But for now emotional ties, they stay severed...
As is par for the course, I've been remiss in posting.
Mostly, of late, I've been a gadabout.
Finally got myself up to see Canada.
The drive both ways was lovely, even if Tyler didn't have the car he'd prefer to drive.
Outside of Seattle everything turns rural with surprising quickness, and it wasn't long before long that I saw my first real life log flotilla. Aside from that, the trip to the border was marked with many a sign which made Tyler and I giggle. Next time we go, Chuck will have to come, so we can take his picture by the sign noting the Chuckanut Junction.
Strangely I had a more pleasant time getting my passport (from a friendly and helpful government worker, who I can only assume was drinking from the government mandated prozac watercooler) than I did dealing with the Canadian border guard. When she asked where we were from (Seattle) and where we were going (Vancouver) she asked in a snotty manner if we thought those were acceptable answers. I guess she wanted neighborhoods? Street addresses? Longitude and Latitude?
Once across I found that despite what I hear on the news, signs in the metric system did not begin to erode my basic freedoms.
Eroding my sanity, however, were some of the worst drivers that I had ever seen (it was later explained that Canadians are too polite to yell at bad drivers, hence the epidemic of road stupidity), compounded with trying to find Bill's place with the assistance of the lying whore which is Google Maps.
After locating Bill's strangely ascetic studio apartment, and admiring his chocolate milk chalice, we got coffee. I think. There was a lot of coffee had during the day and a half, so please find it safe to assume that in the moments not detailed, we were picking, roasting, grinding, or drinking coffee.
That night we walked across the bridge into downtown Vancouver to see The Heartless Bastards and The Gaslight Anthem play. The cityscape was very green and gray, and we got to admire entire swaths of the city which were being bulldozed and remodeled for the upcoming Olympics.
First we stopped at a hipster cafe, had dinner, and admired the artwork - the most notable of which was a mobile of sorts adorned with a man's shirt. The music playing was intriguing, and the waitress was kind enough to write down the name of the band. Later I would find that, according to wikipedia, the musician named is a convicted sex offender and paedophile. Oh, Canada.
At said cafe, the drink turned from coffee to gin and tonics, which I've found Tyler has inflicted me with an unfortunate appreciation of.
The show was at a very nice venue, which Bill informed us several times was the place he saw Tom Waits play, causing Tyler to explain to him that the more he brought this up, the likelihood of Tyler and I devouring his brain in the hopes of gaining his memories would increase.
The Heartless Bastards were, I think, the better of the two acts. Lead singer seems to have cribbed her notes from a bit of P.J. Harvey, and their drummer was dead on. The Gaslight Anthem clearly had a blast playing, and as they were from Jersey, I was hoping for them to cover Springsteen's cover of Tom Wait's Jersey Girl, but strangely the only cover they did in full was Petty's American Girl. Strange choice for a show in Vancouver, but it worked. They also wove a verse from Downtown Train and Stand By Me into the last song of the night.
Back at Bill's place, I slept hanging off a couch that was too small to encompass me, while Tyler hid down the hall from my snoring.
The next morning we head back after bagels and coffee. No Gin.
Now I'm wondering if there's some sort of horrible Gin-Coffee hybridized bastard of a drink.
Many hours were spent waiting to get back into America. I have no idea why those lines take longer, but I consoled myself by tormenting Tyler with odd musical selections.
Spent a day in Portland as well, for Derrick and Skick's housewarming.
This time Tyler had his car back from the shop, and he decided to celebrate by cramming Michelle in behind me.
The drive down was marked by a very bored Michelle, whom I think was bothered by our lack of conversation, and the drive being old hat to her. Which is unusual, given how chatty I usually am.
There were inexplicable slowdowns in the Fife/Tacoma area, and enough RV sale lots that I began to think we should invent a drinking game based upon RV lots.
Tyler began relating the time he drove down to Portland in the snow to visit Bruce and Sarah, and I really can't imagine making that drive. Partly because parts of that road seem made to drive at 100+ mph.
Michelle kindly pointed out the sections of Washington you don't want to stop in (which seemed to be most of them), and evidenced them by the crazy billboards by these towns.
One billboard was by an RV lot (those of you reading along at home should take a shot now) and decried taxation.
Another was a back to back set. The one readable while driving to Portland read "The wages of sin are death" and the other, visible while driving back to Seattle had a portmanteau of bible verses, one flowing into the other.
