Connecticut homes

I finished reading J.D. Salinger's "Franny and Zooey." for the third or fourth time today. I can remember reading this book for the first time and closing it slowly and thoughtfully. I remember thinking that it was my new favorite book, and I have since considered it my favorite book. It seems important to have a favorite something and for whatever reason this story resonated with me to such a degree that I chose it then and there as my one and only. I closed the book again today and felt nothing like the deep understanding that I felt then. It's been probably six or seven years since I read it for the first time and there wasn't even a hint of nostalgia. In fact, much of the book was unrecognizable and distant to me. Halfway through the book I began to question whether or not I had even read this story before. Now, I'm no stranger head injuries and perhaps I can blame this blank space to some residual amnesia, or maybe some early dementia. I think the answer though is a bit more profound. I think the answer lies in time itself, and its ability to change everything around us. Apparently our bodies regenerate in their entirety every seven years or so. If I believe that dated and probably overly simplified data, then I am literally almost a completely different person than the young man that read the book for the first time. As creatures of habit we tend to take comfort in the constants of life. We create patterns wherever we can find them, and are constantly searching for order among the chaos of the world and beyond. Having a favorite is a comforting thing. Favorites provide an answer and a window into who a person is or who they would like to be seen as. A favorite is generally perceived as being a definitive fact, and it's not supposed to change. Everything changes though, and to ignore that is to ignore reality."Franny and Zooey" is a good book. It is not my favorite book. I do not have a favorite book. I am lost in the chaos and I am satisfied.

Shells

I woke up late today. I rolled onto my side and was shocked to see the time on my phone, especially because there was no discernible difference in light level from when I went to sleep. I put the phone on speaker and let the Mt. Baker snow report loop while I brushed my teeth. Even my dog was skeptical at the 18 in of reported snowfall. So without another thought we grabbed our guns and headed to the north fork for a bit of red necking. After a hundred rounds or so my ears were ringing and Maple was getting annoyed at all the racket, so we packed it up and headed home.

It's nice to live in a place where you can choose to shoot at busted up TVs and beer cans over a powder day, and not feel the least bit guilty.

Tigers

I painted a picture today. It only took me a few hours and I'm not totally satisfied with the outcome but, I did it. This is the second oil painting that I have ever done (the first is a bland landscape that the world will never see) and though I cant foresee this hanging in a gallery anywhere, the entire process was enjoyable. I realize more and more that to be a success at anything is to be productive. Produce art and you are an artist. Talk about producing art and you are just some guy that talks about stuff he never does. Not every painting, drawing, or piece of furniture is going to be a wonderful heirloom, but each piece can serve as a step or an exercise to something better. Every artist that I know and admire has boatloads of work that are painted over or set aside because they aren't quite right. Here's to the second of many more mediocre pieces that will hopefully lead to something great.

Sappy days

Here are just a few reasons why I love the autumn season:



I get a bit nostalgic this time of year and think fondly of my childhood in CT. It's a little damper here in WA compared to a New England fall, and as a result the crunch of dead foliage as you walk is a bit muted. The colors of the changing leaves aren't quite the shocking display that Vermonters and their neighbors might enjoy either.

I scrambled today, with my wife and dog, over treacherously slippery logs and under the cover of the largest trees I've known. I dug deep into the woody mulch with my fingers and crushed a chalky mushroom in my fist. As my dog bounded ahead in pursuit of a chuckling squirrel, I smiled and felt the change settling all around me.

Fall is an aptly named season, because change descends from above and rests around us. It is a more subtle season with a long approach. It is a season for letting go of the past and thinking with anticipation of the future.

boxy

Here is a box that I made recently that I'm only sort of proud of. It has aesthetic elements that alone I like, but together make for a bit of a cluttered and odd look. This is the first time that I've attempted hand cut dovetails and though they aren't perfect, I am fairly pleased with the results. The hinge is a shell from a .223 caliber that I found while hiking. I drilled a hole in it and drove a small brass nail through the top as a stop so that the lid just pivots off of the shell and cannot be pulled off.




Fall tends to bring out the creative and industrious in me. Unfortunately it also brings out the instinctual urge to eat entire platters of pasta and then nap for twenty odd hours. These conflicting desires usually result in me waking up at odd hours full of energy and artistic thought. Because of my close proximity to sleeping neighbors however the resulting manifest is endless Netflix instant play and more pasta. ACK! I sound like a damn Kathy comic.

Pull

Just some handy pictures taken by talented hands.





