How I Roll.
So it's been awhile since I've updated this thing and major life events have been cropping up right and left. Trying to place them chronologically would be time consuming and would probably screw up my flow. So I'm just going to start referring to all events in my life as if they happened "last weekend." Those of you interested in a more temporally accurate account of my life are welcome to call me. You've got the number.
To begin:
So I could start my entry about last weekends events by talking about teens covered in blood. But this would cause consternation in at least a few of you. To be specific, judging by the belligerent texts and emails I've been receiving, this digression would be mildly off putting of those of you who are wondering why isn't I'm not telling you about the car I won.
For the rest of you.
That's right.
I won a car.
And not just any car.
An art car.
Allow me to explain. It all starts over year ago in the cabin on a small island in the Puget Sound. I was looking up the word "concupiscence" in the dictionary. A passing cabin co-inhabitant remarked "you read the dictionary too? Cool!" The source was a middle aged glass artist and poet. We talked for awhile which eventually led to him giving me the most brutal Scrabble beat down, I've ever received in my life.
Another, cabin co-inhabitor, the limitlessly Raleigh Watts, was also a Scrabble aficionado. As he and the poet later sat down to their own expert match (the score was like 23809 to 23489... no joke), Raleigh dismissed the family Scrabble I'd played growing up: "If you play Scrabble with more than two people, it's nothing more than a parlor game."
They eventually provided me with Scrabble worksheets and introduced some of the finer points of "serious" Scrabble play. Ultimately, this mild expansion of my conscientiousness as a Scrabble player has proved to be nothing but social liability. Ever since that day when Scrabble comes up and the inevitable "So are you good at Scrabble" is posed, I, over the protests of my better judgment, respond with the conversationally ultra-gauche conversation killer: "Umm... I'm not sure. Compared to what?"
What is the purpose of all this? Simply to establish the cast of characters that I seem to roll with whenever I hit the Seattle philanthropy scene. My Uncles attend a lot of benefit auctions and the like, and they bring along a pretty consistent posse of friends that I've come to know. I was by far the most junior member but we generally all got along okay.
So, I'm rolling with my pentegenarian crew at a fund raiser for a local independent poetry press. The way it works is that 100 people each buy a ticket at $100 a shot and in return they get a number. Everybody sits in a room with balloons, complementary light snacks, a cash bar and 100 works of art. As people's numbers are called, they can get up and select one of the works of art. They may eat the light snacks at any time.
So among, these 100 works of arts was, as you may have already guessed, an art car. It was an '89 Subaru Justy covered in black spikes. As the auction progressed, a mildly intoxicated Raleigh Watts leaned over to me and said "Nathan, do you want me to get you a car?"
Anyway. Since the car was won on princessnarr's birthday I'm name naming the car in her honor. I'm keenly aware that naming a car "Carly" is something they'd do on bad children's programming but since I'm about to drive around an '89 Subaru covered in black spikes, the time for that sort of self consciousness is long past.
Now that I think about it, the "Narr Car" also has a nice ring to it.
Those among you that are more detail oriented or those of you more fascinated by chaos and violence will wonder what the deal with the bloody teen was. All that really needs to be said, is that after dealing with with the hormone charged, accident prone drama that resulted in half of cousin Buckey's finger nail being sliced off, my Uncle Jerry took me out to teach me to drive a manual transmission. And at the moment lurching around in my stalling transmission grinding attention grabbing '89 Justy seemed like comparative paradise to him.
To begin:
So I could start my entry about last weekends events by talking about teens covered in blood. But this would cause consternation in at least a few of you. To be specific, judging by the belligerent texts and emails I've been receiving, this digression would be mildly off putting of those of you who are wondering why isn't I'm not telling you about the car I won.
For the rest of you.
That's right.
I won a car.
And not just any car.
An art car.
Allow me to explain. It all starts over year ago in the cabin on a small island in the Puget Sound. I was looking up the word "concupiscence" in the dictionary. A passing cabin co-inhabitant remarked "you read the dictionary too? Cool!" The source was a middle aged glass artist and poet. We talked for awhile which eventually led to him giving me the most brutal Scrabble beat down, I've ever received in my life.
Another, cabin co-inhabitor, the limitlessly Raleigh Watts, was also a Scrabble aficionado. As he and the poet later sat down to their own expert match (the score was like 23809 to 23489... no joke), Raleigh dismissed the family Scrabble I'd played growing up: "If you play Scrabble with more than two people, it's nothing more than a parlor game."
They eventually provided me with Scrabble worksheets and introduced some of the finer points of "serious" Scrabble play. Ultimately, this mild expansion of my conscientiousness as a Scrabble player has proved to be nothing but social liability. Ever since that day when Scrabble comes up and the inevitable "So are you good at Scrabble" is posed, I, over the protests of my better judgment, respond with the conversationally ultra-gauche conversation killer: "Umm... I'm not sure. Compared to what?"
What is the purpose of all this? Simply to establish the cast of characters that I seem to roll with whenever I hit the Seattle philanthropy scene. My Uncles attend a lot of benefit auctions and the like, and they bring along a pretty consistent posse of friends that I've come to know. I was by far the most junior member but we generally all got along okay.
So, I'm rolling with my pentegenarian crew at a fund raiser for a local independent poetry press. The way it works is that 100 people each buy a ticket at $100 a shot and in return they get a number. Everybody sits in a room with balloons, complementary light snacks, a cash bar and 100 works of art. As people's numbers are called, they can get up and select one of the works of art. They may eat the light snacks at any time.
So among, these 100 works of arts was, as you may have already guessed, an art car. It was an '89 Subaru Justy covered in black spikes. As the auction progressed, a mildly intoxicated Raleigh Watts leaned over to me and said "Nathan, do you want me to get you a car?"
Anyway. Since the car was won on princessnarr's birthday I'm name naming the car in her honor. I'm keenly aware that naming a car "Carly" is something they'd do on bad children's programming but since I'm about to drive around an '89 Subaru covered in black spikes, the time for that sort of self consciousness is long past.
Now that I think about it, the "Narr Car" also has a nice ring to it.
Those among you that are more detail oriented or those of you more fascinated by chaos and violence will wonder what the deal with the bloody teen was. All that really needs to be said, is that after dealing with with the hormone charged, accident prone drama that resulted in half of cousin Buckey's finger nail being sliced off, my Uncle Jerry took me out to teach me to drive a manual transmission. And at the moment lurching around in my stalling transmission grinding attention grabbing '89 Justy seemed like comparative paradise to him.