this is love

Love is getting up at six a.m to spend a few hours with family living outside the US, jumping a ditch, sitting in the sun and cold wind, sharing donuts and ginger beer and delicious cake, making bracelets for the fam.

teh hype

I managed to get my hands on the September British Vogue.
Interested in how Meghan Markle aka Duchess of Sussex performs as editor.
It's glossy, for sure. I haven't had time yet to settle in with it. (Although a cursory scan of the features includes a lot of the samo-samo whey-faces. Hmph.)
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For context, I do buy most of the September fashion magazines. It's the biggest issue and for me, the best deal. I look at them year after year, sometimes cutting out intriguing designs.
I added Bust to the mix this year. Loving its strong feminist messaging.

*p*r*i*d*e*

It's Pride weekend in the 206 and some friends and I went to the Trans Pride parade Friday night.
This was the biggest Trans Pride parade in Seattle history.
There were rumors that right wing groups would continue their harassment and hate. As my friend said, Hate is bullshit.
As she and I waited at light rail for the others to catch up, we witnessed a stream of marchers exiting Cal Anderson, on their way to line up for the march. It was a giddy assortment of folks, some with signs, some in costume or festive garb, others simply showing up in street clothes, as themselves.
Across the street at the construction site, the workers in their reflective vests and helmets had apparently just gotten off work and stood behind the chain link fence, watching in quiet fascination (I hope).
Worlds peacefully collided for a moment.
Later, as I stood on the curb cheering and chanting as the marchers went by, I saw many expressions reflected on the passing faces: pride, happiness, surprise, defiance, and maybe caution.
It takes a lot of courage to stand up and march.

tiredly happy happily tired

Just returning from a couple of days' staycation.
A restorative 48 hours.
Friends and beach time and bar-hopping in a couple of old-school neighborhoods.
Now, back at it.
"It."

Today, yes

I woke up to an e-mail saying yes.
It was a magazine editor I respect, happily accepting a story I had submitted.
Not on the first try.
Not on the first edit, or even the tenth.
So for a moment I forget the hard week.
Today, yes.

welcome, Stranger

Today we congratulate The Stranger, Seattle's sort-of alt-weekly free newspaper, for putting down the vape and recognizing the Seattle hip-hop scene. To sum up the thoughts of myself and pretty much everyone with aural awareness in the 206, we been knowing this.
Still, nice to see a little hometown love for artists I have been keeping an ear on including Parisalexa and Kung Foo Grip.
New-ish to me was Travis Thompson, who just signed with Epic Records.



And the delightful Chong the Nomad!

how do i

It's been a 3-rejection week.
Even for me, that's a lot of no's.
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I've been submitting a particular story draft weekly for months. The narrative felt ready. Even as I submit, I continue revising, all the while maintaining the heart of the story. I've found a thread, I think, and shaped the ending to provide satisfaction for the reader (if not a lot of personal growth for the somewhat unlikable main character).
*
And yet, still: three no's in a week.
That's roughly one no every three days.
That's .42 no's daily.
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It's been a lot of no lately.
Job-wise.
Second job-wise.
Writing-wise.
I know I'll keep going, I always do, but maybe I need a break.
A change is as good as a rest, they say.
*
I'm not quite sure who "they" are.
How do I carry on?

the motivation

I'm always always always thinking about how I'm spending my time.
Self care is of primary importance these days, n'est pas?
But creating is part of the way I care for my self, and I seem to never have enough time to create.
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See what I wrote there? "I seem to never have enough time."
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Why is that?
I have the same 24 hours a day as everybody else.
Deduct work (9.5 hours/day), commute (1 hour), sleep (8ish) and getting out of bed/getting into bed (1ish) and that equals about 19.5 hours of a 24 hour day.
How do I account for the other 4.5 hours per day?
Good question.
*
I'm also working a part time job (4 to 5 hours a week) and a couple of volunteer jobs (4 to 5 hours a month) which eat up some of those hours.
FOMO is real and I have a hard time saying no to happy hours, art walks, friend hangouts, shows, and so on and so such.
Not to mention, the fella in my life and the time I get to spend with family.
These things are important though and contribute overall to my happiness and my fulfillment as a creative person and functioning human being, so they must be allowed, or even encouraged.
*
I'm thinking I need to reduce some of the working hours. I'm a half-hearted capitalist at best. Why should I waste more and more years toiling for the Man (even if my employer is led by a lesbian immigrant) when I could be spending time on me, mine, and my imagination?
*
This article about women writers over forty inspires me today.

