit to the coast. Sun all day every day. But I burned my skin. A lot. My face, my arms, my legs, pretty much everything that was exposed. It's turning to tan now and is a necessary step of Oregon Summer but I feel a bit guilty due to things like skin cancer and wrinkles. I am going to start wearing more hats to circumvent this problem. This is my new dream hat:

It's by Stetson (so classic) and looks pretty much perfect. Cool, straw, nice straight brim (didn't you hate those janky cowboy hats with the crazy creased brims that were featured so prominently in Abercrombie and Fitch ads and photos of fratboys at Shasta? I did. I still do).

Also, I have two new obsessions:

1. I am officially obsessed with surfing. Before Fourth of July Weekend I felt like surfing was something that was kind of fun, but I was unusually daunted by the whole thing. I liked it but in a really grudging, hand-wringing kind of way. The wetsuit, the carrying of the board, the paddling, the avoiding of other people surfing, the tides, the whole thing. Sam would be giddy with joy and I would be, well, nervous mostly. But that changed. We had a sunny day out there and I felt like I was making progress and popping right up and paddling into things rather than just being pushed around. I want to go right now.

2. Watermelon juice. It's amazing! You just throw a bunch of watermelon in the blender and suddenly it's a delicious cooling juice. I drank it straight. I made alcoholic beverages with it. We used it to make melon jungle juice for a jungle juice party and won a prize. I will drink watermelon juice from now until you just can't buy watermelon anymore.

Sasquatch's Last Stand: The Journey

2011-07-06T12:52:00.000-07:00

This truly was the last year I will go to Sasquatch (though, if the perfect storm of bands were coming through, I could probably be convinced to go for a day or two. But I would be pissed about it). Anyway, things were made extra special by the attendance of one Killian McKilroy and one Bryan Davis, two old friend who hadn't been in these parts for a fair amount of time. I traveled with them up to the gorge and Killian took a bunch of photos with his sweet new camera. You can see some of them in this post. He's a good photographer. I still haven't developed my film, so at some point this summer you will see a few more stories and hear a few more tales relating to Sasquatch.

As it was, we hopped in a rental car and traveled up the mighty Columbia. The weather had been pretty crap in Portland, so it was nice to escape the rain and slowly make our way into the more sun-soaked east. It was a relatively uneventful ride. We did stop at a rest stop completely overrun with incredibly tame, obese squirrels. We stopped to watch a few people feed them Cheez-Its, marveling at the creepiness of it all and feeling mild disdain for the sort of people who would feed squirrels crackers at rest stops. I left Bryan and Killian with the people and the squirrels while I went to the bathroom. By the time I had come back the people had left and the boys had taken their place. The tables had turned. We were now the freaks holding Cheez-Its in our hands, filled with glee whenever a squirrel came close and ate a crumb out of our hands. There is video proof of this.

We eventually continued on, but not before contributing to the inevitable premature death of several squirrels by snack-food. Additional stops included Replica Stone-Hedge (worth a stop), a gas station where I purchased a neon worm toy that smelled of lemon Pledge and a toy cellular phone with a kitty/puppy hologram on it, and an abandoned house surrounded by gnarled trees straight out of Tim Burton movie. Killian picked up a tick. I thankfully did not. We rolled into Wildhorse Campground triumphantly (we did get lost for a while but not before seeing a double rainbow) and claimed our place in camp.

Surprise!

2011-07-05T12:31:00.000-07:00

Sam's birthday was last week. Specifically Thursday. I gave him a pair of desert boots. He's been dreaming of those boots for awhile now and I feel pretty great about making a dream happen. I'm like Sam's personal Make-a-Wish-Foundation. Without the cancer element. Sam has given me shoes (you may remember the Christmas Tom's booties), and I'm pleased that we're a couple that gives each other shoes. I mean, I never say no to shoes.

