This morning

This morning I woke up drunk on the possibilities of the band I'm in. Also: the three Mac & Jacks I had with my parents, the Joost I drank during band practice, and the gin I downed once I got home.

So I woke up drunk on possibilities and, uh, alcohol.

Speaking of The End Times; our next show has been scheduled: April 20th. West Seattle. Pacific Rim Brewery. With the Bug Nasties and Green Handshake. Be there or be resigned to wait until the next one.

My new favorite metaphor

"You've got a camper van."

The price I pay for eating well

Sandwiches are frightfully boring. Like math. But tastier. Like children. It's a fact, go look it up. But as I don't particularly enjoy eating children, sandwiches, or math (although, it must be said that the exponents in quadratic functions are a delicacy too rarely enjoyed), my lunchtime repast at work often consists of leftovers from last night's dinner, be it homemade or store-bought.

This has become such tradition that, more than anything else, I'm well known around the office place for having the most delightfully smelling foodstuffs. What can I say? My adventurous tongue will no longer suffer the white-bread sorrows of mustard slathered turkey (unless, of course, it has been grilled and further seasoned with pesto and avocado. That shit is delicious.)


Today, I was eating what you see at left (on the screen, baby, on the screen. I don't know what you have to the left of whatever you're reading this on, but chances are real good I was not eating it.) If you've never had one of these things, you really ought to. It's a box of pure Eastern imagination hiding in a textural playland of rice, chicken, and fruit. They're cheap and, all things considered, not too terribly bad for you. Today I had the Sweet and Sour Chicken; its powerful and seductive smell wafts into the nose like a bouquet of egrets seeing sanctuary. And the taste? Like getting shot with a stun gun set on "Pleasure."

Most of my co-workers have been, or currently are, sick. Even I was out yesterday to recuperate. And while today I am back in full control of my faculties, some of my colleagues are not so lucky. Which is how we get to the following exchange (and the whole point of this post):

Coworker #1: Oh, my! That smells delicious.
Coworker #2: What is it?
Coworker #1: It's sweet and sour chicken. Can't you smell it?
Coworker #2: I'm sick. Stuffed up. I can't smell anything.
Coworker #1: Well, go stick your nose in his box and see if you smell anything.

GO STICK YOUR NOSE IN HIS BOX
AND SEE IF YOU SMELL ANYTHING

Please, coworkers and friends, do not ever do this. Ever. Thank you.

heat pangs in the stovepipe of my soul

For reasons I'm either unable or unwilling to parse, I was reminded of this reading I saw several years ago at WWU. The poet's name was/is Li-Young Lee. I was there because one of my many English courses required I attend a live reading (three, in fact) per quarter. So I was there when he read this:

Tearing the Page

Every wise child is sad.

Every prince, is a member of the grass.

Each bud opening opens on the unforeseen.

Every wind-strewn flower is God tearing God.

And the stars are leaves
blown across my grandmother’s lap.
Or the dew multiplying.

And of time’s many hands, who can tell
the bloody from the perfumed,

the ones that stitch
from the ones that rip.

Every laughing child is forgetful.
Every solitary child rules the universe.

And the child who can’t sleep
learns to count, a patient child.

And the child who counts negotiates
between limit and longing,
infinity and subtraction.

Every child who listens
all night to the wind eventually

knows his breathing turns a wheel
pouring time and dream to leave no trace.

Though he can’t tell what a minute weighs,
or is an hour too little or too long.

As old as night itself,
he’s not old enough in the morning
to heat his milk on the stove.

But he knows about good-byes.
Some of them, anyway. The good-bye
at the door each morning, a kiss for a kiss.
The good-bye at bedtime,
stories and songs until it’s safe to close his eyes.

And maybe he’s even heard about the waiting room
at Union Station, where dust and echoes climb
to the great skylights

accompanied by farewells
of the now-going, to join the distant
farewells of the long gone,

while a voice announces the departure
of the Twentieth Century for all points West.

Yes, every wise child is heart-broken.
A sorrowing pip,

he knows the play
he’s called away from each evening
is the beginning and end of order
in a human household.

He’s sure his humming to himself
and his rising and falling ball are appointed
by ancient laws his own heart-tides obey.

But he can’t tell anybody what he knows.

Old enough to knot his shoelaces,
he’s not old enough to unknot them.

Old enough to pray, he doesn’t always
know who to pray to.

Old enough to know to close the window
when it storms, old enough to know the rain,
given the chance, would fall on him,

and darken him, and darken him, the way
he himself colors the figures
he draws, pressing so hard he tears the page.

Upon hearing this, in a moleskin notebook that has since gone missing, I wrote the first line of this poem. And, occasionally, it is there in the periphery of my memory. Only tonight am I bothered enough by it to record it somewhere else again.

Oh, how I've forgotten /
how easy it is to feel maudlin

I'm having a Sally Field moment

The End Times came and went last night, and in between our arrival and departure (and yours) a set was played, sweated through (quite literally, in my case), and recorded.

To everyone that came: thank you. Seriously. It meant a whole hell of a lot to me, and I may be going out on a limb here, but I bet Kate and Fred feel the same way. Thank you.

To The Moondoggies: you guys fucking killed. We could not have asked for better. (To everyone else (uh, again): go buy their album, see their shows, and make them as big as they deserve to be)

To those who, for whatever reason, couldn't be there: you missed a swell shindig. But! If you're curious as to what a band -- specifically, our band -- sounds like on its first night in front of an audience, wonder no longer:

The End Times - Live at Kate's 3.10.07 (.MP3 file 48MB)

The End

(Photo courtesy of Kate and Sarah)

Last night, we (the band) had our penultimate practice before our first-ever gig. Pictures were taken, emotions were shared, and tasteless malt liquors were imbibed. We are ready. As ready as we can/will ever be. Ready for you.

Also, if you ever have any desire to become a short order cook in a Waffle House, this might be of some use to you.

WTF

This. is. insane.