I talked with my mom today. A Tuesday.
In the din of rush hour traffic, I stood with a cellphone pressed to my ear... my free hand pressed to the other ear. Staring at my shoes, I spun slow circles next to my bus stop, and talked to mom.
It had been about a month since I'd heard her voice. A month... and not for want of trying. At least once a week I spoke with my dad, but each time I called, mom was asleep, or too tired, or too preoccupied to get on the phone. I understood... she's been working some stuff out internally. But we didn't talk about any of that today.
Mom had been on my mind all day yesterday, maybe more so than any other day. I'd tried her on the phone once. No one answered, and I didn't leave a voicemail. I didn't have to. She called me today. She knew.
...
I'm still processing, internalizing, reflecting... but for me, I think I'll always remember yesterday as one of those days (the amazing few) when my life changed forever... the world became a different place.
I witnessed the birth of a child. A new life.
Two of my best friends, Bill & Kari, invited me (allowed me, privileged me) to join them for the birth of their child. A beautiful boy. A frickin' huge baby boy.
They gave me a gift... one so sacred, so beautiful... I don't know if they have any idea how they changed my life... perhaps they do. But I'm certain of at least one thing, I still don't fully understand the personal significance of the miracle I witnessed. I'm processing.
I watched Kari bear her first son and was utterly humbled. Touched. Awed. Without a doubt, it was the most beautiful, powerful, emotional human experience I've ever been in the presence of.
To see your friend, someone you love, in such pain... but through that pain, demonstrate such clarity, and strength (of body and heart), and such blinding love. I've never seen anyone do anything more amazing. In those hours, Kari was perfect... shining with the miraculousness of being alive, of humanity.
It was also witnessing Bill and Kari together in those moments. Bill giving himself to Kari in every way he could... laughing and smiling through uncontrollable tears. Holding. Encouraging. Supporting. Loving. Bill, who normally gets squeamish at the sight of Hailey throwing up... never once leaving Kari's side.
The room was charged. Saturated with emotion... love, anxiety, hope, pain, pride, awe. I was only a witness to the event, a loving friend with a camera, but I couldn't escape the intensity of experience. I didn't want to. Tears streamed uncontrollably down my cheeks... my eyes and ears just absorbing. I felt like my chest would burst at any moment. What I was privileged to experience was just so... perfect. So miraculous.
...
Baby was born at 9lbs 12oz (that's big folks) after over four hours of labor with no drugs. What Kari did is beyond my comprehension... the most incredible display of love and strength I've ever witnessed.
Kari's father said to me, minutes after his new grandson came into the world, "Tim, there are two things in this world that convince me there is a greater spiritual power. One is the death of a loved one. The other, is seeing a newborn come into the world."
In that moment, I had to agree with him. But I might also say... "There are two things in this world that best teach us of our humanity, of the miracle that is the life we have and the value of the gift that it is. One is the death of a loved one. The other, is seeing a newborn come into the world. The former can happen with tragic ease. The later happens with immeasurable effort and love."
All day yesterday I kept thinking, "How is it that I've lived almost 28 years of my life without experiencing such a miracle. Mom... why didn't you ever tell me?"
And somehow, nearly a 1,000 miles away, my mom who birthed me... who I hadn't spoken to in a month... knew to call her son.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Gary
Two weeks ago I began volunteering at a local hospice that specializes in care for HIV/AIDS patients. A hospice, for readers who might be unfamiliar, is a health-care facility for the terminally ill, emphasizing pain control and emotional support for patients and family. While this hospice's primary mission is to care for the HIV/AIDS community, its doors are open to all end-of-life patients.
I sought this opportunity with a duel purpose: first and foremost, I'd hoped to assist those in need with whatever empathetic care and comfort that were within my abilities... not yet certain of how my 'abilities' would manifest themselves. Secondly, I'd hoped that I would gain - in some capacity - insight, empathy, inspiration, and direction for my personal and professional life.
I've been battling more than a little apprehension about writing of my experiences at the hospice. The human connections there are very real, and accelerated by the emotionally saturated nature of the environment. As a volunteer, I basically offer companionship and the genuine connection of one human being to another. That sounds a little high-brow... what I essentially do is listen, converse, engage, and joke with the residents at the hospice. I try to do so with complete honesty, leaving myself open (vulnerable?) to be affected by what we share. If I didn't do so, I'd be devaluing the energy, emotion, and time (so valuable and limited for many of the patients) that the residents are sharing with me.
In sharing my personal experiences at the hospice (on this post and in the future) I will maintain patient confidentiality and trust by altering specific details of each individual: their name, physical appearance, race, age, place of home, former occupation, etc. While taking such liberties, I will do my best to hold on to the essence and poignancy of each person and encounter. This may end up a complete disaster. I'm sure my writing abilities won't do justice, and if I ever feel as though I'm getting anywhere near compromising confidentiality... I'll stop this exercise.
...
Gary and I have been sitting by the second floor window for maybe an hour. It's his favorite spot in the activities room... sitting under the "Egyptian Painting" (hieroglyphs), Gary can watch the cars and buses lurch down the congested street below. He can admire the tree tops poking out from the sea of rooftops... little islands of greenery under temperamental Seattle skies. Today it's sunny. Gary loves it when it's sunny.
Seated, Gary's head is about six inches above mine... he sits in a very complicated looking wheel chair. Whenever we speak, he looks down to me with kind eyes that radiate patience, dignity, and always a sparkle of knowing. I have to sit to Gary's right because he can only see and hear from that side... the result of his relapse with brain cancer. Gary's a handsome guy... satiny chocolate skin with a well kept salt-and-pepper beard. The beard and his receded hairline give him a very intellectual dignity. I liked him immediately. Gary is dying from inoperable brain cancer near his brain stem.
Gary had explained that over ten years ago, he'd had a golf-ball sized tumor removed from his brain. After, chemo, radiation, and intensive rehabilitation, he'd regained all his cognitive and motor function, all except his vision and hearing from the left-side. Just over a year ago, however, he suddenly collapsed and doctors later discovered a new larger tumor that was pressing on his brain stem. The doctors could do nothing. The pressure on Gary's brain stem has caused him to lose most of his motor function. His hands have terrible tremors, his swallowing reflexes are severely impaired (he has to be fed pureed meals), and his limbs often defy his command. The left side of his face is slightly swollen and sags a bit; his left eye has the cloudy appearance of cataracts.
Gary speaks very slowly and deliberately... speaking out of the right-side of his mouth. His voice sounds distinctly like Winnie the Pooh's... which is perfect given the remarkable light-heartedness with which he speaks. We talk about travel (Gary's been all over Europe), music, favorite coffee shops around Seattle, our parents, home-towns... he gets the charge-nurse laughing with a self-deprecating blurb about how much grief he causes the nursing staff here. Everyone's in love with Gary.
At one point we're talking about good books we've read, and I ask Gary what he's reading right now... immediately regretting asking such a stupid question. So stupid. Gary can't hold a book. I apologize, and Gary responds:
"No, no... don't need to apologize," he pauses for a long breath, "good question," pause, "I'm reading Pride and Prejudice."
"Pride and Prejudice?" I blurt out.
"Book on tape," Gary winks at me.
"Of course," I chuckle, "but Pride and Prejudice? Really?"
"Yeah," pause, "Pride and Prejudice," pause for breath, "the selection," breathe, "is a bit limited," pause, "you know?"
I'm just beaming smiles at him, "How is it? I've never read it."
"Oh, it's wooonderful," breathe, "but that Darcy is a real asshole." And with that, Gary's shoulders bounce up and down as he cracks himself up. "It's tough though," pause, "I didn't know," pause, breathe, "how much I enjoyed turning the pages," pause, "of a book."
"I've never thought of that," I reply. I hadn't.
"It's frustrating," breathe, "sometimes, you know?" Pause for breath. "I can't do most of," pause, "what I used to."
"I can't begin to imagine," I interject clumsily, "but you still have a great mind, Gary."
"Yes." pause. "Thank God for that." breathe. "I have a good life, Tim." pause. "I have a lot," breathe, "to be thankful for."
I'm silent. Too affected. Gary continues, "this place is good." pause. "good people." breathe. "good care." breathe. "good food." pause. "well, the food sucks." laugh-breathe-laugh-breathe-breathe. Gary's totally beside himself.
