Hibernation

Bad weather is great for my self discipline. Since the beginning of the year, I’ve been in a state of social hibernation — staying home, growing a big, fuzzy beard, typing alone all day long. January always seems to go that way. It’s like a decompression period after the eating, drinking, shopping, and parties over the holidays. Plus, it’s gross outside, and nobody wants to leave the house.

I’ve been getting a lot done lately, and on Sunday, I was even inspired (or bored) enough to sew together the fabric for some quilt squares that have been sitting around for months. I’m amazed at how much they look like the “sketch” I did on my computer.

 Denim quilt squares arranged on the floor

 My digital “sketch” of how I thought the quilt would look

My roommate Becca commented that it’s a very “manly quilt.” I questioned whether there actually was such a thing. (If you care to, you can read more about this project here.)

In a desperate attempt to get something vaguely like exercise, I went for a walk yesterday with my friend Mike, and I explained to him how I intended to officially end my hibernation on February 1st. I’d shave my beard and start socializing again. He couldn’t resist making fun of me.

“Oh, you’re so goodlooking that you have to grow a beard to get guys to stop hitting on you? ‘I must hide my beauty to get all these men to leave me alone! I’m so pretty I must cover my face.’”

I think he was just projecting. In any case, he can bite me.

So yeah, February 1st. It seems a little early to come out of my cave. Winter is far from over. But there are big fat flower buds on the Camelia in front of the house, and the tips of the Daffodils are poking out of the ground. Spring is right around the corner.

Happy Monday - Happy Winter

Every Monday I post photos of guys smiling. This morning we had a dusting of snow on the ground, which means I really have no choice but to post all shirtless guys. That’s in the WordPress user agreement somewhere. Seriously, you can look it up.

You Are Beautiful

You’ve seen the stickers. Now see the website.

 Portland

 Philadelphia

If you send them a self-addressed, stamped envelope, they’ll mail you stickers for free. Be the first on your block. Or the tenth. Whatever.

Slug Nation

Yesterday was freakishly clear and lovely. It had been sunny for days, but the winds out of the gorge made leaving the house a misery. Yesterday, though, it was still and pleasantly brisk, and I took a walk up Mount Tabor to enjoy the sunset.

 Sunset over Mount Tabor resevoir

Last year at this time we also had long stretches of sun and of the biting cold that comes with it. Portland legend has it that the rain begins around October and doesn’t stop until the 5th of July, and that’s roughly correct. Still, when I moved here, I was surprised by how many clear days there actually are over the dark seasons. Now I think of January as the one real month of winter. If it’s going to snow, if the temperate drizzle is going to subside at all and give way to a hard freeze, it’ll happen in January. The winds blow away the clouds, and we shiver under blue skies.

 Yesterday evening, blue sky. Mount Tabor.

You’d think that as grim and surly as people get in this town that they would welcome the sun, and they do give it lip service. “What a beautiful day; it couldn’t have been more perfect,” they’ll say, then in the next breath add, “but I wouldn’t mind getting some more rain.” If it’s nice long enough, they’ll complain outright.

Last year at this time, I got the feeling that people were positively oppressed by the brightness. I secretly felt that way myself, and I remember clearly that when the incessant gray drizzle closed in again, the streets were once more full of cheerful hooded walkers. They had been hiding under rocks or something. I thought to myself that we’re all like slugs here; we hide away from the sun and the heat and the cold and then slither back out in the cool damp to stroll around and nibble on greens.

Today was completely different from yesterday. The sky was a flat and even white; the light was gray and diffuse. Rain fell slowly but steadily and dripped from the bare branches. It was a day made for melancholy introspection, for remembering, for quiet work in a dim room. And I was very happy to see it come and sad to see it go.

 Today, same time, white sky. Crows shrugging off the wet in bare trees.

I remember a few years ago visiting my parents over the holidays. They live in Georgia, which is at roughly the same lattitude as Morocco, and the sun blazed incessantly. On the plane ride home, we landed in both Phoenix and Las Vegas — desert cities. Sharp light glinted off the casinos and cast hard shadows around the tarmac workers. Rays flashed and bounced off of car windshields and burned orange on the dry ground. It was all inescapable brightness.

Aloft over northern Nevada, we watched Lake Tahoe, beautiful and cold, pass on the left. All of a sudden, as though we had reached some unmarked border, we passed a line of clouds that entirely obscured the ground like a heavy carpet. We must’ve crossed over into Oregon, I thought to myself.

