Sunday, February 27, 2011
Oh brother of mine, please don't forget me if I go
And if I die, before my time
Oh sweet sister of mine, do not regret me if I die"
About a year ago I was driving my dad to radiation treatment, and this song came on from a mixtape CD I had burned him when we went down to SF for his surgery. The lyrics and the tonality are both powerful. I knew he would dig it. He said to me, "I want you to play this at my funeral" while fighting back some tears.
That's why I put it on the mix.
I was just driving down Sierra Street and it came on my iPod in the shuffle. I hadn't heard it since the wake. I'm driving the same car I was, but there is nobody sitting next to me.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
I’m sitting next to my 4-year-old daughter on a plane, letting her rock out with my skull candy headphones and watching her make up some sick seat-dance moves to The Dead Weather. All the while I am enjoying something I haven’t had in a minute…time to compose myself. That’s what this blog is after all, right? My self-composition? Or maybe it’s my defensive explanation, or descriptive narrative, or verbal assault on the senses of anyone with the minerals and stomach to continually come back for more punishment, entertainment or loathing…or for the poor soul that stumbles on this page accidentally and makes it, typically, about a paragraph into the thing before I drop an F-bomb. Fuckin’-A that’s what this is.
So we’re on the way down to Disneyland. Yes, THE Disneyland, aka: the Happiest Place On Earth. I think my 7 and 4 year olds will soon discover that sensory overload, sugar-infused roller-coaster rides, and some good old-fashioned Walt Magic are indeed the proper ingredients for just that H.P.O.E. recipe. I can’t believe it’s their first time. I’m so lucky to have this opportunity with them right now. There’s a good crew headed down, including their mom, my sister and her family, and of course my stowaways: the voices in my head.
Right now the voices are enjoying the room to stretch their legs out on the page, this snow white word doc that is quickly becoming peppered with the things I have been marinating on for a little while, eventually to be uploaded to the internetz from the first spot in Orange County that allows me to do so. Good thing too, because just this afternoon, my sweet friend and occasional Disneyesque princess, Aly, informed me, “Your blog is getting boring again.” Well smack my ass and call me Cinderella, I won’t let that happen! Not this time! Not while I have a good hour or more of white airplane noise to focus my mind and energy into a sexy 17-inch screen. And it is hot. Like one of the hottest things I have in my life, this MacBook Prothat I sometimes wake up next to, too constantly aware of it’s importance and delicacy to set it on the ground before I fade into the short, sweet sleep. Yeah, she’s pretty. And hot.
But there is another heat emanating from the horizon. A fun, beautiful, rarefied, stylish kind of Canned Heat that has revealed itself like the High Sierra sun over the easterly railroad tracks I cross over every morning on my way into the world. And yes Aly, you get to take some credit for grabbing me by the chin, pointing my head to the right, and saying, “Look at that!” I love looking into the sun early in the morning. It’s just beginning, and it’s new, and you never know if this new day will be average, fade into the overcast clouds, or possibly be the brightest, hottest example of what this life is supposed to be all about. And for a while, you can actually look at this dawnburst, without a real threat of going blind or burning up your retinas.
For extended viewing pleasure, I highly suggest a good pair of sunglasses. Aviators never go out of style. Neither does style itself. It’s always a preferred means of communicating one’s image choices and personality quirks to the visual dimension that we all immediately make conscious and subconscious judgments in before we even have the chance to meet someone in person. I am guilty of keeping myself at arms-length from a lot of people lately, and I can speak from experience that I often sit back and watch and listen and learn about someone from how they move, dress, behave, or project themselves before I truly engage them on any real personal level. But I have recently learned that I may not be all that off in this process, because by the time I get real with those people whose styles I most admire, whom I have decided that I want to know what kind of game they want to spit to back up the clothes they rock or the swagger they bounce with: I almost always find out that they have the personality to pull off the brand of themselves that they are building.
There are conservative leaders in the business world who are always clean cut and respectable, projecting honesty and integrity in a way that can only be dishonest compensation when it goes too far into the glisten and boast. There are the disheveled and unshaven homeless masses that splatter the banks of the river or the highway underpasses, keeping warm with the same beards that the plaid-clad hipsters don’t have the patience or life experience to truly understand. There are the 21-year-old Gucci-inked individuals whose only true individuality is disappearing more quickly than ever with every haute couture hand tattoo or skin bedazzling, caring less about what they will do than how they will look doing it. (Don’t get me wrong, both are important to me –doing good and looking good while you do it - but one should be a direct result of the other, not the means to the end). There are the beautiful, loving, caring duos that I know walking hand-in-gorgeous hand with each other and demonstrating that adorable, charitable, honest and true love is still the most beautiful style anyone can wear; and always better when paired up! [Insert blatant Estee reference here. Ligon’s: you too. Paddy & Sarah: duh. That raccoon couple I saw climbing up into the tree last night…you were also rad. I doubt you read my blog, though…sorry.] There are the kids…my kids…the fucking sweetest, smilingest, booty-shakingest, Mickey-Mouse-T-shirt-wearing angels that show me every day that if you can rock the style, you better rock the smile. Oh yeah, and then there’s this brown-eyed, soft-skinned, pretty-well-known, individually-designed and self-built-from-scratch-style that I was blasted with like a burst of light last night. I’m still trying to figure out what to do with that one…but it’s good. It’s a style I think might be worth studying more closely. There’s so much more I want to know. I knew just from seeing this style a while back that there would be plenty to find out! To say the very least, it’s well-composed.
OK, now the plane is landing. The chick in the horribly styled stewardess uniform and intentionally darkened roots just barked at me to turn off my computer. She knows nothing about composition.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
I can already see Willie bringing his little tot Cruze in at about age 3. And he'll probably beat me, too. Thanks, Willie, for letting Sean tag along. I figured that a Sunday would be slow enough to keep him out of the way. And it's good to have the little man along for the ride today...we're going to show a couple of apartments now, then eat, and then go finish chainsawing the tree in my front yard that crashed down on my house much like the demon from Paranormal Activity at about 4am Saturday morning.
Friday, February 18, 2011
All in all a nice little Thursday night.
Now I'm going to try and get 5 hours of sleep before plowing my way through the snow down to Willie's Warehouse of Insanity.
Goodnight. I think.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
It's been torn down, and it's almost built back up. From scratch. Kinda like the best people I have ever met.
I'm going to go fast and hard on this one.
You will probably not see me.
I may get lost for a while...as much as possible, anyway.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
- KB Sumo Squats
- Laird Lunges (With a 45# plate curl...pretty sure Laird would have laughed and blown snot out of his horse nose as he passed me on the beach with a tree trunk in his hand if he heard these being called "Laird Lunges", but they do the trick for me)
- Bungee Runs. Yeah, it's me tied to a steel pole with a bungee cord. Ask Willie what happens when he puts the little carrot (ball) as far away as possible and I have to get it...backwards airborn rugburn. I wasn't the first. Won't be the last.
- Dumbell "Man Makers". No vomit.
- Ring Dips.
- There were a couple more activities on this, the "assessment workout", but I don't remember because I was in a dizzy state of stupidity. I can't wait to see what the "real workout" is like.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Friday, February 4, 2011
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Day Two: Squats, medicine ball three-pointers-into-squats, box jumping, 400 meters, low-ring-push-ups, pull ups, dumbell clean and press, sandbag half moons, v-ups. I'm pretty sure I got all but one of those names wrong. But that's what I did. And I still didn't puke...yet. Too dizzy to get to that point...but close. When I told him yesterday that I was working out with Willie, Fairchild admitted that when HE was at X-Fit, he puked at least 3 times.