I can only laugh along... drunk on Gary.
I sought this opportunity with a duel purpose: first and foremost, I'd hoped to assist those in need with whatever empathetic care and comfort that were within my abilities... not yet certain of how my 'abilities' would manifest themselves. Secondly, I'd hoped that I would gain - in some capacity - insight, empathy, inspiration, and direction for my personal and professional life.
I've been battling more than a little apprehension about writing of my experiences at the hospice. The human connections there are very real, and accelerated by the emotionally saturated nature of the environment. As a volunteer, I basically offer companionship and the genuine connection of one human being to another. That sounds a little high-brow... what I essentially do is listen, converse, engage, and joke with the residents at the hospice. I try to do so with complete honesty, leaving myself open (vulnerable?) to be affected by what we share. If I didn't do so, I'd be devaluing the energy, emotion, and time (so valuable and limited for many of the patients) that the residents are sharing with me.
In sharing my personal experiences at the hospice (on this post and in the future) I will maintain patient confidentiality and trust by altering specific details of each individual: their name, physical appearance, race, age, place of home, former occupation, etc. While taking such liberties, I will do my best to hold on to the essence and poignancy of each person and encounter. This may end up a complete disaster. I'm sure my writing abilities won't do justice, and if I ever feel as though I'm getting anywhere near compromising confidentiality... I'll stop this exercise.
...
Gary and I have been sitting by the second floor window for maybe an hour. It's his favorite spot in the activities room... sitting under the "Egyptian Painting" (hieroglyphs), Gary can watch the cars and buses lurch down the congested street below. He can admire the tree tops poking out from the sea of rooftops... little islands of greenery under temperamental Seattle skies. Today it's sunny. Gary loves it when it's sunny.
Seated, Gary's head is about six inches above mine... he sits in a very complicated looking wheel chair. Whenever we speak, he looks down to me with kind eyes that radiate patience, dignity, and always a sparkle of knowing. I have to sit to Gary's right because he can only see and hear from that side... the result of his relapse with brain cancer. Gary's a handsome guy... satiny chocolate skin with a well kept salt-and-pepper beard. The beard and his receded hairline give him a very intellectual dignity. I liked him immediately. Gary is dying from inoperable brain cancer near his brain stem.
Gary had explained that over ten years ago, he'd had a golf-ball sized tumor removed from his brain. After, chemo, radiation, and intensive rehabilitation, he'd regained all his cognitive and motor function, all except his vision and hearing from the left-side. Just over a year ago, however, he suddenly collapsed and doctors later discovered a new larger tumor that was pressing on his brain stem. The doctors could do nothing. The pressure on Gary's brain stem has caused him to lose most of his motor function. His hands have terrible tremors, his swallowing reflexes are severely impaired (he has to be fed pureed meals), and his limbs often defy his command. The left side of his face is slightly swollen and sags a bit; his left eye has the cloudy appearance of cataracts.
Gary speaks very slowly and deliberately... speaking out of the right-side of his mouth. His voice sounds distinctly like Winnie the Pooh's... which is perfect given the remarkable light-heartedness with which he speaks. We talk about travel (Gary's been all over Europe), music, favorite coffee shops around Seattle, our parents, home-towns... he gets the charge-nurse laughing with a self-deprecating blurb about how much grief he causes the nursing staff here. Everyone's in love with Gary.
At one point we're talking about good books we've read, and I ask Gary what he's reading right now... immediately regretting asking such a stupid question. So stupid. Gary can't hold a book. I apologize, and Gary responds:
"No, no... don't need to apologize," he pauses for a long breath, "good question," pause, "I'm reading Pride and Prejudice."
"Pride and Prejudice?" I blurt out.
"Book on tape," Gary winks at me.
"Of course," I chuckle, "but Pride and Prejudice? Really?"
"Yeah," pause, "Pride and Prejudice," pause for breath, "the selection," breathe, "is a bit limited," pause, "you know?"
I'm just beaming smiles at him, "How is it? I've never read it."
"Oh, it's wooonderful," breathe, "but that Darcy is a real asshole." And with that, Gary's shoulders bounce up and down as he cracks himself up. "It's tough though," pause, "I didn't know," pause, breathe, "how much I enjoyed turning the pages," pause, "of a book."
"I've never thought of that," I reply. I hadn't.
"It's frustrating," breathe, "sometimes, you know?" Pause for breath. "I can't do most of," pause, "what I used to."
"I can't begin to imagine," I interject clumsily, "but you still have a great mind, Gary."
"Yes." pause. "Thank God for that." breathe. "I have a good life, Tim." pause. "I have a lot," breathe, "to be thankful for."
I'm silent. Too affected. Gary continues, "this place is good." pause. "good people." breathe. "good care." breathe. "good food." pause. "well, the food sucks." laugh-breathe-laugh-breathe-breathe. Gary's totally beside himself.
I can only laugh along... drunk on Gary.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
nontrad drag
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
non⋅trad drag, verb, (abbr: nontraditional drag)
where in a nontraditional undergraduate student - typically older - shows an unconventional zeal for academics, as evidenced by their habit of carrying and reading books that Aren't Even On The Required Reading List!
i.e. extra books = burdensome drag (for nontrad); extra zeal = buzzkill-annoying-as-hell drag (for trads)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So this summer I started back at my alma mater for a post-baccalaureate year of undergrad classes. I know, scary right? And this past week I found myself sitting in my first "quiz section" in something like seven years. It was just as I remembered. The walls: institutional white. The students: half asleep (8:30 class). The TA: Venky - impatient, discontent, very familiar. The chairs: those same desk/chair combo things with the obnoxiously small and useless wedge of desk surface welded to one side of the chair. Remember?
TA: "So I assume you've all completed 142 & 152." (prereq's to Chem-162, my course).
Class: "..."
TA: "Has anyone not taken Chem-142 & Chem-152?"
Class: "..."
TA: "Alright, so you're all familiar with using WebAssign to submit your homework?"
Class: "..."
me: "Hey Venky... I'm not really familiar with WebAssign."
TA: "You said you took 142 & 152, right?"
me: "Yeah, well..."
TA: "It's the online system for homework and prelabs... WebAssign?"
me: "Yeah... well, it's been awhile since I took 142 & 152."
TA: "A while?"
me: "nine years."
Dude sitting behind me: "ph'whoa..."
me: "They didn't use WebAssign when I was an undergrad."
TA: "Okay, okay... talk to me after class."
So, yeah... I'm that guy. I kind of like it.
non⋅trad drag, verb, (abbr: nontraditional drag)
where in a nontraditional undergraduate student - typically older - shows an unconventional zeal for academics, as evidenced by their habit of carrying and reading books that Aren't Even On The Required Reading List!
i.e. extra books = burdensome drag (for nontrad); extra zeal = buzzkill-annoying-as-hell drag (for trads)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So this summer I started back at my alma mater for a post-baccalaureate year of undergrad classes. I know, scary right? And this past week I found myself sitting in my first "quiz section" in something like seven years. It was just as I remembered. The walls: institutional white. The students: half asleep (8:30 class). The TA: Venky - impatient, discontent, very familiar. The chairs: those same desk/chair combo things with the obnoxiously small and useless wedge of desk surface welded to one side of the chair. Remember?
TA: "So I assume you've all completed 142 & 152." (prereq's to Chem-162, my course).
Class: "..."
TA: "Has anyone not taken Chem-142 & Chem-152?"
Class: "..."
TA: "Alright, so you're all familiar with using WebAssign to submit your homework?"
Class: "..."
me: "Hey Venky... I'm not really familiar with WebAssign."
TA: "You said you took 142 & 152, right?"
me: "Yeah, well..."
TA: "It's the online system for homework and prelabs... WebAssign?"
me: "Yeah... well, it's been awhile since I took 142 & 152."
TA: "A while?"
me: "nine years."
Dude sitting behind me: "ph'whoa..."
me: "They didn't use WebAssign when I was an undergrad."
TA: "Okay, okay... talk to me after class."
So, yeah... I'm that guy. I kind of like it.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Scrabbler
It's just after mid-night. Dad, myself and my two younger brothers are crowded around the dining room table of my parents' new house in Bozeman. It's a quaint house, built sometime in the 40's... cozy, warm, country-like. The wood-floors creak underfoot, I like that. The rooms smell a mixture of woolen sweaters, home cooking, labrador, and wood-burning stove... I like that too. Floor lamps cast a soft light, and illuminate the crazy angles of the ceiling high above.
