An oil change. Let's replace the fluids too. Lube them cables. There is that vibration in the front wheel that makes me feel keenly mortal... fix the bad bearing. So we might as well replace both tires while one of them's off. What the heck - new chain for good measure.

Finally, I have the Nighthawk back. Lemme just say this: Vroom.

Continuing the fun/sun thread.  I've never been that guy who wears sunglasses constantly.  They made everything darker, yes, but also friggin' blurry.  Turns out that I was simply wearing crappy shades.  Trevor knew this guy who knew this guy who... screw it.  Long story -> short, I ended up with some name-brand nuevo-aviator dealies.  And they never leave my head - certainly not when there're photons in the room.

Didn't initially like the way they looked on me, though that changed partly because of positive reinforcement from the two swimsuit models with whom I spent Sunday afternoon (another unnecessarily long but fortuitous tale).  It wasn't just Amy and Andrea, no - all of the stuff within my visual field suddenly got so very pretty.  The engineer in me has died due to disuse, so he can't explain how polarization works.  But that mysterious coating does the marvelous.  Glare disappears, the sky becomes a pleasant gradient, car windows display trippy patterns, and strip malls morph into quaint little forested streams.  With deer.  And quail.

It cooled down to 103 degrees today.   The heat wave facilitated copious sample consumption at the brewers' fest.  (My favorite: the watermelon wiezen from 21st Amendment Brewery.)  Another weekend in Portland, another beerfest.  I recommend pairing this selection of obscure domestic microbrews with minor league baseball.  The $2 draft Bud Lights at the latter cancel out the knurdishness of the former.

Driving around for my office equipment sales job yesterday, I realized how similar it is to international backpacking.  Over a hundred degrees F.  Completely self-guided.  I traded in the pack for an equally sweltering suit. No air conditioning - but I wouldn't use it if I had it.  Happily speaking with hundreds of people, but I don't know a single one.  And the language barrier when ordering lunch.  Those taco asadas constitute the best Mexican food I've had since my folks drove to Panama in the early '70s.

In high school, I complained when the mercury hit 80.  Now I love the triple-digits. 

Still my feet carry that frost-bitten hue.  Thank you, blue climbing shoes.  You know me - I'll take any conversation starter I can get.  And sandals comprise a big part of my life these days.

Pssst.  Hey.  Buddy.  Ya wanna Gmail account?  I can getcha hooked up.  Jus' lemme know at the address on the left.

Time's tight, which counters my irrational urge to share fun and sundry links on this forum.  Metafiltering the web takes minutes, people.  Minutes.

So instead, here's a list of bands that beg for - nay - demand listenage:

• Madreblu - Alterna-techno-world-pop de Italia - check out the track 'Certamente' for the tastiest of morsels.
  
• The Killers - Their smart and badass sound makes the name an understatement.
  
• Belle & Sebastian - This is why I don't review music.  My best crack at 'em: 'Funky', but without any of the afro-soul connotations of the word.  More upper-east-side funk, if my scant Sex in the City neighborhood exposure serves me.
  
• The Triplets of Belleville - While not actually a band, and more a cell-animated movie, you'd still be doing yourself a narsty disservice if you ignored it.  Criminally beautiful and brilliantly paced.  With no dialogue, this is a foreign film for those who hate other languages.

And I haven't checked it out yet, but I hear cockney rap act The Streets released a new record.  That can't be a bad thing.

This time crunch may last a spell.  I work sixty-five/seventy hours a week between the two sales jobs, volunteer with two pinko hippy liberal cabals, climb, and squish in some extracurrics.  Makes it hard to catch those 'Married... With Children' reruns that I used to cherish.

Got a music rec that I missed?  Leave a comment.

Take a critical state senate race in a rural Southern Oregon district.  Bus in fifty politically energized (sub/)urban youths for a weekend.  Shake/rattle/roll.
 
Door-to-door knocking generates stories.  I didn't get the naked dude, unlike the first ever door a local high-schooler approached.  I did run into the registered Republicans who already supported our candidate because they know he does a great job in the House, and also because they jog with him.  There was the other Republican who glared at me as he slammed the door.  And his neighbor, the Democrat who requested a lawn sign solely to irk him.  My favorite: the working-class family that invited me to their barbeque for a PBR.  Finished up my streets, then took them up on the offer.  And garnered votes in the process.
 