Here is their link cooder

Primal love

Another bizarre animal case. Sometimes I feel like I am on the set of a bad David Lynch film. If you were to ask me a year ago what I thought I would be doing in a year I can guarantee that my answer would not be, "aiding the FBI and the US Marshals in arresting a naked pervy ex-millionaire, and his beast loving tourist friend in the Sumas wilderness."

yuck
double yuck

fowl foul

If you happened to be reading today's paper (The Bellingham Herald) and wondering to yourself: "My, who's handsome latex gloved hand, and svelt looking uniformed body is that on the front cover?" then wonder no more! It's me folks.

A real career milestone, and only after three short months on the job. What could be next for this jet set go getter? Daytime talk show appearances? My own line of barnyard cologne? An actual picture of my face?

here's the link

Friends

I am a vegetarian, an environmentalist, and an animal rights activist, but I love fly fishing. I love wading into streams and rivers. I love finding weird bones, rocks, and clay deposits. I love sitting with my dog on the bank among the sword ferns, under the dripping Douglas Fir trees and watching a fish inspect my attempt at insect impressions. I look so hard into the water to see beyond the ripples and foam that the backs of my eyes ache and I have to close them. I am a failure at skipping stones and when I try Maple jumps after them and ducks her head under the water just long enough to realize that she doesn't much care for swimming, and just long enough for me to get nervous that she might get swept away by the stronger current in the deeper part of the stream. For some reason Maple never learned to swim properly, and only uses three of her four appendages. Her front two paws paddle madly in the typical doggy fashion. Her rear legs however, only work at half their potential, with her right one tucked gently against her body. I wonder sometimes if Maple's lack of water prowess is a fault of my parenting, or a breed issue that I have no control over. Either way I find this trait highly endearing.

Wolverine

I am fast approaching my second month as an animal control officer. Every night I come home to my wonderful wife and dog and I feel like exploding. I am full of stories. I am full of emotion. I am brimming, but I am stuck.

This is the most serious job I have ever had. I am dealing with real tragedy daily. I haven't yet figured out how to use these stories creatively without cheapening them. There is humor too, and I can see it. If I have any gift at all it is being able to find laughter in the disheartening, but I think it will be a while before it comes to the surface.

There is real evil in the world, and it shows itself in the form of neglect, indifference, and ignorance. To quote a favorite song of mine "Evil don't look like anything." I understand that sentiment in a strange and frightening new way.

GUTS

As I hang up my taxi hat, I pick up a new one. I am now an animal control officer for the Whatcom Humane Society. Instead of shuttling just of age party goers, and the career drunks here and there, I am now chasing after aggressive dogs and finding creative places around town to dispose of skunk carcasses.

I haven't officially been commissioned yet as my backround check is taking longer than usual (they're looking into something about a noodle incident), but I'm pretty confident that Ill be badged and bagging up kittens officially in no time. Right now I am going through training and it involves a lot of paperwork and people telling me what to look forward to.

I have already been advised to pay careful attention to what end of the dead deer I decide to pick up when hoisting it into the back of the truck. Apparently a deer decomposes faster in the inside than the outside. This little fact allows our unfortunate mammal to eventually become a sort of Bambi shaped bag full of liquid goo. Now this would be all well and good if we were leaving the deer to sit and rot as nature intended. Instead, because Mr. Rich and his wife Mrs. Moneybags (she kept her maiden name) don't want this deer to sully view of the golf course, I must move it somewhere else.

Moving the ex-deer would not be such a problem if it were at least closed at one end (I applaud those of you who see where this scenario is going). Picking up one end of the deer before the other provides an exit for the sludge and it will flow out freely. If there happens to be a person helping you with the other end, they will be very mad at you and the deer will be a little lighter. I think I am going to like this job even better than the last one. Toodles!

Slightly Heavier

Over a year later and it's finally finished. Thanks to Paul Foertch from old school tattoo


Here is a picture of the original:


and a link to info about the artist

Swing low

I picked up the gentleman just outside of the "world famous" UP and Up bar. Now, I don't exactly know what this particular establishment is world famous for but in my most recent experience it has been for producing incredibly drunk "I just turned 21!"s who stumble into my cab. I then have to rush the spinning sophomores to their home before they expel their "world famous," burrito (consumed earlier at "Casa Que Pasa") onto my already filthy floor mats.

So keeping my usual experience in mind I was more than happy to chauffeur this mature looking, slightly swaying fella to his home. He works for the carpenters union as an apprentice, hes done with school, wants to try living in Alaska etc etc...

We reached his home shortly and I let him know what he owed me (14.95 if I remember correctly) He then took out his credit card.
"We only take cash," I let him know.
"Oh man, well I only have like 4 dollars."
We both contemplated the situation for a few moments before he asked me
"Do you like white chicks?"
If pressed for preference I would normally say that I go for more ethnic looking women but the sake of simplicity I said, "Sure."
He then replied, "Do you wanna get down?"