The dining table is still covered with a table cloth... the table cloth adorned with the stains from dinner earlier. All of us wear faces of sleepy concentration as we try to finish up an epic game of Scrabble. We've been at it for over an hour. Having polished off two chocolate bars between us, we're down to three tiles remaining in the bag.
The 10-point 'Q' tile is the last remaining big play out there, and through his not-so-subtle grumblings, my 16-year-old brother Harrison has let it be known that he holds the 'Q' tile. It's been his turn for a few minutes, and he looks no closer to making a play. My 25-year-old brother Mike (very serious about his Scrabble) is looking quite inpatient. Mike wouldn't disagree if I called him a Scrabble-snob... he is very good, but he also sounds a bit like Nick Burns-Your Company's Computer Guy as he mocks your 3-letter-words and points out where you could've played that word for 12 more points. I relish the very rare occasion when I beat him... though I won't give him the satisfaction by outwardly displaying that I care. Harrison breaks the silence...
Harry: "You know what mom hasn't made in a while?..."
All: "..." (we've learned not to guess where he's trying to go)
Harry: "Croquettes."
All: "..." (looks of confusion)
Harry: "Croquettes... salmon croquettes. Mom hasn't made them in a while."
All: "..."
Mike: "What the hell are you talking about?"
Harry: "Salmon croquettes... you know, the one's mom makes."
Mike: "You know it's your turn right?"
Dad: "He's thinking of Q-words, give him a break" Dad tries to explain, "But Harrison, you don't have a 'U', they've all been played."
Harry: "Oh, yeah... shit."
And I think to myself... croquettes? Q-words? How the hell did he get to croquettes. Trying imagine the inner workings of his head...
Q-word, Q-word... Quiz? Shit, no 'Z'. And... no 'U' or 'I' either... shit. Quit? Ummm... where can I play... wait, no 'U' or 'I' again... shit. Qua... Qua... Qua... nope. Que... Que... man, this sucks! Stupid 'Q'. Hmmm... Quei, Quai, Quoo, Que, Quo, Cro, cro... croquet? That's a game, I think? Yeah... I played it that one time at Dan's house. That has a 'Q' right? Yeah... there's a 'Q'. Croquet, Croquet...Croquet sounds almost like... croquette. Mmmm, croquettes... man, I am kind of hungry. God, I love croquettes.... come to think of it...
"You know what mom hasn't made in a while?..."
The dining table is still covered with a table cloth... the table cloth adorned with the stains from dinner earlier. All of us wear faces of sleepy concentration as we try to finish up an epic game of Scrabble. We've been at it for over an hour. Having polished off two chocolate bars between us, we're down to three tiles remaining in the bag.
The 10-point 'Q' tile is the last remaining big play out there, and through his not-so-subtle grumblings, my 16-year-old brother Harrison has let it be known that he holds the 'Q' tile. It's been his turn for a few minutes, and he looks no closer to making a play. My 25-year-old brother Mike (very serious about his Scrabble) is looking quite inpatient. Mike wouldn't disagree if I called him a Scrabble-snob... he is very good, but he also sounds a bit like Nick Burns-Your Company's Computer Guy as he mocks your 3-letter-words and points out where you could've played that word for 12 more points. I relish the very rare occasion when I beat him... though I won't give him the satisfaction by outwardly displaying that I care. Harrison breaks the silence...
Harry: "You know what mom hasn't made in a while?..."
All: "..." (we've learned not to guess where he's trying to go)
Harry: "Croquettes."
All: "..." (looks of confusion)
Harry: "Croquettes... salmon croquettes. Mom hasn't made them in a while."
All: "..."
Mike: "What the hell are you talking about?"
Harry: "Salmon croquettes... you know, the one's mom makes."
Mike: "You know it's your turn right?"
Dad: "He's thinking of Q-words, give him a break" Dad tries to explain, "But Harrison, you don't have a 'U', they've all been played."
Harry: "Oh, yeah... shit."
And I think to myself... croquettes? Q-words? How the hell did he get to croquettes. Trying imagine the inner workings of his head...
Q-word, Q-word... Quiz? Shit, no 'Z'. And... no 'U' or 'I' either... shit. Quit? Ummm... where can I play... wait, no 'U' or 'I' again... shit. Qua... Qua... Qua... nope. Que... Que... man, this sucks! Stupid 'Q'. Hmmm... Quei, Quai, Quoo, Que, Quo, Cro, cro... croquet? That's a game, I think? Yeah... I played it that one time at Dan's house. That has a 'Q' right? Yeah... there's a 'Q'. Croquet, Croquet...Croquet sounds almost like... croquette. Mmmm, croquettes... man, I am kind of hungry. God, I love croquettes.... come to think of it...
"You know what mom hasn't made in a while?..."
Monday, September 18, 2006
Anyone still out there?
Blogging Technique Suggestions, brought to you by Blogger.com
1. Write quality content and do it well...
Proper punctuation, spelling, and grammar. (blah, blah, blah) Avoid run-on sentences, over using ellipsis (the omission from a sentence of one or more words that would clarify the construction... yup, I had to look it up too), and excessive parenthetical statements. What are these guys talking about? They just don't understand my style.
2. Publish regular updates...
Yeah, okay... busted. It's a recurring problem for me... my inspiration to blog ebbs and flows. It's been ebbing for a while, and not for lack of great times this summer... I think mostly I've just been caught up in the doing part of life.
3. Think of your audience...
Do I have an audience? Probably not any more. Think of my audience, eh? Well, I obviously haven't been great about that, though ultimately I guess no one has to read this nonsense if they don't want to.
(geez.. guilt trip. What? Oh, well, yeah... I suppose I am choosing to feel guilty).
4. Keep search engines in mind...
Ummm?.. yeah. What he said.
5. Keep your posts and paragraphs short...
Oh, now this is one that I'm really really bad at. Seriously. Every post I sit down and think... this will be the one that will be quick, witty, and to the point. Every. Single. Time. And I never seem to come up with that clever snippet... so instead I compensate with posts of Gary Larson comics and music recommendation. uh, whatever.
6. Stop making false promises about the blog...
I came up with that one. It's a good one. I'm starting it today!
1. Write quality content and do it well...
Proper punctuation, spelling, and grammar. (blah, blah, blah) Avoid run-on sentences, over using ellipsis (the omission from a sentence of one or more words that would clarify the construction... yup, I had to look it up too), and excessive parenthetical statements. What are these guys talking about? They just don't understand my style.
2. Publish regular updates...
Yeah, okay... busted. It's a recurring problem for me... my inspiration to blog ebbs and flows. It's been ebbing for a while, and not for lack of great times this summer... I think mostly I've just been caught up in the doing part of life.
3. Think of your audience...
Do I have an audience? Probably not any more. Think of my audience, eh? Well, I obviously haven't been great about that, though ultimately I guess no one has to read this nonsense if they don't want to.
(geez.. guilt trip. What? Oh, well, yeah... I suppose I am choosing to feel guilty).
4. Keep search engines in mind...
Ummm?.. yeah. What he said.
5. Keep your posts and paragraphs short...
Oh, now this is one that I'm really really bad at. Seriously. Every post I sit down and think... this will be the one that will be quick, witty, and to the point. Every. Single. Time. And I never seem to come up with that clever snippet... so instead I compensate with posts of Gary Larson comics and music recommendation. uh, whatever.
6. Stop making false promises about the blog...
I came up with that one. It's a good one. I'm starting it today!
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Dear Neglected Blog...
Happy belated birthday. On Thursday you celebrated your first year... I turned 27 on that very same day. I was backpacking up in North Cascades National Park, however, and couldn't get to a computer to send birthday wishes. No hard feelings?
For your birthday I promise you a little more lovin' and attention. We've been through quite a bit together, you and me.... and a lot has transpired since we lost touch.
Looking forward to catching up.
Peace,
Tim
For your birthday I promise you a little more lovin' and attention. We've been through quite a bit together, you and me.... and a lot has transpired since we lost touch.
Looking forward to catching up.