puppers

It was a weekend of family. Our matriarch turned 97 and her health is failing.
She is a magnificent lady and despite her physical ailments, retains a sharp wit and keen memory.
While my sisters paid her a visit, I hung out with younger fam and 2 delightful pups.
One has my heart completely. She is the alpha, a worrier, a champ, and an absolute sweetheart.
She too is getting creaky in her elder years but still has a way of laying her chin on your knee, or flashing you a look, and you feel dog love.

presshuh

Boy this past week has tested me. World events notwithstanding--I moved apartments, dealing with surly landlords and malfunctioning doors and a moody elevator. Who needs a gym membership when you spend days schlepping boxes and art and all the freezer stuff down five flights of stairs, hustle it all into a Zipcar, then schlep it all back up 2 more flights of stairs. Then hurry to return the car on time. But, I've cleaned and Goodwilled and the moving boxes were picked up and c'est finis--I'm out of the old and into the new!
Add to this the happy circumstance of 2 different sets of visiting friends plus a 206 friend's birthday celebration, and stick a fork in me, I'm happy but dunzo.
*
Speaking of pressure, here's a delightful throwback: Flight of the Conchords' "Inner City Pressure."

heat dazed

We are apparently at that time of the 206 summer where it is going to be 85 to 95 degrees every day. We've gone beyond hot to crispy.
The lack of air conditioning means my apartment is uninhabitable from 2pm to 8pm daily.
And it's still only July.
*
So, I've been socializing a lot.
Friends' birthday gathering on Monday (not super veg friendly so I ate 2 orders of potatoes).
Tuesday night BBQ.
Wednesday trivia with pals.
Thursday hh in air conditioned comfort.
Friday a random Clinton Fearon sighting and ramble through Volunteer Park.
Today a block party and hopefully some shade.
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First though, writing, creating, contemplating.

silly weekend music

Three words summing up the past three days.
A buddy and I volunteered at CHBP on Friday in order to earn a free Saturday pass. We showed up around 7.30, and after seven or so minutes of training/"shadowing," we spent the next three hours scanning tickets and handing out wristbands. The line stretched all the way around the block, past Molly Moon and quite possibly out to Broadway, until nearly 10.30pm. The crowd was mostly cheerful, save for the occasional scammer and two very drunk people, and I must say the people-watching and eavesdropping were stellar: enough booty shorts and bra tops to populate the rest of 2018's rap videos, and lots of excited young cuties. Pro tip for the guys--stop clenching your hand into a fist while I try to slide on the wrist-band. It's weird and wastes everybody's time.
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Saturday we showed up with our free (sorta) wristbands, feeling zero pressure to get our moneys' worth, but also feeling about two decades too old for most of the bands. Holing up at Cha Cha and the other 21-and-over venues seemed like a good bet, although I did get to check out Parisalexa at Vera. Other highlights: a bluesy kind of artist (Kylie Nelson) at Barboza (her band was toight!) and punk rockers Pink Parts -- I managed to hear about three of their songs and def want to see them again.
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Today I enjoyed this video: Can I Get a Box? Lordy.

state of confusion

I've been feeling confused lately, and as much as I like to think I embrace it (hi George Saunders), the truth is--sometimes all the confusion is tiring.
I may have to move house, due to arson.
My job is meh, made more so daily by petty tyrants.
My city has somehow morphed from a rainy, arty backwater into a hot property. No more Ballard drivers. Now you dive out of the way of whatever sporty BMW needs to roar past you (only to screech to a halt at the next traffic jam).
And my country...this wonderfully delusional cesspool hijacked by criminal grifters and lowlifes--what more is there to say?
Confusion into creativity, straw into gold.
I know it can happen, I just need to take the time.
Make the time.

