What are you doing for New Years?

I admit it: I have no clue what I want to do for New Years. And I know more than a few people in the same boat. We all have a fall back party (or two) but whatever we really want we’re certainly not saying it, doing it or believing it’s really going to happen.

Frankly I find New Years even more wrapped in pressure and hype than Valentine’s Day. Valentine’s Day; if you’re single, well, none of your single friends throw parties and frankly your partnered friends aren’t doing anything nearly as exciting as you’re imagining. New Years; “So, what are you doing? What are you doing? What are you doing?”

I’ve enjoyed New Years maybe once. 2002. Went to a party on a whim where my friend Bryan DJ’d. Exchanged wise-ass comments with a cute guy while watching a terrible bad. Found a helmet and crowned the cute guy the king of 2002. Spent the rest of the night on the roof of a gas station talking to said cute guy. He lived in SF, I didn’t; perfection.

And the three times I’ve been in relationships over New Years? The first always had to work up at the mountain. The second, over the big one, 2000, he spent in California and I spent in Washington. And the third left me at home to go to a party he announced he was going to at about 8 pm.

So, what am I doing for New Years? Going to a really great fall back party. Or for some really great soup at a friend’s house at midnight. Or a midnight hike with a bunch of strangers. Or ditching it all, renting Waiting to Exhale and spending the night at home with my phone off.

What are you doing for New Years?

Saddam.

They say the execution of Saddam Hussein will take place before 10 p.m. EST.

James Brown wake at the Apollo wraps up. The casket of Gerald Ford arrives in Washington this weekend.

Gerald Ford whose death released his true stance on this war.

They will make movies of this some day. The death of this man, these men. How we sent the leader of a country to the gallows before a victor emerged. If ever there is a victor in these things. How we lauded the great democratization of a nation and then afforded its citizens none of the process that notion implies.

Time for a New Year.

You're Looking At Country

Yes, everything is bigger here, I think every time I cross the border. Not because anything becomes, instantaneously, bigger or greener or colder. More, perhaps, because even the speed limit – the Portland 55 becoming the ‘Welcome to Washington' 60 then the 70 all the way to Oly – quickly accelerates, propelling you back into the bigness of it.

I am writing a new book entitled You Know You’re in the Country When… ; as in, you know you’re in the country when you pass the first ‘Archery House’ shop, you know you’re in the country when the first major town requiring a reduced speed zone lasts for less than a minute, you know you’re in the country when you remember why your love for "You’re Looking at Country" is not ironic. When you remember, you learned to drive on a dirt highway hugged by the rocky canyons of an Idaho sunset. When you remember that you and your high school sweetheart used to take clandestine rolls in the hay in your neighbor’s hay shed.

The mountains humble me.

But, this is not a country house. Do not be fooled by the elk skull by the front door, however authentically found on the riverbed that summer by your cousin. You will only find one dog here, literally rusty and bought in a gallery in Sun Valley. Do not be fooled by the towering river rock fireplace; notice the cord of firewood from the tree they took down stacked bare and wet in the rain. No, this is not a country house.

I wished I had the shotgun – the country shotgun – twice while in the country. Once while walking the dog at dusk. For this is the only time I truly want a gun; in the country with the dog with the very real probability of meeting a cougar or bear. And once after I forgot to remove my wellies before entering the house. He found a speck of mud and immediately went for the broom. Upon retiring that night I had the sudden urge to break the willful ignorant silence. I wanted to show them a real mess. I wanted to imagine what that would do to their country beige carpet, country sage walls, country oak furnishings.

I’m drawn to the North like a magnet. And then repelled just as forcefully. I flip off road signs driving North than East. I flip off road signs driving West but not South. As I drive South relief pours over me like an embrace. Both are home. But I appreciate the choice more and more.

What my friends and I really do at parties

"Pigs In Paradise"

How I feel about finals, my "A" paper, Christmas and 17 credits next term...

Scent

Scent is a funny thing. I just spent my requisite dawdling time at New Seasons gauging the accuracy of a myriad of bottles promising, among other things, the scent of childhood dreams, allure, moonlight and clarity.
I keep a trifle thing in a box to remember less for the thing and more for the way it still smells of him, miraculously; his laundry detergent or skin or pocket. I rarely open the box for fear the smell will dissipate a bit with each opening. I know the thing may smell more of the box than him but that is the way I remember.
French parfumeur Thierry Mugler recently launched a limited edition of scents based on the novel “Perfume” with fifteen scents mimicking everything from a baby’s skin to a virgin’s. Human Existence includes the essence of rare cheeses. Orgie emits chocolate as well as molecules mimicking sweat and sperm. For $700, you can smell all this, along with the Scent of Paris in 1738 and much more.
Ah, but there are things you would pay much more to smell again, aren’t there? Scent; the most overlooked sense. You forget it and then, all at once, it comes back to you, floods your nostrils and constricts your heart before your mind can catch up with the memory.