Peace,
Tim
Monday, July 17, 2006
Making dental school friends proud
Yes, I have dental school friends. At least three of them... maybe more, but I can definitely think of three... they're awesome... you should be so lucky. One of them is technically not a dental school friend because he's actually finished with school and is now, in fact, a practicing dentist. Yeah... crazy, huh? In fact, he's actually my dentist. He's appeared on the blog as "Angry Steve", which is a nickname that he isn't particularly fond of, but well... he is sometimes angry... not frequently, but often enough. And when he does get angry, it's usually a spectacular display, like a grown-up temper-tantrum (I think he stamps his feet), and so he warrants the "Angry" part of the nickname, I think. Also his name is Steve. Also, he controls his anger when he's drillin' on my chompers.
4:00 Floss (yeah, I'm slow... but I am me.tic.u.lous)
0:15 Tap water mouth rinse (theory: swishes away "gunk" loosened during flossing).
0:45 Listerine® mouth rinse, 15sec. more than recommended... bad ass, (theory: like the power-wash cycle on the washing machine... gets the "gunk" the water missed, and loosens plaque, etc. Also, it burns, so that must be good).
3:00 Brush w/generic whitening-tartar control-plaque removing-blah, blah, blah... (3min?!? Yeah... I get all surfaces... small circles, 45deg angle at the gum-line... all that shit).
2:00 Brush w/prescription ControlRx® Fluoride toothpaste (Angry Steve told me I had to)
0:00 Don't rinse w/water, only expectorate - that means spit (only noted here because it feels horribly unnatural to not rinse)
...
So yeah, I'm weird... I spend 10 minutes each night cleaning my teeth before bed. But I like to think of it as my 10 minuts of peace... a time of "introspection". Staring at my ugly mug in the mirror, I can reflect on those things on my mind that are most pressing. Tonight, for instance, I reflected on why it is that I spend 10 minutes each night cleaning my teeth. It wasn't always this way. Oh yeah... now I remember. I just paid my credit card bill... $444.70 out-of-pocket for two fillings. Not having insurance SUCKS!
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Al Gore didn't invent the internet?
Actually... he didn't. And actually, he never said he did.
But that's beside the point of this post. That stupid title was a "hook"... Ha Ha! Did I get you?
The reason for this post, one which I've been meaning to write, and one which has been reinspired by Popo and Law-School-Roommate's posts, is this:
Please, please, please go see the film 'An Inconvenient Truth'. Yup, it's that global-warming documentary "starring" our favorite former Vice President Al Gore.
Seriously though... it's an incredible piece of public education. The film follows, depicts, chronicles Al Gore's world-wide tour of a multi-media presentation he's been giving for years and years. It sounds dry, I know, but trust me... it's incredibly moving, enlightening, and disturbing. I actually saw folks wiping away tears on their way out of the theater.
Gore was dubbed a personality-less robot during the 2000 Election, but you know what... he's just kind of a dork... like you and me. I love dorks. He does, in fact, have a sense of humor, the type that laughs at goofy puns. And what's more, he's just so passionate and thoughtful. He reminds you of your dad, or your good friend's dad... what he projects is an incredibly genuine concern for his rejuvenated purpose: Fighting Global Warming.
The funny thing is, the thought that most excited me as my friend and I discussed the film in a pub after the showing was the potential of the film, because it is just that… a film. As I said, Gore’s message is alarming, thought provoking, and inspiring, but honestly, had I not seen this film, I would have never known he was out there campaigning for this cause.
In this day and age of media saturated developed nations, cinematic and televised information seems to be the most easily digested form of information. The average American, at least, seems to have lost their attention span for topics such as these... scientific, statistics-laden. To be sure, this is obviously a global issue, but I think the challenge for Western nations is to get people to actually care, to actually have a vested interest in the problem we face.
Well, I think the film is an amazing vehicle to do just that… inspire people. And what could seem an overwhelming statistics-driven message, is presented graphically and metaphorically in a way that I think appeals to a huge demographic. The problem, I fear, is that no one is seeing the the film… or not enough people are seeing the film.
I think the film-makers have something amazing here, and if the true mission of the film is to affect change, then it behooves them to make the film more accessible. The message is simple and powerful, and it can be understood by middle school and high school kids. The teachers out there could show the film in classrooms… what kid wouldn’t want to watch a movie over taking notes from a stupid overhead? Get the young people of this world to start thinking, questioning, and talking. Give away copies of the film to educators.
...
But I digress... I can't imagine the film makers giving away DVD's, and more so... I can't imagine partisan school-board members allowing, what some might falsely label a politically driven film, into their sterile curriculum. So yeah... you guys should go see the film. And if you have kids, or younger siblings... take them too. After all, it is we (and they) who will be feeling the lasting, and for now worsening, effects of Global Warming.
But that's beside the point of this post. That stupid title was a "hook"... Ha Ha! Did I get you?
The reason for this post, one which I've been meaning to write, and one which has been reinspired by Popo and Law-School-Roommate's posts, is this:
Please, please, please go see the film 'An Inconvenient Truth'. Yup, it's that global-warming documentary "starring" our favorite former Vice President Al Gore.
Seriously though... it's an incredible piece of public education. The film follows, depicts, chronicles Al Gore's world-wide tour of a multi-media presentation he's been giving for years and years. It sounds dry, I know, but trust me... it's incredibly moving, enlightening, and disturbing. I actually saw folks wiping away tears on their way out of the theater.
Gore was dubbed a personality-less robot during the 2000 Election, but you know what... he's just kind of a dork... like you and me. I love dorks. He does, in fact, have a sense of humor, the type that laughs at goofy puns. And what's more, he's just so passionate and thoughtful. He reminds you of your dad, or your good friend's dad... what he projects is an incredibly genuine concern for his rejuvenated purpose: Fighting Global Warming.
The funny thing is, the thought that most excited me as my friend and I discussed the film in a pub after the showing was the potential of the film, because it is just that… a film. As I said, Gore’s message is alarming, thought provoking, and inspiring, but honestly, had I not seen this film, I would have never known he was out there campaigning for this cause.
In this day and age of media saturated developed nations, cinematic and televised information seems to be the most easily digested form of information. The average American, at least, seems to have lost their attention span for topics such as these... scientific, statistics-laden. To be sure, this is obviously a global issue, but I think the challenge for Western nations is to get people to actually care, to actually have a vested interest in the problem we face.
Well, I think the film is an amazing vehicle to do just that… inspire people. And what could seem an overwhelming statistics-driven message, is presented graphically and metaphorically in a way that I think appeals to a huge demographic. The problem, I fear, is that no one is seeing the the film… or not enough people are seeing the film.
I think the film-makers have something amazing here, and if the true mission of the film is to affect change, then it behooves them to make the film more accessible. The message is simple and powerful, and it can be understood by middle school and high school kids. The teachers out there could show the film in classrooms… what kid wouldn’t want to watch a movie over taking notes from a stupid overhead? Get the young people of this world to start thinking, questioning, and talking. Give away copies of the film to educators.
...
But I digress... I can't imagine the film makers giving away DVD's, and more so... I can't imagine partisan school-board members allowing, what some might falsely label a politically driven film, into their sterile curriculum. So yeah... you guys should go see the film. And if you have kids, or younger siblings... take them too. After all, it is we (and they) who will be feeling the lasting, and for now worsening, effects of Global Warming.
Friday, July 14, 2006
tell them you love 'em
Whoever they are. Do it today... pick up that phone.
Ryan Brindamour
June 12, 1979 - July 14, 2005
- loved more than ever -
June 12, 1979 - July 14, 2005
- loved more than ever -
song: P.S. You Rock My World
album: Electro-Shock Blues
artist: Eels
i was at a funeral the day i realized
i wanted to spend my life with you
sitting down on the steps at the old post office
the flag was flying at half mast
and i was thinking 'bout how
everyone is dying
and maybe it's time to live
i don't know where we're going
i don't know what we'll do
walked into the thrif-tee
saw the man with the hollow eyes
who didn't give me all my change
but it didn't bother me this time
'cause i know i've only got
this moment
and it's good
i went to the gas station
old woman honked her horn
waiting for me to fix her car
i don't know where we're going
i don't know what we'll do
laying in bed tonight i was thinking
and listening to all the dogs
and the sirens and shots
and how a careful man tries
to dodge the bullets
while a happy man takes a walk
and maybe it's time to live
album: Electro-Shock Blues
artist: Eels
i was at a funeral the day i realized
i wanted to spend my life with you
sitting down on the steps at the old post office
the flag was flying at half mast
and i was thinking 'bout how
everyone is dying
and maybe it's time to live
i don't know where we're going
i don't know what we'll do
walked into the thrif-tee
saw the man with the hollow eyes
who didn't give me all my change
but it didn't bother me this time
'cause i know i've only got
this moment
and it's good
i went to the gas station
old woman honked her horn
waiting for me to fix her car
i don't know where we're going
i don't know what we'll do
laying in bed tonight i was thinking
and listening to all the dogs
and the sirens and shots
and how a careful man tries
to dodge the bullets
while a happy man takes a walk
and maybe it's time to live
Thursday, June 29, 2006
must. get. haircut.