The light on the clouds was the whitest white. The horizons were infinite, and it was hard to believe when the pilot said we were circling the city and waiting to land. Gradually we descended into the clouds, and as we sank in it got dimmer and grayer all the way. Down, down, down, and then suddenly we dropped out of the bottom almost on the ground. In just moments we had landed, and all around us was finally visible the dinge and steam and wet and grime of a black Portland winter. That nuclear sun was right above us; but it felt as though we had tumbled into some sort of Dickensian industrial hell.

A woman the row ahead watched intently out of her window, just like me. Rolling down the runway to our gate she sat upright and turned to her companion. “Ahhhhhh,” she sighed with obvious relief, “…moisture.”

Temple of Music

Last Saturday, in the early morning, I rode my bike through a light drizzle to far Northeast Portland. I was weighted with the responsibility of being quite possibly the most important person on a video shoot that day. I was going to be the Assistant Director of a music video for a Portland band called the Babydollars.

We were filming at Babydollars International HQ, which also just happens to be Ralf the drummer’s house. The first thing I noticed when I walked into the living room was the guitar — or actually, the guitars, plural. I had to snap a picture. In the photo above, you can see three guitars, a banjo, a Ukelele, an autoharp, a pair of claves, a pair of maracas, two pairs of bongos, a tamborine, and a conga drum. There are two people in the band.

 Toussaint DJ’s. Nice butt cleavage, T.

In the other corner of this same room, there was the stereo with a turntable (of course), sitting on shelves of actual record albums (of course). Toussaint, the other band member, also lives in the house. From the time I got there until I left after dinner, he DJ’ed the entire day. After a song or two, he’d get up quite unobtrusively and put on another completely different record. It seemed to be a deeply ingrained habit.

 Toussaint plays between takes

While he sat around the “set” between takes, waiting to do something, he would instinctively pick up whatever instrument was at hand and play it quietly. So throughout the day I heard him on all the guitars and the banjo too. There was never a moment without music.

 Andy and Travis taping in the basement studio

It was when we walked downstairs to shoot in the basement that I was truly wowed. Not only was there a drum set, but more guitars, several thousand amps, an infinity of mike stands, and at least five of everything you could ever want if you were in a band. Literally, I saw it all and said, “Wow.” And again, this is all for two guys. I was totally impressed; I always am by people who are serious about what they do.

Ralf told me they wanted a second drum set, and when I asked why, he seemed genuinely confused by my question. He and Toussaint gave each other uncomfortable looks, and both tried to answer.

“Uhhh… in case… somebody wants to… uhhhhhh… in case we want to, like… play drums at the same time.”

“Why,” I asked again, and this time they were truly nonplussed. Why would anybody not want to play drums at the same time?!?

 The sparkler scene. Crew at left, cast at right, groupie in the middle

After we had, ahem, wrapped for the day — that’s what us folks in the biz say when we’re done, kids — so anyway, after we had wrapped, Andy fed us all a giant, cheesy homemade lasagna. It was delicious, and he was justifiably proud. Andy’s minor duties as director left him plenty of time for craft services, his true calling.

Luckily, I didn’t have to ride home in the dark and rain. Ralf and Toussaint were nice enough to throw my bike in the truck and drop me off. They were on their way to see a live show, of course. Flamenco. They just had to get as much music as possible in every day.

Chair Whore

I am the proud owner of 18 chairs and one stool. How did this happen?

 Almost all my chairs

Some people take home mangy stray dogs; I take home broken chairs. Every one I own needs some kind of repair, and I’ll get to it someday. A couple of weeks ago, my roommate Becca bought a house and told us she would be moving. That meant I might have to move too since everything is in her name. Nonetheless, when I walked home from the grocery store the next day, I picked up another old chair somebody had put out with the garbage. I couldn’t resist; it had genuine leather. (It’s the modern one above. Top row, second from left. Black and chrome.)

I can only imagine how many of the sad old things I’d own if it weren’t for Burning Chair, my annual Labor Day celebration. This year, five were sacrificed. They were the ugliest ones or most unfixable, which makes me feel a bit like I’m casting out the weak members of the tribe or abandoning my sickly grandmother on an ice floe.

 Little white chair after years decorating the front yard…

 … it had to be put out of its misery.

I’m going to stay in our house after all, but I have been surprisingly busy lately fixing my chairs. It’s like I want them to be presentable for the new roommates. I want people to think they’re cute, to see that they’re perfectly good. I’ve gotten kind of attached to my little flock, you see; I don’t want to part with any of them. I feel responsible, and if I don’t take care of them, who will?