He had to work on Tuesday night so I began Stage 1 of an elaborate plot. There is really nothing better than an elaborate plot. It started on Tuesday. After accordion class I went home and started making icecream pie (my mom used to make this all the time, and it is always a hit). Liz came over to watch me make pie and more importantly, so that we could talk about our lives, Ayn Rand, Janeane Garofalo, and old people. I realized, once I had cookie crumbs flying all over the place, that Sam had left a note saying the plumber had finally fixed our sink and we couldn't use it. So I had to figure out a way to clean up the evidence without using water. That wasn't really possible, so I had to improvise using the bathroom sink and a lot of paper towels. There were dark chocolate cookie crumbs everywhere and random dismantled pieces of the food processor shedding evidence everywhere. Eventually we got it under control, Liz spirited the pie away and Stage 1 was complete.

Stage 2 commenced on Thursday. Sam had to work at Mulligans on Hawthorne. We gathered at a bar down the street (with the aforementioned icecream pie) and then proceeded to Mulligans in a small parade lead by me and the icecream pie. It was kind of melty and the candles were leaning, but when we busted into Mulligans singing Happy Birthday in our shrillest voices, the overall presentation could not have been better. Sam's regulars were impressed, the pie was delicious, and I think, for a workday, that Sam had a pretty decent birthday. I love orchestrating surprises. Any excuse for an icecream pie.

To Do:

2011-07-01T13:41:00.000-07:00

1. BBQ

2. Hawaiian-themed, jungle juice soaked, going-away party for Micheal and Jacquelyn

3. Skateboarding

4. Go to Sky High so that I can jump around in a trampoline room filled with like-minded adults who wish to celebrate Sam's birthday by jumping

5. Watch Buddy Guy play the guitar at the Blues Festival with my dad

6. Surfing

7. Play the color game

Have a great Fourth of July weekend!

Hell in a Handbasket

2011-06-30T10:46:00.000-07:00

I'm not all that up on popular culture in general. Those of you who make Full House, Saved by the Bell, and any number of childhood sitcom references, will be rewarded with a blank stare. I might even ask you, "Who's Stephanie Tanner?" I'm sorry. We didn't have cable. And I really, really liked cartoons.

That being said, I do read magazine covers in grocery stores, I happened to be working as a restaurant delivery phone operator in the internet cafe with big televisions on the night that Britney shaved her head (and therefore saw that CNN found it extremely newsworthy), and I occasionally glean things from Facebook (just found out that Michele Bachmann is a crazy, incompetent nutjob with nice hair).

And I am aware, somewhat, of the whole Justin Bieber thing. But look at this ad.

Could it be more unfortunate? He's so underage. What does that copy on the bottom mean? Who is the pervy older girl behind him and why is she smelling a famous child's hair? What has happened to the world? Someday this won't be so gross, but it is right now.

Delicious Oatmeal Bars

2011-06-29T09:55:00.000-07:00

How do you know you've become an adult? When you bake things and bring them to events that should be an unadulterated party. I've found myself doing exactly that lately, and am feeling a strange mix of pride and mourning for my youthful self who ate cold baked beans out of the can. It's okay. When it comes down to it, Raisin Oatmeal Bars are way better than cold baked beans.

Alexis requested this recipe after I brought these to Sasquatch and I figured I would post it here so that anyone can replicate and enjoy this treat.

The first time I made these I was in Colorado, recovering from a breakup and living by myself in the furnished apartment of my ex-boyfriend's sister. I had never lived by myself before and was really into it. I was painting and cooking a lot, mostly using this crazy slow-cook macrobiotic cookbook (The Self Healing Cookbook) that I had found in the apartment. Lucky for you, this recipe did not come from the The Self Healing Cookbook. I found this in the Summit Daily, quite possibly one of the worst newspapers in the history of the world. Anyway. Here's the recipe. I been using whole-wheat flour lately, and I think it adds to it. I also added coconut to the last batch with no ill-effect, so I would recommend adding that too, unless you hate coconut.