So here's a story that I'd intended to write a couple of weeks ago. I think that maybe, due to the nature of the events I'm about to recount, I'd subconsciously suppressed the memories of that evening. I have to thank a good friend, the star of the story, for reminding me...
Now, keeping in mind the implicative nature of my story, and the future political aspirations of my good friend, I will avoid using anyone's real names (yes, I'm being over-dramatic, but it's more fun that way). So for the sake of the story, let's call my good friend "Phil", and his long-time girlfriend "Shari". There we have it: Phil & Shari.
A few days after I'd returned to Seattle, Phil, Shari, myself, and another good friend (let's call him... "Sue") went to a concert at a downtown venue called The Showbox. It's a good venue to catch a show... holds about a 1,000 people with a large recessed dance floor in front of the stage where folks cram in to be close to the band and each other. Behind the dance floor, on either side of the main entrance, are two large raised areas, each with bars in the back pouring over-priced drinks. This is where we usually end up standing... close to the drinks, away from the sweaty masses, with an unobstructed view of the band.
The opening act is playing, and the four of us are yelling at each other, barely able to carry on a conversation. I'm talking to Shari who stands to my right, and Phil stands to my left talking to Sue. Shari and I are trying to catch up on the last eight months. Phil and Sue are talking about who-knows-what, and we're all intoxicated by a mixture of booze, youthfulness, freedom, and the company of good friends.
Not turning my way, Phil pats me on the back, and I look over to him thinking, Yeah, it's good to see you too bud. He continues to jaw at Sue, so I turn back to Shari and continue catching up. Phil stops patting me on the back, but his hand remains resting there, in the middle of my back. I think to myself, Hmmm... well, okay... Phil's a pretty affectionate guy. We haven't hungout in 8 months... he must be be happy to see me. I'm happy to see him.
I'm talking again with Shari when Phil's hand slips down to the small of my back. Slightly alarmed, I say to Shari, "hold on a sec," and turn my head, tilt it, and squint at my buddy Phil. He never looks my way... just keeps jawing at Sue. I turn to Shari and say, "You know... I think Phil thinks I'm you." She looks at me quizzically.
Still not looking my way, Phil slides his hand up to the base of my neck and he starts rubbing at the hairline, kind of playing with my hair, and I think... okay, this is too much. "Hey Phil," I say, and he finally turns my way, nonchalantly taking his hand away, "...dude, did you think I was Shari?" I continue.
"Huh? What are you talking about?" he says, turning back to Sue to carry on their conversation.
Shari won't let him off so easily... "OHMYGOD Phil! You did! You thought Tim was me!"
"What are you talking about?" Phil repeats... maintaining an amazing poker face.
"You were totally rubbing Tim's back!" Shari yells/laughs.
"Okay, can we just not talk about this?" says Phil, embarrassed, mortified even. "Tim... I'm... I'm... I..."
"It's alright Phil," I laugh, "I'm almost... flattered? In a creepy sort of way." This is too good, I think to myself.
"Didn't you notice he's wearing a t-shirt? I have a halter-top!" Shari laughs, and patting my back, "Tim's back feels nothing like mine."
"Yeah Phil," I continue (we're ruthless), "didn't you notice... no bra-strap?"
"I mean REALLY... can we NOT talk about this?" Phil yells/whispers.
"Phiii-iil... didn't you notice..." Shari tries to continue the roasting.
"Can we pleeease not talk about this. It's embarrassing enough already."
And so we let it lie. Sue was laughing in the background the entire time, and the rest of the night the four of us take turns suggestively patting and rubbing each other's backs. ahhh, friends.
Now, keeping in mind the implicative nature of my story, and the future political aspirations of my good friend, I will avoid using anyone's real names (yes, I'm being over-dramatic, but it's more fun that way). So for the sake of the story, let's call my good friend "Phil", and his long-time girlfriend "Shari". There we have it: Phil & Shari.
A few days after I'd returned to Seattle, Phil, Shari, myself, and another good friend (let's call him... "Sue") went to a concert at a downtown venue called The Showbox. It's a good venue to catch a show... holds about a 1,000 people with a large recessed dance floor in front of the stage where folks cram in to be close to the band and each other. Behind the dance floor, on either side of the main entrance, are two large raised areas, each with bars in the back pouring over-priced drinks. This is where we usually end up standing... close to the drinks, away from the sweaty masses, with an unobstructed view of the band.
The opening act is playing, and the four of us are yelling at each other, barely able to carry on a conversation. I'm talking to Shari who stands to my right, and Phil stands to my left talking to Sue. Shari and I are trying to catch up on the last eight months. Phil and Sue are talking about who-knows-what, and we're all intoxicated by a mixture of booze, youthfulness, freedom, and the company of good friends.
Not turning my way, Phil pats me on the back, and I look over to him thinking, Yeah, it's good to see you too bud. He continues to jaw at Sue, so I turn back to Shari and continue catching up. Phil stops patting me on the back, but his hand remains resting there, in the middle of my back. I think to myself, Hmmm... well, okay... Phil's a pretty affectionate guy. We haven't hungout in 8 months... he must be be happy to see me. I'm happy to see him.
I'm talking again with Shari when Phil's hand slips down to the small of my back. Slightly alarmed, I say to Shari, "hold on a sec," and turn my head, tilt it, and squint at my buddy Phil. He never looks my way... just keeps jawing at Sue. I turn to Shari and say, "You know... I think Phil thinks I'm you." She looks at me quizzically.
Still not looking my way, Phil slides his hand up to the base of my neck and he starts rubbing at the hairline, kind of playing with my hair, and I think... okay, this is too much. "Hey Phil," I say, and he finally turns my way, nonchalantly taking his hand away, "...dude, did you think I was Shari?" I continue.
"Huh? What are you talking about?" he says, turning back to Sue to carry on their conversation.
Shari won't let him off so easily... "OHMYGOD Phil! You did! You thought Tim was me!"
"What are you talking about?" Phil repeats... maintaining an amazing poker face.
"You were totally rubbing Tim's back!" Shari yells/laughs.
"Okay, can we just not talk about this?" says Phil, embarrassed, mortified even. "Tim... I'm... I'm... I..."
"It's alright Phil," I laugh, "I'm almost... flattered? In a creepy sort of way." This is too good, I think to myself.
"Didn't you notice he's wearing a t-shirt? I have a halter-top!" Shari laughs, and patting my back, "Tim's back feels nothing like mine."
"Yeah Phil," I continue (we're ruthless), "didn't you notice... no bra-strap?"
"I mean REALLY... can we NOT talk about this?" Phil yells/whispers.
"Phiii-iil... didn't you notice..." Shari tries to continue the roasting.
"Can we pleeease not talk about this. It's embarrassing enough already."
And so we let it lie. Sue was laughing in the background the entire time, and the rest of the night the four of us take turns suggestively patting and rubbing each other's backs. ahhh, friends.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Listening to...
Alexi Murdoch - Time Without Consequence
Saw him at The Tractor two years ago. Great show. Not sure what took him so long to release the record, but I think it was worth the wait. Mellow, sweet songs.
Wolf Parade - Apologies to the Queen Mary
Another great band from Montreal. Steering-wheel drummin' music.
M. Ward - Transistor Radio
Plays Seattle 9/1 and Vancouver BC 9/2.
Saw him at The Tractor two years ago. Great show. Not sure what took him so long to release the record, but I think it was worth the wait. Mellow, sweet songs.