No hippy-fest drum circles for these liberals.  Any hedonism occurs after-hours. (*)  Not sure how they've done it, but the Bus Project attracts a jaw-droppingly impressive group of volunteers.  The colleges associated with these people read like a US News & World Report top ten.  Most of them make me look like a stammering dolt (yes yes, I am ... but I now pretend not to be on a professional basis).  Finesse wouldn't matter much without the peoplepower, though.   We hit practically every household in three towns.  There's a good chance the best man'll end up in Salem because of it.
 
Get on the Bus.  Exact change.

* (However, the rambunctiousness's not necessarily in private - masses of locals gathered to watch the midnight on-moving-bus crowd surfing to the newly installed stereo system.  The old 1978 beast's already undergone a biodiesel conversion.  A projection screen for the side's up next.)  
 
 

 
 

 
 

The last time I attended a reading at this church, Fight Club author Chuck Palahniuk delivered lines like "You can't unfuck a child."

Bob Edwards and fellow National Public Radio superstar Juan Williams kept it tame, quipping "I'd like to know how this Unitarian church transformed to Southern Baptist - I always thought Unitarians congregated around hot tubs." The midsummer swelter had us all fanning our faces, you see. My fellow NPR groupies and I were sharp enough to follow his musing with a hearty "Amen!"

Bob Edwards. Host of NPR's Morning Edition for almost twenty-five years, he owns/operates the sonorous voice that 13 million intelligent Americans woke to - until his forced promotion to 'Senior Correspondent' two months ago. As the guy in back hollered: We miss you Bob! He was the first person I heard each day for years - except for those spells when I actually needed to go somewhere rather than lie under the comforter and get smarter. For those days, I tuned my alarm radio to Z100'S WACKY MORNING ZOO. Nothing fuels the desire to leap up and kill things more than that Top-40 syndicated team of bellyflakes. They try to bring the funny, but they brought the abject hatred instead.

NPR shows that aspire to bring smiles succeed. Witness: Car Talk, Garrison Keillor, or sublime segments from This American Life. (Jump to the 43 minute mark in that link.)

The question for Mr. Edwards: If Air America and Fox News act as terminals of the spectrum, where does NPR fall? Also, anecdotal evidence tells me that NPR listeners are all liberal. Do you agree, and how can NPR diversify that base?

Smack in the center, he said. NPR's an oasis in the desert of media that's abandoned probing and reporting that lasts longer than an eight-second sound bite. It's the only outlet that eschews a policy of turning its news into produced entertainment - which, ironically, is why it remains enthralling. Brain candy unbeatable by Rush Limbaugh, Oprah, or Michael Moore. Even mainstream news outlets get it wrong - coverage of the recent rally in Washington for reproductive rights (one of the biggest political demonstrations anywhere anytime) gave equal time to the 1.1 million marchers... and the couple hundred counter-protestors. That's as bad as Moore focusing on a couple egg-throwers at Bush's inauguration, when in fact the general mood matched the neutral atmosphere we saw on the tube.

Regarding the "leftist listeners," Bob pointed out that ~39% are Democrats versus ~33% Republicans. The rest? They're exactly what everyone in a democracy should be - independent free thinkers who want to know all the facts then make up their own minds... not tune in to some meathead who loudly affirms their pre-existing biases.

Postscript:
If you're in the U.S. and want to learn how some of those meatheads operate, the new film Outfoxed: Rupert Murdoch's War on Journalism opens on 2,800 screens this Sunday. Namely at MoveOn members' house parties. Find one near you.

Boston Globe critic Mark Jurkowitz observed that the documentary "lacks traditional journalistic balance," but still presents "damning material."

If still you crave that old Edward Murrow style journalistic integrity, listen to NPR instead.

Let it not be said that I never post anything "moderate".

Or "useful".

Or double negative.

It's high time for me to start experiencing all the venues at which I applied for bartending jobs. Checked Harvey's Comedy Club off that long list. Great joint, grand time... 'cept for two things. First off, they need some high-fallutin' consultant to inform them that they should let everyone into the club before starting the parade of comics. My party of eight became two dismembered parties of fewer. Secondly, avoid headliners who include the word "Leno" anywhere on their resume.

Spent several frabjous hours sunburning at this year's rendition of the Portland International Beerfest. The highlight: Fantome Pissenlit, a Belgian dandelion lambic. (And yes, "Pissenlit" does mean "wet the bed" in whatever language they speak in that part of Belgium.)

