This is what Halloween looks like.

You have no idea how tired I am

Yesterday was my birthday. I celebrated in the usual fashion: cake, Thanksgiving, shopping. There was band practice and brunch, then, later, a perfectly-sized gettogether (pronounced: ghetto leather). Earlier this weekend there was another party, this one a themed costume soiree, which I attended without bothering to dress up, a fact of no small concern to several.

I also saw the Tiger Lillies and sang Monday, Monday at a karoke bar.

Today I should be sleeping. Sleeping the sleep of the unslept. Jesus.

Thanks, though, to everybody for everything. It was great.

The refresh rate was periously low

Over the weekend, I went to Whiskey Creek, which really ought to be a euphemism (feel free to start) but is actually a place located on the far edges of the state. It was beautiful there, the setting untouchable; the company was glorious, old and new friends all; and the cumulative effect of both was, for those that believe in such things, a clean aura or, for those that don’t, a refreshed mind and body.

I drove out through heavy rains. Many people don’t like piloting through wet sheets, but I’m the anomaly; there were points, however, on the two lane roads that ink Washington’s lesser traveled paths, where I started to re-think my position, as driving with little to no visibility is a flight plan to disaster. But as a trained pilot I had little to fear.

It was midnight when I pulled up outside the cabins. It was morning one day later when I left. Here’s a smattering of what happened in between.







The rest of the pictures are here.

Hate/Love

Things I hate:

Pants with a button fly. I do not need a puzzle box for my privates. On the other hand, these trousers do make me look thin, tall, and suave. An effect that will surely be ruined the very moment I have to spend three minutes in the men’s bathroom staring at my crotch trying to close my pants.

Faucets with no knobs, only motion sensors. Running my hand around the lip of the sink looking for the recessed button to turn on the hot water not only defeats the purpose of the motion sensor, but infuriates me as to the progress of motion sensors in these United States. We are the greatest nation of lazy people ever and if this is the best we can do to eliminate the need to twist on and off a knob, well then folks, I don’t want it.

The rain when I have to stand in it. My birthday is on the way, someone buy me the kind of bubble technology the Jetsons used to keep Elroy dry. Doesn’t exist? Invent it.

Mass transit. Why can’t I decide where we go and who we pick up? This bus would be so much awesomer if we had a fat, judgmental man working the door, keeping all the uggos on the street where they belong. Those dumb drivers let anyone on.

All of these things impact me at my new job, which is Meg’s old job. I’m the new Meg, which is one misplaced finger away from being a whole new me.

Moving. I’ve done a shitton of this lately. I’m no longer down. Although I own a truck, I must now already owe you a favor before I am willing to schlep anything I cannot keep. If you are willing to risk loosing possessions to me, I am more than willing to take your things anywhere you like.

Things I love:

The End Times. You know, that band I play in? Yeah, well, we’re playing again Monday at the High Dive. Please come and bring friends. The High Dive is cavernous if empty.

My new apartment—which also used to be Meg’s—is amazing: a huge studio with a view of the skyline. I’ve been lighting it at night with candles and listening to women’s choirs and falling in love with being in the city. It’s quite beautiful and I’ll invite you all over for a drink once I get all the rest of my things—the forgettable ephemera of my existence—off the floor and into the back of my newly christened storage closet.

Christmas songs. If you had asked me two months ago, in what would surely have to be the tertiary stages of the clap, if I like Christmas songs, I would have said to you: no. No, I do not like Christmas songs (Except for Carol of the Bells. That song is crazy beautiful, like Kirsten Dunst on a Latino boy). But somehow I’ve found myself in a Christmas cover band (with girl group harmonies and everything) and we’re set to play the Blue Moon Tavern on Christmas Eve. Please come and bring friends. The Blue Moon is horribly depressing if the only friendly thing there is a PBR tallboy.

You. Yes, you, my friends, dear readers, and humble hitch-hikers on this low-traffic backwater two lane. I’ve been incommunicado for a while, but I’m working on re-establishing ties and returning calls and all those other things that normal, functioning people do. Please do not abandon all hope in regards to me yet.