Wolf Parade - Apologies to the Queen Mary
Another great band from Montreal. Steering-wheel drummin' music.
M. Ward - Transistor Radio
Plays Seattle 9/1 and Vancouver BC 9/2.
Friday, June 23, 2006
A Movie...
...to skip: Nacho Libre
It should've been a great movie... team up Jared Hess (Director, Napoleon Dynamite) and Jack Black as an aspiring Mexican wrestler. Such promise, and such a let down. Somehow the movie seemed to try too hard to attain the quirky odd-ball comedy of Napoleon Dynamite. It has its moments, but still. Maybe my expectations were too high.
...to rent instead: Thumbsucker
Yeah, yeah... it does have Keanu. But you know what... he's actually pretty good in this one, plays a bit-part, and really funny at times. The acting in this indie is spot-on. The kid playing the lead is incredible. It's an honest and quirky take on growing up, parenting, family oddities, suburbia, uncertainty... I'd also be curious to hear what someone who has been diagnosed with ADHD, and has experience with Ritalin, would have to say about this movie. I did a horrible job of selling the film, but it really is good.
It should've been a great movie... team up Jared Hess (Director, Napoleon Dynamite) and Jack Black as an aspiring Mexican wrestler. Such promise, and such a let down. Somehow the movie seemed to try too hard to attain the quirky odd-ball comedy of Napoleon Dynamite. It has its moments, but still. Maybe my expectations were too high.
...to rent instead: Thumbsucker
Yeah, yeah... it does have Keanu. But you know what... he's actually pretty good in this one, plays a bit-part, and really funny at times. The acting in this indie is spot-on. The kid playing the lead is incredible. It's an honest and quirky take on growing up, parenting, family oddities, suburbia, uncertainty... I'd also be curious to hear what someone who has been diagnosed with ADHD, and has experience with Ritalin, would have to say about this movie. I did a horrible job of selling the film, but it really is good.
sometimes I just wonder about that kid...
HE: "Wanna hear something weird?"
ME: "..."
HE: "I've never had anything butterscotch. Isn't that weird?"
ME: "..."
HE: "I mean, like, I don't even know what butterscotch flavor tastes like."
ME: "..."
HE: "But, isn't that weird?"
ME: "You ever had a Werther's Original?"
HE: "yeah..."
ME: "That's butterscotch."
HE: "no... really?"
ME: "Yup."
HE: "oh, maaan..."
ME: "..."
HE: "I've never had anything butterscotch. Isn't that weird?"
ME: "..."
HE: "I mean, like, I don't even know what butterscotch flavor tastes like."
ME: "..."
HE: "But, isn't that weird?"
ME: "You ever had a Werther's Original?"
HE: "yeah..."
ME: "That's butterscotch."
HE: "no... really?"
ME: "Yup."
HE: "oh, maaan..."
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
After-school special
My 16-year-old brother and I drive back toward town along Wawai Road some 5 miles outside Pullman.
"That was a cool spot..." I say, referring to the grain elevators where we'd talked and star-gazed for an hour.
"Yeah, my friends and I like to hangout or whatever. Sometimes we smoke, but usually we just talk...I haven't smoked for like 3 months though."
"That's good," I say, indifferent.
"When was the last time you smoked?" he asks.
"I really don't."
"But when was the last time you did?"
"Well, the first and only cigarette I smoked was in 7th grade. I think it was 7th grade. I stole a pack from Dad, and a couple of us... I think Spence was there... went to the Sunnyside School playground."
"And?"
"I nearly died of an asthma attack. I puked, as I recall. So yeah, that was the only cigarette I tried. My lungs are no good, asthma you know? And, I've never smoked pot."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I've never tried pot... inhaling smoke on purpose never sounded good to me."
"We should go smoke."
"No way man."
"Oh come on... it'll be so cool. I want to smoke out my older brother."
"Cool? maybe for you. Shit... I am the square older brother."
"Oh come on... just try it."
"Okay stop. This is creeping me out... What are you? Part of a bizzaro after-school special? My younger brother is trying to corrupt me."
"..."
"Never mind, but seriously... I'm good."
"Okay, okay... but if you want to try, just let me know."
"Enough!"
"That was a cool spot..." I say, referring to the grain elevators where we'd talked and star-gazed for an hour.
"Yeah, my friends and I like to hangout or whatever. Sometimes we smoke, but usually we just talk...I haven't smoked for like 3 months though."
"That's good," I say, indifferent.
"When was the last time you smoked?" he asks.
"I really don't."
"But when was the last time you did?"
"Well, the first and only cigarette I smoked was in 7th grade. I think it was 7th grade. I stole a pack from Dad, and a couple of us... I think Spence was there... went to the Sunnyside School playground."
"And?"
"I nearly died of an asthma attack. I puked, as I recall. So yeah, that was the only cigarette I tried. My lungs are no good, asthma you know? And, I've never smoked pot."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I've never tried pot... inhaling smoke on purpose never sounded good to me."
"We should go smoke."
"No way man."
"Oh come on... it'll be so cool. I want to smoke out my older brother."
"Cool? maybe for you. Shit... I am the square older brother."
"Oh come on... just try it."
"Okay stop. This is creeping me out... What are you? Part of a bizzaro after-school special? My younger brother is trying to corrupt me."
"..."
"Never mind, but seriously... I'm good."
"Okay, okay... but if you want to try, just let me know."
"Enough!"
Sunday, June 18, 2006
pumpkin pie
ma: "We're having dinner tonight at 7:00, okay?"
tim: "Great... what are we having?"
ma: "Well, I thought we'd have a turkey dinner since you missed Thanksgiving."
tim: "Seriously?"
ma: "Yeah, it was kind of hard to find a turkey in June though."
tim: "Thanksgiving in June? This is great! Are we having pumpkin pie, too?"
ma: "Well, I hadn't planned on it, but I can get some canned pumpkin at the store, and..."
tim: "Nooo... it's no big deal."
ma: "It's no problem... I like pumpkin pie."
tim: "Sweet! Pumpkin pie!"
Every mom loves spoiling their "grown-up" kids. And some times, we like being spoiled. If a girl ever wanted to win my heart, she need only bake a pumpkin pie. My mom rocks!
tim: "Great... what are we having?"
ma: "Well, I thought we'd have a turkey dinner since you missed Thanksgiving."
tim: "Seriously?"
ma: "Yeah, it was kind of hard to find a turkey in June though."
tim: "Thanksgiving in June? This is great! Are we having pumpkin pie, too?"
ma: "Well, I hadn't planned on it, but I can get some canned pumpkin at the store, and..."
tim: "Nooo... it's no big deal."
ma: "It's no problem... I like pumpkin pie."
tim: "Sweet! Pumpkin pie!"
Every mom loves spoiling their "grown-up" kids. And some times, we like being spoiled. If a girl ever wanted to win my heart, she need only bake a pumpkin pie. My mom rocks!
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Band Names
If you were to ask me, which of my friends would I want to see as the subject of a documentary film, one would definitely be my friend Shelton from Antarctica. The second, without a doubt, would be my 16-year-old (Cooler-Than-He-Knows) brother.
Maybe I have a really childish sense of humor, or maybe I'm just easily amused, but I swear... the things that go on in that kid's everyday-life just cracks my shit up. I haven't been in Pullman for more than 6 hours before he blindsides me...
"Hey Tim," he starts off, "did I tell you about our band?" He's an alarmingly good musician. Of course I'm biased because he's my baby brother, and I think he's perfect, but objectively speaking... I don't think it would be wrong to call him one of those kids that are "naturals" at these sorts of things... music, I mean. It's really annoying.
"No man," I say, "last you told me, you were jamming with your buddies Joe and... and... who were the others?"
"Joe, Ian and Ephram. Yeah, we recorded some stuff... it's not very good, but you can hear it if you want."
"Yeah... I'd love to hear you guys." I really would. "Who plays what?"
"Joe plays drums for us and sometimes guitar. Ephram plays the bass, and I play guitar."
"What about Ian?"
"Ian sings."
"Which one is Ian again?"
"He's the one who wears the dark-rimmed glasses and dresses funny with scarves and stuff. Everyone thinks he's gay, but he's not... he's just kind of eccentric. He watches that show Gilmore Girls, and we're always like 'Dude! What the hell do you watch that crap for?!? It's a chick-show!' and he's like [makes his voice kind of squeaky] 'It's a really good show guys... you should really check it out.' We give him a lot of crap for watching Gilmore Girls."