Raisin Oatmeal Bars

1 cup dark raisins
1 cup golden raisins (it's worth it. Don't skimp and only use dark ones)
1 14 oz. can of sweetened condensed milk
1 Tbsp lemon zest
1 Tbsp fresh lemon juice
3/4 cup grated coconut
2 sticks unsalted butter (1 cup) at room temperature
1 1/4 cups dark brown sugar
2 1/2 tsp vanilla
2 1/2 cups rolled oats (not instant)
1 cup whole wheat flour
3/4 tsp baking soda
1 cup chopped walnuts

Preheat oven to 350 degrees with rack in the center. Line a 9" by 13'' pan with foil. Let the foil hang over the sides so that you have handles when you want to pull the bars out. If foil isn't non-stick, spray or grease.

Make the raisin filling by combining the dark and golden raisins, condensed milk, lemon zest, and lemon juice in a medium saucepan. Cook over low medium heat and stir constantly until mixture thickens slightly and starts to simmer (you'll see bubbles but don't let it boil). Add coconut and mix. Remove the pan from heat and let it cool.

Make the base and topping by cutting the butter into pieces and mixing it with sugar and vanilla in a large bowl. Beat until fluffy. Add the oats, flour, baking soda, and walnuts, and stir until well mixed and crumbly.

Set aside 1 cup of the mixture for the topping. Press the rest into the baking pan. Smooth in an even layer (you can use a sheet of wax paper if it's sticking to your hands). Spoon the raisin filling over the bottom layer and spread with a spatula so that it covers the entire base. Crumble the 1 cup of topping over the filling and press down gently to keep it in place.

Place in oven and bake until the top of the bars are a deep golden brown, 25 to 35 minutes. Remove the pastry from the oven and cool on a wire rack before lifting out of the pan. Cut into 1 by 2 inch bars when you're ready to serve (they're rich). rich rich rich.

Tunnel Vision

2011-06-24T12:05:00.000-07:00

Oh my, I am excited for the weekend. I'm going up to Seattle to visit my friend Alexa. She recently returned from Australia where she got a Masters in urban planning, and in a flurry of activity, moved to Seattle for an internship. That's all exciting but the really exciting thing is that she was just offered a real job with them. Hurrah!

I won't be around this weekend, but if you're in Portland, you should most certainly go to this. That is, if you love being awesome and looking at (and possibly purchasing) awesome things.

Home Alone

2011-06-22T11:46:00.000-07:00

What do you do when you have the house to yourself?

When Sam and I moved in together I was a little worried about not having space and time to myself. But our schedules are not very congruent, and I end up having several evenings throughout the week all to myself. They're nice. I make plans with friends a lot of the time, but sometimes I just go home so I can hang out and do nothing. At least, my version of nothing:

Gardening: I use this term loosely. We have a couple garden boxes planted with tomatoes, peppers, lettuce, carrots, and peas. "Gardening" involves watering these plants and then looking at them. Seriously. I just kind of stare at them with this immense feeling of satisfaction. Sometimes I pick at a stray weed. Attempt to thin the carrots or lettuce out (My thinning attempts are pathetic because I feel bad about pulling them out). Redirect the pea plant tendrils. Mostly, I just stare at the plants. Also, I get the potting soil out and start repotting plants. Sam comes home to find random piles of dirt scattered around the garage.

Accordion: I feel like there are only certain hours in the day that I can play. Too late and your neighbors will be bummed. If I come home within the acceptable window, I play the accordion. The neighbors have been subjected to "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" lately. Lucky them.

Cook: Rare. Quite rare. But it's usually an all-evening affair and then requires an extensive amount of follow-up kitchen cleaning. I feel like cooking usually pushes the other activities to the wayside (yet another reason to avoid it), I'm all about free-time maximization.

Dance Aerobics: Sam will never see this in action. I put music on, pull my hand weights out, and I do random movements, off-the-cuff routines, various calisthenics, and muscle-building exercises. Not for the eyes of others. Sometimes I wonder if the neighbors can see me. I like to think that they can't.