We hit town and proceeded to grab dinner with Skick, Derrick, Chris, and Hillary at a Zodiac themed cafe, where a mildly talented local band drove me up the wall. The sonic assault was ameliorated by Skick ordering one of the oddest sandwiches I'd ever taken a bite of: turkey, cream cheese, and apple chutney.
We crash, and Tyler and Michelle were wise enough to bring earplugs.
The next day we wander along the Portland waterfront, the vibe of which reminded me a great deal of Santa Barbara, only with superstructures, and started hitting the pubs at 11. Alcoholics? Maybe.
The rest of the afternoon was spent wandering around Portland, periodically stopping for a beer, and taking in the sights.
We meandered through the Saturday market/festival thingy, where a retarded man dressed as Elvis played for the crowds, and stopped at a second bar where good waitress would come out to the patio from one door, while the bad one would exit from the other, neither ever to be seen at the same time.
I demanded Powell's and found that in the hour or so that we were there, I hadn't been there nearly long enough. I was strangely confounded when I attempted to buy an early X-Mas present or two. I did manage to find (well, Skick found, when I told her I was looking for them) a book of madlibs for Michelle, so that she would be more entertained on the drive back.
The afternoon of eating and drinking came to a close when we got back to Derrick and Skick's place for an evening of drinking and eating.
Their place is very nice, marred only by a lunatic downstairs neighbor. A dogsitter, he has decorated the downstairs patio with children's toys, including several bikes. He has no children. I have no idea how the dogs use the bikes. A skateboard, I could see, but trikes? Really?
The sounding of his lunacy could be based on the frequency with which he leaf-blew the back patio, presumably upset at the number of people upstairs (10 or so). There were no leaves. There might have been some loose gravel.
The family recipe for margaritas was broken out, and seemed to be a hit, though the blender was a littler smaller than I was expecting, which may have led to the mix being a bit too strong. People seemed to enjoy them, though.
Dinner was capped off with more drinks and Catchphrase. I used to think I was a little too intense about the game. I was surpassed by leaps and bounds that night, which makes me feel a bit less of an asshole.
The next morning, we go to brunch, and sip tropical drinks while the cafe plays Rage Against the Machine. Nothing eases a hangover like unintentional hypocrisy.
I have trouble keeping awake on the drive back. Michelle pulls out the madlibs, which seem to have lost some of their humor value since I was... 12?
Get home, collapse.
Apologies for not dropping a line to ya, Bruce, but we were only in town for a short while, and we were expecting to see you soon in Seattle.
Strangely enough both trips were similar in the frequency of trees and David Bowie.
Aside from that, of late I've been feeling more a neurotic mess than usual, though I can never tell if I'm acting like it. Same sort of issue I have with discerning between being zen and apathetic.
I would have also sworn that I used to be more articulate and witty. I think that's compounded by my work currently having me write letters, and their surprise at my capacity for word-thingies. Hell, two months or so ago a casual acquaintance looked at me like he had never seen me before and exclaimed "you really do have a way with words."
Maybe I'm just being neurotic. Maybe.
Watched Suspiria the other night, and while the sound and visuals were phenomenal, the plot was a wee bit on the silly side, and I couldn't stop giggling when Udo Kier delivered the line: "She founded a sort of school of dance, and the occult sciences."
"I thought she couldn't get any hotter, and then she strapped on an accordion."
Saw TheRed Elvises at the Tractor Tavern in Ballard Saturday night.
The show was a hell of a lot of fun, culminating in their song "Sad Cowboy Song" where the audience formed a conga line at the instruction of the lead singer "because that's what real cowboys do." Midway through the song, it kicked into what has to be the best drum solo I'd ever seen, mostly because it consisted of the entire band abandoning their instruments, taking up drum sticks, surrounding the drummer, and taking turns whaling on his kit.
They also had a brief intermission, in which it was explained that they had stuff for sale at the door: the usual t-shirts, cd's and whatnot, but also condoms. I assumed they were fucking with us, but low and behold, they had branded condoms. I bought one as a gift for royalcrown as I can only imagine that they're made from the rubber of decommissioned kosmonaut suits, and ribbed for her pleasure with the hammer and sickle. You can pick it up next time you're in Seattle, as long as you promise to shout "for the motherland" when you use it on Jamie.