"Okay... now I remember Ian."
"Oh, so yeah... when we started playing together we had to come up with a band name. I came up with The Dudesons [as in Dude-sons], and we went with that for a while."
"Okay," I follow along.
"We jam after school, you know, and during our jams Ian starts calling us Follow Us To The Edge Of The Desert. The new name kind of grows on us, and we all start calling ourselves Follow Us To The Edge Of The Desert."
"That's cool. Kind of a long name, but it's original," I say.
"So last week, our friend Joel is like, 'You guys know where Follow Us To The Edge Of The Desert came from, don't you?' We're like, 'No, what'd you mean? Ian made it up during our jams.' And Joel's like, 'It's from the Gilmore Girls you guys. It's the name of the band that the kids on Gilmore Girls start.' And we're like, 'What. The. FUCK!'..."
"Are you kidding me?!?" I stammer, bug-eyed and doubled-over with laughter.
"Yeah, as it turns out Ian named us after the band on the Gilmore Girls. We were going to kill him, but first we were freaking out. We were like, 'Ah fuck... what do we do? What do we do? We've already played two shows as Follow Us To The Edge Of The Desert... ah fuck, ah fuck... the girls at our concerts must have known... they all watch the Gilmore Girls... ah fuck, ah fuck... why didn't they say anything? We look so stupid! Shit, maybe we can be an acronym band... F.U.T.T.E.O.T.D.... futt-eot'd? Fuck. That'll never work.'"
"Oh my God," me laughing, "What'd you guys do?"
"Nothing... we still haven't figured out what we're going to do. Ian, man... he must have known how pissed we'd be when we found out. We were going to find out. He was like, 'I'm sorry guys... but I don't see what's the big deal.' The whole time we were getting ready for our shows... he knew how fucked up this was going to be, and he didn't say anything!"
"This is awesome!" I laugh.
"This is not awesome. We're screwed." He buries his face in his hands, over-dramatically.
Maybe I have a really childish sense of humor, or maybe I'm just easily amused, but I swear... the things that go on in that kid's everyday-life just cracks my shit up. I haven't been in Pullman for more than 6 hours before he blindsides me...
"Hey Tim," he starts off, "did I tell you about our band?" He's an alarmingly good musician. Of course I'm biased because he's my baby brother, and I think he's perfect, but objectively speaking... I don't think it would be wrong to call him one of those kids that are "naturals" at these sorts of things... music, I mean. It's really annoying.
"No man," I say, "last you told me, you were jamming with your buddies Joe and... and... who were the others?"
"Joe, Ian and Ephram. Yeah, we recorded some stuff... it's not very good, but you can hear it if you want."
"Yeah... I'd love to hear you guys." I really would. "Who plays what?"
"Joe plays drums for us and sometimes guitar. Ephram plays the bass, and I play guitar."
"What about Ian?"
"Ian sings."
"Which one is Ian again?"
"He's the one who wears the dark-rimmed glasses and dresses funny with scarves and stuff. Everyone thinks he's gay, but he's not... he's just kind of eccentric. He watches that show Gilmore Girls, and we're always like 'Dude! What the hell do you watch that crap for?!? It's a chick-show!' and he's like [makes his voice kind of squeaky] 'It's a really good show guys... you should really check it out.' We give him a lot of crap for watching Gilmore Girls."
"Okay... now I remember Ian."
"Oh, so yeah... when we started playing together we had to come up with a band name. I came up with The Dudesons [as in Dude-sons], and we went with that for a while."
"Okay," I follow along.
"We jam after school, you know, and during our jams Ian starts calling us Follow Us To The Edge Of The Desert. The new name kind of grows on us, and we all start calling ourselves Follow Us To The Edge Of The Desert."
"That's cool. Kind of a long name, but it's original," I say.
"So last week, our friend Joel is like, 'You guys know where Follow Us To The Edge Of The Desert came from, don't you?' We're like, 'No, what'd you mean? Ian made it up during our jams.' And Joel's like, 'It's from the Gilmore Girls you guys. It's the name of the band that the kids on Gilmore Girls start.' And we're like, 'What. The. FUCK!'..."
"Are you kidding me?!?" I stammer, bug-eyed and doubled-over with laughter.
"Yeah, as it turns out Ian named us after the band on the Gilmore Girls. We were going to kill him, but first we were freaking out. We were like, 'Ah fuck... what do we do? What do we do? We've already played two shows as Follow Us To The Edge Of The Desert... ah fuck, ah fuck... the girls at our concerts must have known... they all watch the Gilmore Girls... ah fuck, ah fuck... why didn't they say anything? We look so stupid! Shit, maybe we can be an acronym band... F.U.T.T.E.O.T.D.... futt-eot'd? Fuck. That'll never work.'"
"Oh my God," me laughing, "What'd you guys do?"
"Nothing... we still haven't figured out what we're going to do. Ian, man... he must have known how pissed we'd be when we found out. We were going to find out. He was like, 'I'm sorry guys... but I don't see what's the big deal.' The whole time we were getting ready for our shows... he knew how fucked up this was going to be, and he didn't say anything!"
"This is awesome!" I laugh.
"This is not awesome. We're screwed." He buries his face in his hands, over-dramatically.
Friday, June 16, 2006
going home
I recently had a conversation with a friend who also grew up in the small Eastern Washington town of Pullman. Somehow in our meandering conversation, we started talking about how what we identified as our home towns had changed over the years. Maybe it's the same for others from small rural areas, but nowadays when someone asks me where I'm from, I proudly declare "Seattle." My friend now considers Portland her home town. What is it about growing up in a small town... why is it such a source of pride to have escaped, moved on... why is the idea of remaining in your small town so frightening, even shameful?
I've been living in Seattle for 8 years now... 8 years! That's almost a third of my life. And, whether it's justified or silly or whatever, I do take pride in being from Seattle. It's not that I've escaped... it's more that I challenged myself to try something different, and lucky for me I liked that 'different'. Small towns, home towns... there's nothing wrong with them. But I would say that everyone should challenge their environment before they settle on the only thing they know. Escape, move on, or whatever... do it for a little while. If it doesn't work for you, cool, now you can settle into that small town life knowing, really knowing, that it's right for you.
My ramblings aside, there will always, always be a place in my heart for my childhood home. Nearly nine months have passed since I last visited my family in Pullman. Diving from Seattle, 300miles across the state of Washington, I was actually surprised by how much I was enjoying the anticipation and, eventually, the familiarity.
Mountains gave way to orchards, then to expansive farm land and the mighty Columbia, then to arid scab-lands, and finally to the rolling hills of the Palouse. The air is sweet here... somehow I always forget that.
I've been living in Seattle for 8 years now... 8 years! That's almost a third of my life. And, whether it's justified or silly or whatever, I do take pride in being from Seattle. It's not that I've escaped... it's more that I challenged myself to try something different, and lucky for me I liked that 'different'. Small towns, home towns... there's nothing wrong with them. But I would say that everyone should challenge their environment before they settle on the only thing they know. Escape, move on, or whatever... do it for a little while. If it doesn't work for you, cool, now you can settle into that small town life knowing, really knowing, that it's right for you.
My ramblings aside, there will always, always be a place in my heart for my childhood home. Nearly nine months have passed since I last visited my family in Pullman. Diving from Seattle, 300miles across the state of Washington, I was actually surprised by how much I was enjoying the anticipation and, eventually, the familiarity.
Mountains gave way to orchards, then to expansive farm land and the mighty Columbia, then to arid scab-lands, and finally to the rolling hills of the Palouse. The air is sweet here... somehow I always forget that.
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Wednesday, June 07, 2006
The marbles in my head - Part 2
This is the post where I ramble neurotically about my still-to-be-defined-plans for the next year or so. It's good to have plans, I think. Some people swear by the six month plan, or the three year plan, the five year plan... I personally like the one year plan, amended with loose ideas for the two years to follow. I mean, you can never really account for everything that will happen; there's only so much that is actually within one's control. But, it's always good to have goals, aspirations, ideas... I think.