At this point my mind was racing. I figured that this guy, with his little carpentry experience had a crudely made pen full of writhing white women. I figured, as I unbuckled my seat belt, that I could at the very least witness the sex den made of old pallets and plywood and then scurry to my running cab. I would then alert the authorities to the aryan sex trade happening under their very noses.

I reached for the door handle just as our friend reached into his pocket, and I backpedaled out of my splintery, pale fantasy. I saw the little bag of white powder in his hand. I couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief and disappointment at the same time. I thought to myself "God, people can be so boring."

I let the guy out in his driveway still holding his little bag of boredom, and with my newly earned four dollars I made a note to myself to learn a bit more about drug slang. I don't want to get my hopes up again for no reason.

Love is suffocating

Day four of Taxi driving, and so far I haven't been stabbed or robbed. I don't believe that I could ever make a career out of this type of work however. I haven't quite figured out where my responsibilities begin or end as a paid chauffeur.

Last night an incredibly drunk man tried to strangle his fiance in the back seat. The woman took it surprisingly well, as if maybe it happens all the time? I found myself caught between trying to decide to throw them both out of the cab, just him, or just her. I figured that if I threw them both out the strangulation might continue street-side with no witnesses to speak of. If I threw just the gent out he would probably stumble his way home eventually and the neck squeezing would resume. I could throw just her out but the co-habitation issue would still exist, and I don't know what would be more terrifying: waiting for your abusive lover to come home, or knowing that he's waiting for you when you get home.

As it turned out, just a moment after I had decided to run the lot of us off of the nearest bridge, the favorite song of our friend "Jack the gripper" came on the radio, and he released his grip so that he might begin singing loudly and drumming on the back of my headrest. And we all lived happily ever after. THE END

Hurling From A Cab

I am officially a taxi-cab driver. Last night was the first of many more 12 hour, over night shifts, starting at 6pm and ending at (you guessed it math whiz) 6am!

Tuesday nights are surprisingly eventful in Bellingham. If you happen to fall under the over 40, alcoholic, and generally sad about life category, then Tuesday is your night to party! I met the drummer of a San Francisco rock band from the 80's that I think is called "Fwuzzly Twizzchers" (Im not fluent in Drunkenese yet so I could be wrong). Apparently they are in the rock and roll hall of fame. I looked it up and I'm pretty sure I broke the internet in doing so.

I also gave a particularly short ride to a particularly paranoid drunk man who looked to be about 250years old. He asked to be dropped off on Samish way (a mere 2-3 miles from where he was picked up). After about a block however he became convinced that I was "playing f***ing games!" with him, and tried to grab the wheel. (rookie lesson #1: Drunks go in the back!) Without even stopping I was able to unbuckle his seat belt and push him out the door. For those of you concerned, he rolled out of it quite gracefully.

There is something uniquely intimate about jobs like taxi driver, hair dresser, or priest where people feel uninhibited when talking to you as they launch headlong into personal confessions, or the telling of their sons biography in its entirety (lives in anchorage with his pregnant underage wife, lost his fingers in the cannery, killed a bear when he was only 3, etc...). I imagine the alcohol helps the flow of information in at least two of those professions, but its still feels odd when "Tammy" (who by the way was a hairdresser ironically enough) tells me that she thinks I would look better with a beard, and blonde highlights.

Bickford

"The two worst things about life are:
1) That it's so terrible.
2) That it is so short."
~Old George Bickford

Check it out: http://www.brucebickford.com/

scrawl

Lately, I find in myself an increasing unrest. It seems as though everyone around me is rapidly succumbing to lives of regulated debt and predictable career paths. I have always been uneasy with the prospect of a life in one place or a career without creative freedom (or even a career at all).
My mind at this point is a cluttered mess of half formed dreams and "clever" ideas. How am I expected to create something logical out of partially written songs and scraps of paper with my nightmares scrawled illegibly on them?
I went to Mexico recently, with the goal of trying to sort this situation out. I figured the warm weather and the spicy food would rekindle the creative spark and I would return home to a well laid out plan. What I came home with was a parasite and a duffel bag full of hot sauce stained napkins with pen and ink sketches on them. I guess what I realized was what I already know. I am an artist, and maybe revealing this not so secret statement will hold me accountable at least to the four people that view this site.

Bird

Here is another video found among the Boston era photographs and such. I cannot help but draw parallels from the bird to the way I felt towards the end of my time there. Metaphors aside, I think it is a beautiful video. This bird flew into my closed window and I think probably had a broken back. Not knowing what else to do I left it in the small grassy lawn behind the apartment. In the morning it was gone, but I doubt that it flew away...

orbonica

Here is a video that I made several years ago. It reminds me of the beautiful parts of Boston that I miss. I cannot really foresee myself ever moving back there but the thought of that city has settled itself comfortably in my mind.
A prize goes to the one who can figure out how I made this video.