...when there's trust there'll be treats...
Mostly, of late, I've been a gadabout.
Finally got myself up to see Canada.
The drive both ways was lovely, even if Tyler didn't have the car he'd prefer to drive.
Outside of Seattle everything turns rural with surprising quickness, and it wasn't long before long that I saw my first real life log flotilla. Aside from that, the trip to the border was marked with many a sign which made Tyler and I giggle. Next time we go, Chuck will have to come, so we can take his picture by the sign noting the Chuckanut Junction.
Strangely I had a more pleasant time getting my passport (from a friendly and helpful government worker, who I can only assume was drinking from the government mandated prozac watercooler) than I did dealing with the Canadian border guard. When she asked where we were from (Seattle) and where we were going (Vancouver) she asked in a snotty manner if we thought those were acceptable answers. I guess she wanted neighborhoods? Street addresses? Longitude and Latitude?
Once across I found that despite what I hear on the news, signs in the metric system did not begin to erode my basic freedoms.
Eroding my sanity, however, were some of the worst drivers that I had ever seen (it was later explained that Canadians are too polite to yell at bad drivers, hence the epidemic of road stupidity), compounded with trying to find Bill's place with the assistance of the lying whore which is Google Maps.
After locating Bill's strangely ascetic studio apartment, and admiring his chocolate milk chalice, we got coffee. I think. There was a lot of coffee had during the day and a half, so please find it safe to assume that in the moments not detailed, we were picking, roasting, grinding, or drinking coffee.
That night we walked across the bridge into downtown Vancouver to see The Heartless Bastards and The Gaslight Anthem play. The cityscape was very green and gray, and we got to admire entire swaths of the city which were being bulldozed and remodeled for the upcoming Olympics.
First we stopped at a hipster cafe, had dinner, and admired the artwork - the most notable of which was a mobile of sorts adorned with a man's shirt. The music playing was intriguing, and the waitress was kind enough to write down the name of the band. Later I would find that, according to wikipedia, the musician named is a convicted sex offender and paedophile. Oh, Canada.
At said cafe, the drink turned from coffee to gin and tonics, which I've found Tyler has inflicted me with an unfortunate appreciation of.
The show was at a very nice venue, which Bill informed us several times was the place he saw Tom Waits play, causing Tyler to explain to him that the more he brought this up, the likelihood of Tyler and I devouring his brain in the hopes of gaining his memories would increase.
The Heartless Bastards were, I think, the better of the two acts. Lead singer seems to have cribbed her notes from a bit of P.J. Harvey, and their drummer was dead on. The Gaslight Anthem clearly had a blast playing, and as they were from Jersey, I was hoping for them to cover Springsteen's cover of Tom Wait's Jersey Girl, but strangely the only cover they did in full was Petty's American Girl. Strange choice for a show in Vancouver, but it worked. They also wove a verse from Downtown Train and Stand By Me into the last song of the night.
Back at Bill's place, I slept hanging off a couch that was too small to encompass me, while Tyler hid down the hall from my snoring.
The next morning we head back after bagels and coffee. No Gin.
Now I'm wondering if there's some sort of horrible Gin-Coffee hybridized bastard of a drink.
Many hours were spent waiting to get back into America. I have no idea why those lines take longer, but I consoled myself by tormenting Tyler with odd musical selections.
Spent a day in Portland as well, for Derrick and Skick's housewarming.
This time Tyler had his car back from the shop, and he decided to celebrate by cramming Michelle in behind me.
The drive down was marked by a very bored Michelle, whom I think was bothered by our lack of conversation, and the drive being old hat to her. Which is unusual, given how chatty I usually am.
There were inexplicable slowdowns in the Fife/Tacoma area, and enough RV sale lots that I began to think we should invent a drinking game based upon RV lots.
Tyler began relating the time he drove down to Portland in the snow to visit Bruce and Sarah, and I really can't imagine making that drive. Partly because parts of that road seem made to drive at 100+ mph.
Michelle kindly pointed out the sections of Washington you don't want to stop in (which seemed to be most of them), and evidenced them by the crazy billboards by these towns.
One billboard was by an RV lot (those of you reading along at home should take a shot now) and decried taxation.
Another was a back to back set. The one readable while driving to Portland read "The wages of sin are death" and the other, visible while driving back to Seattle had a portmanteau of bible verses, one flowing into the other.