Incoherent Playlist

Sometimes my playlists make no sense whatsoever. Ask anyone who was subjected to "You're Looking at Country" alongside "River Deep, Mountain High" this week (ok, that makes a lot of sense if you actually know me).
"Danny's Song," Anne Murray, The Best...So Far. By the way, the album title cracks me up.
"I Want You," Bob Dylan, Blond On Blond. Wow, that album title cracks me up too.
"Beast of Burden," Stones.
"I Will Always Love You (Original Version)," Dolly Parton, The Essential Dolly Parton.
"Don't Cry," GNR, Lose Your Illusion. I love Axl, but I think he lost more than his illusion when he made this album.
"Hole In My Soul," Aerosmith, Nine Lives.
"Dream On," Aerosmith, A Little South of Sanity. Why is Aerosmith so damn sweet? Even though Steven Tyler is such a cheeseball?
"What It Takes," Aerosmith, Pump (remastered). I fuckin' love this song.
"Always On My Mind," Elvis, The Country Side of Elvis. This is a great song.
"Blue Moon," Elvis, Elvis Presley.
"Bridge Over Troubled Water," Elvis, Heart and Soul.
"Can't Help Falling In Love" Elvis, Elvis Presley and The Jordanaires.
"You Got It," Roy Orbison, Anthology. One thing I really hate about a lot of Orbison tracks is the music is so awful but his vocals are SO AMAZING. Like, "I Drove All Night" is such an amazing song, but the cheesy music (not melody, just effects) kill it.
"Love Hurts," Roy Orbison, Crying (bonus track).

What they really teach us in law school

"In a bilateral contract (a promise for promise) there's no consideration for the promise of A if the return promise of B is illusory in nature. The contract is unenforceable: A had a free way out, B was tied and bound without any definite guarantee of consideration."

I've had to study this particular gem about 20 times in the last 3 years and the deeper moral implications only just occurred to me. It's an interesting little piece of Dogma, isn't it? I don't quite know what to think about it.

Lone Tree

This is my Christmas present.

My Grandmother took it: she became a photographer late in life. She titled it “Lone Tree.” When she died, we scattered her ashes by that tree. And when her husband Lyman died, 16 years later, we scattered his ashes there with hers.

The Cemetery Pictures Never Fail to Entertain me.

The Dancing Bear

I don’t like dreams sometimes. I’m not talking hopes and aspirations: if you want to stick a daily affirmation on a post-it note and dream a little dream, go for it. I’m talking all the latent, subconscious, inner workings of the psyche unleashed by sleep.
Now, when did we all learn that dreams had to mean something?
Last night, for instance, my date wanted me to wear a stolen bear costume all night for escapades around town in his RV. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? That I like costume sex? That I’m a closeted furry? That I once had to wear a bear costume while working at Mrs. Field’s in high school? That my impression of people in bear costumes was forever warped by my manager Debby having sex with her boyfriend in the back room on top of said bear costume?
Jesus Christ. This is exhausting. I think I should go back to sleep.
No. This is so important. This is Freud reading the Di Vinci bird dream. All my desires will be revealed. Why do I see myself as a bear? Why do I see myself as a bear?
Does it matter that I could take my head off while I was in the bear costume? Does it matter that the zipper to the bear costume broke? That I could be unzipped? That I was taking dance lessons before I put on the costume in the dream? Does that make me a dancing bear? Does that make me RUSSIAN?
Email all dream interpretations to the proprietor. And remember, no one wants to hear about your dreams: unless you’re telling someone they were in your dream, you’re just boring the shit out of them.

I Love Traffic

I love traffic. No, really; I love traffic, so much so that sometimes I get in my car with a good mix CD and a cup of coffee and set out for a good hour of bumper to bumper thinking. I did this two nights ago, in fact, for a steady two hours of grid lock; just me, some good Soul tunes and the city of Portland all around me.
I traveled West across the Sellwood Bridge then North down Macadam towards I5 for the evening pilgrimage back to Washington. Within 10-minutes my right foot trembled and quaked doing the first gear rock. And all around me; concrete, steel, arcs of grey and white and blue cut the glare of the setting sun. I felt so happy, so content, I thought ‘God, if you took me now I’d be OK with that, I would.’
Traffic stands still where 99 meets 5 kissing the East River blocks. And this is what I truly love about traffic; watching everyone. Hundreds of drivers, all going the same place, the same way, at the same pace. Hundreds of expressions, reactions – singing, frowning, happy, smiling, swearing, gesturing, blissful, indignant, patient, cell phone talking, nose-picking, wistful – all with the same outcome. Each driver an island with their own soundtrack insulated in their own little cell yet each pull forward sets off a chain of events affecting everyone on the ride. One idiot picks the wrong lane and the flow stops. One tired mother falls asleep at the wheel and ten cars collide.
I exited at 302b/Swann Island and circled West to the City. Onto Burnside, the esophagus of Portland, the festering mainline cutting North from South. A gamble; constant construction, bridge open? bridge closed?
You can tell a lot about a person by how they drive. Do they stop for pedestrians at crosswalks? Do they leave intersections open? Do they alternate where lanes merge or selfishly skip turns?
Back to the Eastside. A nice drive.

Almost worth the wait.

Just one of the more notable things Shelley and I have seen while sitting in the waiting room of Planned Parenthood before my stupid all things cervical appointments (Shelley gets equal credit for this one, for being there and appreciating the hilarity of the situation):
A woman talks loudly on her earphone cell. She’s telling her friend about adoption and paternity tests while pacing around.
First she says something like, “Yeah, I mean, when we applied for adoption we’d been married for something like two years, according to the state.”
Then she says, “you can tell them you want to name your kid Bill Fucking Clinton if you want to.”
Next, she’s explaining to her friend how she’s at Planned Parenthood for an STD test: “they make you fill out this questionnaire so I lied and said I’d been with a bunch of guys and never use condoms.”
And then, here’s the kicker, “I don’t know, I’m in this waiting room right now, this place is kind of weird.”

What I love about 3d year finals

Here's what I love about being a 3d year law student:
(1) You understand damn near everything without having to pay attention.
(2) Since you understand damn near everything you read damn near nothing.
Here's what I hate about being a 3d year law student:
(1) When finals come around you realize you've read damn near nothing.
(2) You've got one week to figure out if you really understand damn near everything.