city lyfe

It's been an odd forty-eight hours.
I caught a bus to West Seattle Wednesday evening during a cold winter downpour. The bus smelled like ass and was maybe 3/4 full. It cleared out downtown, and some of the swamp crotch smell departed with one de-busing guy at 3rd and Pine. Down towards Main Street, a guy got on and cracked a PBR at the other end of our bench seat. Against the law, Metro frowns on it, but who am I to judge? He wasn't bothering anyone. Two more guys got on by the stadiums, with bulky bags, from which they proceeded to withdraw knives. A dozen at least, most in store packaging, with menacing blades. By the time we hit the West Seattle Bridge I was in full-on panic. The guy nearest me, still wearing sunglasses at 7pm, was demonstrating his best stabbing motions, with a knife in each hand. I tried to breathe and stay calm. Around me, other passengers were casting wary glances. When my stop came, I got up and walked between the two knuckleheads, who very politely said "Excuse us," and temporarily stopped with the stabby-stabby.
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Later that evening I somehow grabbed a buddy's debit card, as we were settling up after Talarico's trivia. Unfortunately, I didn't discover the error til the next morning, when the ATM I was at kept asking me to re-enter my PIN. As a bonus, my buddy didn't notice it either. He even bought coffee with my card. I hope he didn't leave an exorbitant tip. We realized the error and made a swap yesterday afternoon.
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While I waited for my bus Thursday morning near Seattle Center, the sweetest little robin perched at a tree outside Agave restaurant and tweeted its heart out. What a delightful sound.
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And speaking of non-delightful sounds, I went for a massage after work. The massage therapist was great--the jaw massage changed my life--but her sound machine crapped out about 10 minutes in. Instead of restful gongs and birdsong, we spent the next 40 minutes listening to the hustle and bustle of east Pine Street--bro's congregating and talking on the corner, car engines revving, clomping boot-steps, a crying child. I tried to summon some mental white noise and tune out, just for a few moments, the late afternoon aural gyrations.

3 in 1 (night)

Some friends gave me and a pal tickets to see Gramatik at the Showbox. I'd seen him once before in Austin (opening for STS9). This show was all-ages and completely sold out, and the crowd ranged from baby-ravers to head-nodding bro's to all-out-dancing super fans. The light show was fun, and the beats solid but a little herky jerky. I left longing for more of a groove.
However, this being Seattle, the show was book-ended by two more random but no less entertaining musical experiences.
Beforehand, over PBRs at the Blarney Stone, we enjoyed checking out an energetic guy with a guitar, keyboard and some kind of auto-tune, throwing himself body and soul into covers from Kool and the Gang to Daft Punk.
Afterward, we tried to get into the Baltic Room (still a $10 cover at 12.30am--c'mon), then Sugar Hill (only $5 but looked lame), finally landing at the Crescent. No cover and karaoke in full swing, hosted by Vivien Gabor in full-on lemon yellow drag finery.

regulars

Stress about work, life, the state of the world all got me feeling like I'm carrying around a backpack full of wet towels. The little things seem big and the big things seem unbearable.
One little thing I'm taking pleasure from right now is being a regular.
I'm familiar at a few coffee shops around town. There's of course the undeniable pleasure of not having to place an order. But there's also the chit-chat, the confidences, the catching-up.
The day after the election shat out its final turd (or did it?), I limped into the coffee place near work. The barista proudly wore a t-shirt depicting her native Switzerland. She offered sympathy along with my coffee and bagel. The next guy in line said he was Canadian and would take any of us who wanted to leave.
Most weekends I pop into a Fremont spot, where the morning barista is also a video stylist for a major Seattle rapper. I look forward to her hairstyle, her clothes, her attitude, her stories--including rocking at a metal show in Tacoma with her brother, and how a colleague came in to work on no sleep and a lot of whisky (our conclusion: keep rolling with whisky, or complete hydration/catnap therapy).
I have good friends and family and this extended circle of welcoming establishments is a salve, a tonic, a haven. It feels good. 