Artistic Forays: Writing, drawing, painting. These things don't happen enough. I think I allocate too much time to gardening.

I'm interested. What do other people do? Is this pretty on par? I know Kyle Arthur likes to drink beer and work on websites to all hours of the night. I don't think I've ever done that.

Domesticity

2011-06-21T12:59:00.000-07:00

For those of you who think my meals consist of happy hours on patios, you are wrong. I can cook.* Mainly for special occasions such as potlucks, Sasquatch, camping trips, and of course, Father's Day. I made my dad this pie. It's strawberry rhubarb. And it was delicious. I know posting a photo of a pie is questionable. Right up there with those horrible people on Facebook who post photos and a cryptic caption of the sandwich they're about to eat. But I'm really proud of this pie.

* Sadly, not very often. I like cooking, but it's so much easier to eat carrots and peanut butter, or chips and salsa, or a burrito that I didn't make. Sam and I make breakfast together quite often, but I'm afraid he hasn't been impressed with my dinner skills. It's not that they don't exist. I think I'm just lazy.

New Bon Iver

2011-06-20T11:22:00.000-07:00

It's great and you can listen to it on NPR. Not quite as heartbreaking as For Emma, Forever Ago, but no less touching. He creates these spaces with sound that take me back to childhood, when I rode in the backs of cars and my parents would play self-recorded tapes from their favorite records, and we would wind through valleys lined with hillsides wrinkled like dropcloths, sharp aired forests, and plains studded with straw. I watched sun strike through the ponderosa pines, clouds twist on bony peaks, horses stand round backed in dry fields, broken ridged barns, hawks on wires, and daydreamed. It's nice to listen to music that reminds you when life was like that. And yes, it's nostalgia, but there's nothing wrong with remembering.

A New Contender

2011-06-15T11:12:00.000-07:00

I apologize for the lack of posts lately. I've been sick. BUT I'm back with good news. I have found a great new patio. Actually, I need to credit Jocelyn with this discovery. She lives right down the road and had already told me it was her new favorite bar. We went there for her birthday last week. I would hate to take all the credit, especially from a recent birthday girl.

Side note: I could have discovered Maui's. A few months ago, Sam and I went on an ill-fated adventure that took us past Maui's newly opened doors, but we decided to avoid the tiki theme and went straight to little Ethiopia. That turned out to be a wonderful but also unfortunate choice.

Maui's on Williams (otherwise known as Maui's)

Drinks: Cheap! Great deals! Happy hour provides you with $2 pints of microbrews.

Food: Not bad. Jocelyn hadn't eaten there yet, because she didn't want to spoil the illusion that this was her favorite new bar. Fortunately for her, the mac n' cheese was actually really tasty and it had bacon. Kyle ordered a corn dog and the mac n' cheese and I sampled both. I would eat there again.

Service: Pretty good. The bartender remembered what I had ordered when I went back for the second round. It's a small detail but aren't small details what separate the horrible bartender from the good?

Patrons: Melting pot. For once, you can hang out and pretend you don't live in the whitest city ever.

Patio: 10 points for safety: patio was covered in a thick layer of bark chips, 10 points for ample picnic table distribution, 10 points for ping pong table.

Random points for sparkle wire. We were sitting at a picnic table talking about how much we liked the patio, and then noticed that the barbed wire-topped fence had white christmas lights wrapped around it. Festive. After making various jokes and comments about this, christening it "Sparkle Wire" and basically running the conversation into the ground, Kyle Carnes piped up with, "They should put christmas lights on the barbed wire." He was sitting right next to it. He had been there for the entire conversation. "Kyle," I said, "They have." (Despite abject listening skills, Kyle is a talented photographer and has a really great blog).

Also, random points for extremely spirited game watching. There was yelling and screaming and arm waving going on when I got there. It's always nice to find a new place to watch a sports game. Because, you know, I do that all the time.