We hit town and proceeded to grab dinner with Skick, Derrick, Chris, and Hillary at a Zodiac themed cafe, where a mildly talented local band drove me up the wall. The sonic assault was ameliorated by Skick ordering one of the oddest sandwiches I'd ever taken a bite of: turkey, cream cheese, and apple chutney.
We crash, and Tyler and Michelle were wise enough to bring earplugs.
The next day we wander along the Portland waterfront, the vibe of which reminded me a great deal of Santa Barbara, only with superstructures, and started hitting the pubs at 11. Alcoholics? Maybe.
The rest of the afternoon was spent wandering around Portland, periodically stopping for a beer, and taking in the sights.
We meandered through the Saturday market/festival thingy, where a retarded man dressed as Elvis played for the crowds, and stopped at a second bar where good waitress would come out to the patio from one door, while the bad one would exit from the other, neither ever to be seen at the same time.
I demanded Powell's and found that in the hour or so that we were there, I hadn't been there nearly long enough. I was strangely confounded when I attempted to buy an early X-Mas present or two. I did manage to find (well, Skick found, when I told her I was looking for them) a book of madlibs for Michelle, so that she would be more entertained on the drive back.
The afternoon of eating and drinking came to a close when we got back to Derrick and Skick's place for an evening of drinking and eating.
Their place is very nice, marred only by a lunatic downstairs neighbor. A dogsitter, he has decorated the downstairs patio with children's toys, including several bikes. He has no children. I have no idea how the dogs use the bikes. A skateboard, I could see, but trikes? Really?
The sounding of his lunacy could be based on the frequency with which he leaf-blew the back patio, presumably upset at the number of people upstairs (10 or so). There were no leaves. There might have been some loose gravel.
The family recipe for margaritas was broken out, and seemed to be a hit, though the blender was a littler smaller than I was expecting, which may have led to the mix being a bit too strong. People seemed to enjoy them, though.
Dinner was capped off with more drinks and Catchphrase. I used to think I was a little too intense about the game. I was surpassed by leaps and bounds that night, which makes me feel a bit less of an asshole.
The next morning, we go to brunch, and sip tropical drinks while the cafe plays Rage Against the Machine. Nothing eases a hangover like unintentional hypocrisy.
I have trouble keeping awake on the drive back. Michelle pulls out the madlibs, which seem to have lost some of their humor value since I was... 12?
Get home, collapse.
Apologies for not dropping a line to ya, Bruce, but we were only in town for a short while, and we were expecting to see you soon in Seattle.
Strangely enough both trips were similar in the frequency of trees and David Bowie.
Aside from that, of late I've been feeling more a neurotic mess than usual, though I can never tell if I'm acting like it. Same sort of issue I have with discerning between being zen and apathetic.
I would have also sworn that I used to be more articulate and witty. I think that's compounded by my work currently having me write letters, and their surprise at my capacity for word-thingies. Hell, two months or so ago a casual acquaintance looked at me like he had never seen me before and exclaimed "you really do have a way with words."
Maybe I'm just being neurotic. Maybe.
Watched Suspiria the other night, and while the sound and visuals were phenomenal, the plot was a wee bit on the silly side, and I couldn't stop giggling when Udo Kier delivered the line: "She founded a sort of school of dance, and the occult sciences."
"I thought she couldn't get any hotter, and then she strapped on an accordion."
Saw TheRed Elvises at the Tractor Tavern in Ballard Saturday night.
The show was a hell of a lot of fun, culminating in their song "Sad Cowboy Song" where the audience formed a conga line at the instruction of the lead singer "because that's what real cowboys do." Midway through the song, it kicked into what has to be the best drum solo I'd ever seen, mostly because it consisted of the entire band abandoning their instruments, taking up drum sticks, surrounding the drummer, and taking turns whaling on his kit.
They also had a brief intermission, in which it was explained that they had stuff for sale at the door: the usual t-shirts, cd's and whatnot, but also condoms. I assumed they were fucking with us, but low and behold, they had branded condoms. I bought one as a gift for royalcrown as I can only imagine that they're made from the rubber of decommissioned kosmonaut suits, and ribbed for her pleasure with the hammer and sickle. You can pick it up next time you're in Seattle, as long as you promise to shout "for the motherland" when you use it on Jamie.
...when there's trust there'll be treats...