choco holick

Perugina Luisa.
Heard of it? Better yet, tasted it?
This was my absolute favorite chocolate bar when I was a teenager. And I ate a lot of chocolate. The word chocoholic does not even come close. My sister and I were legit connoisseurs. We bought imported bars, mostly, tasted and wrote notes and kept a folder holding the wrappers. I re-discovered the folder this week, as I was cleaning out a closet.
Noted in pencil on the front: 107. We sampled 107 bars of chocolate!
And I'm not talking Hershey's, or any other American chocolate, although there are some vintage Ghirardelli wrappers in there, the label funky and with a 70's vibe, complete with phonetic pronunciation.
Perugina Luisa, tho.
Italian chocolate, smooth and round in flavor, with notes of vanilla and barky darkness. It was a thicker bar, too, a real chunk. I don't think they make it anymore (although maybe?).
I leafed through the stack and found other gems--tiny wrappers of German chocolates, telling the story of Rotkäppchen (Red Riding Hood). One from Expo '86 in Vancouver, made in Israel. Several from Callebaut, still a favorite. Droste bars, labeled in determined fonts. I've dallied with other chocolatiers--La Maison du Chocolat, notably. A particularly luscious French bar made by Bonnat. Theo's, from just down the street, is admirable.
Chocolate was my passion, back then. A hobby that combined treats and imagination and travel. A way to escape an anxious life, to go somewhere else, if only via my tastebuds.

more from the coast

Living in this city has become so stressful. I was crossing the street at the gnarly intersection near my apartment this morning and a cab nearly ran me down, despite the presence of a red light and a very large illuminated "No Right On Red" sign. I did the old palms-up I'm-exasperated gesture as the cabdriver slammed on the brakes and gestured I'm-sorry. However, the front-seat passenger screamed out the window, Calm down and shut the fuck up, at least you didn't get hit.
!!
Seriously. At 9.45am this hillbilly in a tank top and goatee, squished into an Eastside Cab with 3 fat-faced bro's in the back, is going to scream at me in a crosswalk in my own neighborhood?
So I screamed back, No, you shut the fuck up as they proceeded up the hill.
Witty repartee, I know.
I wish I'd had a better comeback.
I wish my town wasn't being overrun with classless mouth-breathers.
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On a more peaceful note, here are more pictures from Crescent Beach last week. Everywhere you look, shady nooks made of rocks and flowers and plants and water. Delicious for the soul.

change is change

I spent a few days on the coast this week with my favorite 13-year-old. She helped me clean out the trailer my Mom found for me a dozen plus years ago. The Majorca has done well but her floors are saggy and the seams are showing. It's probably time to say good-bye. Which I'm having a tough time doing. We spent a few hours packing up the accumulated stuff--found and claimed a plaid shirt that belonged to my Mom, sent some stuff to Goodwill, recycled a bunch, kept a little bit. Now all that's left is to find a new home. I'm not sure I'm ready.
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We also had adventures:

• met up with some tree guys to get fallen cedars and ailing cherry trees seen to
• spent hours beachcombing at Crescent Beach, witnessed a massive dead seal, countless tidepools teeming with tiny crabs, pink and green anemone, one jellyfish, and countless mussels, barnacles and limpets. It was the best kind of afternoon..
• got a scare when we wandered through the shadowy tunnels of Camp Hayden--suddenly alone with a strange person in a rental car, we joined hands and ran flat-out and shrieking to safety
• ate greasy spoon breakfasts and yummy Mexican food and a bagful of mango cheeks and boxes of strawberries and jolts of caffeine

now I'm home, running around to a grad party and tomorrow, the Pride parade
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Summer is upon me, suddenly. Nothing feels as usual. Change is change and it's happening.

a balm for a weary soul

On such a terrible news day, I spent some time looking at abstract art.
We must find calm, courage, and peace, somehow.