Summer Vacation

2011-06-09T14:26:00.000-07:00

Dream Vacation: A big road trip through the south, complete with a stop at Dollywood. You know, Dolly Parton's Great Smoky Mountains family amusement park. I've wanted to go there for ages. Dolly got me through a rough patch at work this morning, and I'm pretty sure this won't be the first time. Listen to her evangelizing below. She's so great.

Next stop, Voodoo Doughnuts

2011-06-08T13:10:00.000-07:00

Sam's parents are in town. They are staying with us. This initially elicited a lot of joy on Sam's side and a sense of impending doom on my side. Not because I don't like Sam's parents. I do. They're great. But I get stressed about guests. I'm not great with the whole host, showing you around town thing. Past guests of mine have been subjected to a wide variety of activities: dirtbag bar tours (began at Sandy Hut, went on to Chopsticks, ended at my bedroom floor with a bag of Doritos), late night bike rides, weird reggae shows, OMSI, jogging through the Lloyd Center, snowboarding, music festivals, Scrabble and brunch in a snowstorm, the requisite beach trip, or just visiting my parents and sitting on their deck for five hours. Basically, whatever I happened to already have planned. But you can't do that with visiting parents. You have to do fun things that they might like to do too.

I was also worried that Sam's mother would judge my housekeeping skills. I imagined her getting on the phone with friends and family and saying things like, "Oh, you will not believe the state of her pantry. Organic white beans, only one box of cereal, and a Cup o' Noodle," or "It looks like they haven't cleaned their toilet in least two days." I want to be clear. Sam's mom isn't like that. I just tend to go for worst-case-scenario in my head.

The good news is, their visit has been great so far. Sam's mom doesn't care about our pantry. We went to Multnomah Falls, we went to my parents' place in Newberg for the THE MEETING OF THE PARENTS and it was not painful or awkward, and we're having a big dinner tonight. My only complaint is the general lack of really cool attractions/tourist traps in Portland. There are a million great things about Portland, for sure, but when a doughnut shop is considered a major attraction, I feel like we have some work to do. Where is your favorite place to take visitors? I'm open to suggestions.

Summer Food

2011-06-07T14:43:00.000-07:00

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Is there anything more summery than mangos? Well, maybe popsicles. Or watermelon. There are actually a lot of foods that say summer, but there's something about mangos. The golden color, the sweetness, the sticky juice. It's like eating sunshine.

I've been eating more mangos lately, mostly because they've been on sale, even though they're kind of a pain in the ass. I mean, you always have to cut them up, and that pit is slippery, and you always end up making a mess.

Anyway, the other morning I chopped up a mango and ate half and put half in the fridge for later. I ate the other half yesterday morning for a quick breakfast. As I was popping pieces into my mouth, I realized I had gotten a little chunk of skin in there. Failure at mango cutting. I spit it out and threw it in the garbage.

Now, to preface this story, I occasionally have lip problems. My lips get horribly chapped and cracked on the edges. It hurts and is generally unpleasant. Don't worry. I won't show you photos (but you can find really extreme examples on the internet if you're inclined. Google image angular cheilitis. This one is especially great because it's all mouths). Anyway, I've been dealing with a bit of that and it bums me out.

Now yesterday evening, I realized, in addition to the regular cracking, I had these tiny blisters accumulating on my lip. Like three tiny blisters. And I was seriously freaking out. All I could think was, I've got the Herp. It didn't actually look like a cold sore, but what else could it be? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Done for.

Now, I will admit to frequent internet self-diagnosis. It's never a good idea but it's irresistible. My internet research gave me nothing but assurance that I had a herpes outbreak on my lip, and then Sam was going to have a herpes outbreak on his lip, and we were going to be one of those couples with matching lip sores. Doom.