Yesterday afternoon I was offered (albeit informally) a contract to work in Antarctica once more, next austral summer. Back in February, when I finished my four month dish-monkey gig, I only applied for four positions in the Antarctic Program... one of them was for Fuels Operator, more commonly called "Fuelie". This time next week, I'll know whether there is a formal contract that would send me back down to the ICE from late-Sept to late-Feb. This opportunity actually comes as a huge surprise, because, honestly, I never expected to be offered any of the jobs that I applied for... everyone covets those jobs.
So now my mind's racing wildly, and I'm at that place where opportunities abound, anything and everything seems possible, the choices are overwhelming, and I feel wildly alive. It's my favorite feeling.
To be sure... I'm also anxious. Would going down to the ICE another season, essentially extending my hiatus from any sort of "career development" by another year, be disastrous for any longer-term professional goals that I have. Am I being escapist? Foolhardy? Evading life's more difficult choices by justifying this venture as adventure and life-experience? I'm not sure.
But I guess those doubts are mostly moot... if/when I get a paper contract, I'll be headed back to Antarctica for a second season, and my mind swims with all things I hope for next season... a radio slot? run the marathon? MAAG (McMurdo Alternative Art Gallery) submission? rugby team? getting out in the field? learning to weld? books to read? friends to reconnect with?
And after the season? So many possibilities... backpack Nepal, Tibet, Northern India, through to Pakistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgystan, Uzbekistan... or maybe, just do Nepal, Tibet and Northern India then go visit my friend Sarah in London and bum around Europe for a while - Eastern Europe would be awesome... but maybe, I'll do a short stint in Asia, 6 weeks or so, and get myself back to the States to start the Pacific Crest Trail in late April.
Much to think over.
Yesterday afternoon I was offered (albeit informally) a contract to work in Antarctica once more, next austral summer. Back in February, when I finished my four month dish-monkey gig, I only applied for four positions in the Antarctic Program... one of them was for Fuels Operator, more commonly called "Fuelie". This time next week, I'll know whether there is a formal contract that would send me back down to the ICE from late-Sept to late-Feb. This opportunity actually comes as a huge surprise, because, honestly, I never expected to be offered any of the jobs that I applied for... everyone covets those jobs.
So now my mind's racing wildly, and I'm at that place where opportunities abound, anything and everything seems possible, the choices are overwhelming, and I feel wildly alive. It's my favorite feeling.
To be sure... I'm also anxious. Would going down to the ICE another season, essentially extending my hiatus from any sort of "career development" by another year, be disastrous for any longer-term professional goals that I have. Am I being escapist? Foolhardy? Evading life's more difficult choices by justifying this venture as adventure and life-experience? I'm not sure.
But I guess those doubts are mostly moot... if/when I get a paper contract, I'll be headed back to Antarctica for a second season, and my mind swims with all things I hope for next season... a radio slot? run the marathon? MAAG (McMurdo Alternative Art Gallery) submission? rugby team? getting out in the field? learning to weld? books to read? friends to reconnect with?
And after the season? So many possibilities... backpack Nepal, Tibet, Northern India, through to Pakistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgystan, Uzbekistan... or maybe, just do Nepal, Tibet and Northern India then go visit my friend Sarah in London and bum around Europe for a while - Eastern Europe would be awesome... but maybe, I'll do a short stint in Asia, 6 weeks or so, and get myself back to the States to start the Pacific Crest Trail in late April.
Much to think over.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Reverse Culture Shock
A few days ago I returned to the beautiful city of Seattle. I absolutely love this city. It's actually been 8 months since I left... my time abroad (I've never really liked that term, "abroad"... sounds pretentious or something... like, "What are you doing for the summer? Oh that's nice... I'm going abroaaad.")... okay, so my travels took me through Antarctica, New Zealand, Thailand, Cambodia, Laos, and Singapore. Needless-to-say, it's an adjustment slipping back into these once comfortable Seattle-shoes. With that in mind, I'm going to do one of those list things...
10 Adjustments/Surprises/Novelties of Returning to Seattle, USA
10. Driving and everything related to it. I stalled my own car twice... that's just embarrassing. All the cars are huge, the highways are huge, the people are... never mind. Seattle traffic is ridiculous... how'd I forget that? And I actually got excited to find $2.99/gal gas.
9. How incredibly clean everything is... my God, it's unbelievable... this country is practically sterile. Trash, sewage, bugs... no where to be seen. Toilets? Spotless. We have it so good.
8. How far my money doesn't go...
$0.50 in Bangkok = Phad Thai ... $0.50 in Seattle = side of tartar sauce.
$5.00 in Siem Reap = room w/private bath ... $5.00 in Seattle = 1% of rent.
$17.00 on Air Asia = flight across Thailand ... $17.00 in Seattle = 1/2 tank of gas
7. Seeing the temperature (70F), and actually comprehending what that should feel like (Celsius still means nothing to me)... and then finding myself putting on jeans and a sweatshirt because I'm FREEZING.
6. Tap Water... drinking it, brushing my teeth with it, showering with my mouth open, washing vegetables, fruit, and not having to peel the stuff to eat it.
5. Personal Hygiene... every day I find myself in the bathroom, usually in the afternoon, staring at the stick of deodorant on the counter and wondering... "did I put deodorant on this morning?" It's a strange transition - how your threshold for cleanliness changes when you cease the transient life. Where as I would wear the same t-shirt and shorts for a week and shower every 3 days, now I wear a t-shirt twice before it's tossed in the laundry bin, and sometimes I even shower twice in a day.
4. Smoke free bars. Yup... while I was away, Washington state banned smoking in all bars and restaurants. Needless to say... this kicks ass.
3. How is it that every person in Seattle seems to be incredibly stylish, hip and beautiful. Either my standards went down, my self-conscious up, or I'm just out of touch with current trends. I know, I know... all of the above.
2. No. More. Broken. English. I can actually (well, theoretically) carry on complex and intellectual conversations.
1. Radio... NPR... KEXP... 'This American Life'... 'John in The Morning'... 'Science Fridays'... 'Car Talk'... 'The Roadhouse'... so good.
10 Adjustments/Surprises/Novelties of Returning to Seattle, USA
10. Driving and everything related to it. I stalled my own car twice... that's just embarrassing. All the cars are huge, the highways are huge, the people are... never mind. Seattle traffic is ridiculous... how'd I forget that? And I actually got excited to find $2.99/gal gas.
9. How incredibly clean everything is... my God, it's unbelievable... this country is practically sterile. Trash, sewage, bugs... no where to be seen. Toilets? Spotless. We have it so good.
8. How far my money doesn't go...
$0.50 in Bangkok = Phad Thai ... $0.50 in Seattle = side of tartar sauce.
$5.00 in Siem Reap = room w/private bath ... $5.00 in Seattle = 1% of rent.
$17.00 on Air Asia = flight across Thailand ... $17.00 in Seattle = 1/2 tank of gas
7. Seeing the temperature (70F), and actually comprehending what that should feel like (Celsius still means nothing to me)... and then finding myself putting on jeans and a sweatshirt because I'm FREEZING.
6. Tap Water... drinking it, brushing my teeth with it, showering with my mouth open, washing vegetables, fruit, and not having to peel the stuff to eat it.
5. Personal Hygiene... every day I find myself in the bathroom, usually in the afternoon, staring at the stick of deodorant on the counter and wondering... "did I put deodorant on this morning?" It's a strange transition - how your threshold for cleanliness changes when you cease the transient life. Where as I would wear the same t-shirt and shorts for a week and shower every 3 days, now I wear a t-shirt twice before it's tossed in the laundry bin, and sometimes I even shower twice in a day.
4. Smoke free bars. Yup... while I was away, Washington state banned smoking in all bars and restaurants. Needless to say... this kicks ass.
3. How is it that every person in Seattle seems to be incredibly stylish, hip and beautiful. Either my standards went down, my self-conscious up, or I'm just out of touch with current trends. I know, I know... all of the above.
2. No. More. Broken. English. I can actually (well, theoretically) carry on complex and intellectual conversations.
1. Radio... NPR... KEXP... 'This American Life'... 'John in The Morning'... 'Science Fridays'... 'Car Talk'... 'The Roadhouse'... so good.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
my gift to you...
In case you were having a bad day, or were generally unhappy for some reason.
I present Tate...
She's eating figs... and single-handedly making my day.
I present Tate...
She's eating figs... and single-handedly making my day.
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