But in my darkest hour the internet prevailed. I happened upon some crazy natural remedy forum and someone mentioned something about mango being in the same family as poison oak and ivy. What? I researched further. Yes. It is true. Mango is in the same family and its skin contains the same oil (Urushiol) that poison oak and ivy does. And if you eat it (which I did yesterday morning), and you are allergic (which I am, horribly so), then you will have a similar reaction. Which I did. Tiny little blisters. Internet and mango magic. Yes, it still sucks (though it's going away), but it's sooo much better than the herp. I think this is the first time in the history of internet self-diagnosis that I've closed my browser feeling better about my life.

Style Inspiration

2011-06-06T11:35:00.000-07:00

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I would to talk about my favorite new blog: Tomboy Style.

I love it so much. This has given me the inspiration and validation I need to accept my true style calling. Let's face it. I'm just not a girly girl. I love jeans, t-shirts, and most of all, I love flats. I like to pretend I love heels because they look great, but the truth is that I hate wearing them. They're uncomfortable. They hurt my feet. And there's no way you can make a quick getaway. I like shoes that allow me to dance, like really dance, with lots of fancy footwork, jump on a skateboard, climb trees, ride bikes, and if necessary run from the police (not that this usually happens, but I still think it's important). I didn't play with dolls or Barbies as a kid, I played in the mud. I don't think this should change just because I'm older and attempting to be mature. This blog has given me assurance that one does not have to dress like a lady to be a lady. So inspiring.

Momo's

2011-06-03T10:06:00.000-07:00

You may recall my promise to review summer beer drinking patios around town. Well, I've been shirking my duties. But not without good reason. You know when you have one of those nights that would be better left undone? The kind of night that starts with you going straight to happy hour without eating dinner? Those nights never turn out well, and I've been avoiding discussing this one, due to the unfortunate memories associated with it. However. I've put it off long enough.

Momo Bar Maximo (otherwise known as Momo's)

The Barfly review for this place is not particularly favorable:

Overpriced drinks, garish crimson interiors, crowds ranging between (weekends) scattered pockets of proto suburbanites and (weeknights) the bartender and her paramour watching The Parkers at top volume - Momo’s doesn’t exactly invite adventuring.

It goes on to mention E-dates grimacing through appetizers and C-list fratboys misplaying pool, but does recommend the magical patio in the back, a completely unexpected surprise. The patio IS totally sweet. It's like a little oasis in an otherwise typical bar often filled with bad art. I headed over to meet a crew of friends, got mildly lost and managed to drop my bike on a person in a wheelchair (yes, really). I was looking forward to a drink on that patio. But you know how Portland is in the spring. People freak out on a sunny day. The patio was totally full and there wasn't a seat to be had. We did end up taking over the picnic tables in front and then Carin befriended some Canadians on vacation who may or may not have been involved in the adult film industry. They became our new best friends and brought out a round of tequila shots. And really, it all went downhill from there.

Drinks: Strong and tasty. Avoid the strange line that happens at the bar (what is it about over-polite people in Portland standing in single file lines at bars? It kills me) and just go up to the bar. Trust me. They'll serve you.

Food: See above. I didn't really eat. But Kyle Arthur did get a chicken strip basket. It looked pretty standard.

Service: Great. The guys are always friendly, overpour the shots, and once the bartender discussed scotch with us and poured a taster just because he was a nice guy.

Patrons: Mixed bag. There is definitely a southwest crowd (overly polished, popped collars, aging greek system) but I was initially introduced to Momo's by dirtbag skater kids, so I think it's pretty variable. You are guaranteed to be cooler than at least one person there, so that's always kind of an ego boost.

Patio: As I said, the magical oasis had already been claimed by the unemployed and the 8 to 4 crowd. Next time. The sidewalk was a good consolation prize.

Random points for generous, weird Canadians. Girl was like, 'What's the deal yo? We don't want to be tourists. We want to knoooooow where to goooooo."
Jocelyn said, "I'm going to the farmer's market tomorrow. "
Canadian said, "Oh."
And the conversation died.