After other such brews as Samiclause and Monty Python's Holy Ale, I get to talking with this guy Matt. Turns out that he sojourns for months in the Nepals and Tibets out there. We started reminiscing about such things as the rush you feel when you get dumped off a bus in a collection of huts considered podunk by the citizens of the nearest metropolis, Phonsavan. You don't speak the language, you don't think anyone speaks yours. You hopefully have a map... but even if you do, none of the residents've ever seen a map of the town, and wouldn't know why you're inquisitively pointing at that strange diagram. And the streets aren't labeled anyway. Your object: food, lodging, and entertainment. Usually finding the first two brings about the third out of course. Even if you know the traveler truism ("everything always works out, dude"), say hello to adrenaline. Matt and I enjoyed the backpacker companionship so much that we're reprising it with regular gab sessions over pints. Two more like minds have signed up since. If you're interested or experienced in vagabonding, find us at the Lucky Lab pub in the Hawthorne district next Monday at eight. We'll be the people drawing what look to be invasion plans for a multi-pronged conquest of Central Asia. On napkins.

Have you missed stick figure death ever since fight3.swv and its sequels / spin-offs?

Here's a new twist.

Ah, what a Forth of July weekend... 88 degrees and sunny. Wakeboarding for the first time in a year. BBQ - to the max. Climbing. Blues Festival on the waterfront. I took a day off from celebrationing to set up Mark's slackline in a neighborhood park. His description does this singular experience justice, but let me add that with the tension we ratcheted into this tightrope, it's perfect for launching little brothers. I should know, having studied the practical applications of sibling aerodynamics for nigh 22 years.

I call it a "weekend". No semantic error here, bucko. For the first time in nearly a year, I'm a working shmuck. Even bought a suit, so it's certified.

Famine to feast - after weeks of striking out, I got more job offers than I could accept. Kept two, threw the rest back.

I sell renewable energy. Portland General Electric (soon with less Enron!) partners with my company to provide clean power options. This is the second most popular program of its type in the nation - and we're catching up to you, Austin. Even with your municipal subsidies! What sold me was the wind aspect. Ever since I gawked up at a turbine in New Zealand, I knew I had to associate myself with the coolest looking things since battlemechs. Both turbines and mechs save the planet while standing taller than the Statue of Liberty. But mechs don't exist. So turbines it is.

I also sell office automation equipment. In practice, this means I flirt with receptionists for commission.

Post-Script: I'm at a partially organized social/religious group thingy tonight, and it's time for round-the-circle introductions. Everyone's to give their name, and "what they do". What the fuck. So we hear "I'm Jimbo, an accountant." "Katrina. Starbucks." Ad nauseum. Gets to me. So I say I'm an "engineer-bartender-traveler-entrepreneur-sales guy", to calculated and universal perplexion...

America, I love you, and not just because you had a damn swell 228th birthday. That said, here's my beef: DO NOT DEFINE INDIVIDUALS BY THEIR OCCUPATIONS. It's a loaded concept with inflated social value. It stratifies the conversants, and only impedes getting to know the pertinent parts of a new personality. This is a tendency I did not experience overseas. Kiwis don't care "what you do" off the bat any more than they want to hear about when you had your wisdom teeth removed. I realized months into my trip that I was the only backpacker asking the occupation question of fresh acquaintances. I still do it sometimes, even after the electroshock therapy. I should learn better.

Physicists tell us that a one dimensional object can't exist. Allow me to prove them wrong:

"My name's Garrett, and I'm in sales."

I didn't know they had such foul language in the eighties.

Rock, Paper, Saddam!

I thought I'd run out of 'firsts', but today brings one. For the first time in my life, I'm renewing a gym membership. I still eschew free weights and those imposing lattice-structure doohickeys. No, I climb plastic.

Reasons to rock climb:
- Cool peoples, as rated on my scale of what's cool. Like half of them have more Cambodia stories than I do.
- Cures acrophobia.
- Self driven. Sets challenging goals and doesn't quit until they're fulfilled. (I'm sorry - that's an interview answer that slipped into the wrong list. Still applies though.)
- The gym's so damned expensive that you'll feel obligated to go with musclebuilding regularity.

... except I slacked off that one week because I was climbing at Smith Rock in central Oregon. Of the five guys I camped with, I rang in as the shortest, at 6'1". Another first.

Let me set the scene. You know those SUV adverts with the trucks in front of an impossibly rugged martian landscape? They shoot those here. We're in the background of the current Jeep Liberty print ad.

We camped at Skull Hollow, a free climber's squatting ground a ten-mile desert commute from the formations. Low rent, yes, but it came with its own social programs. After climbing each day, you drag your beer to other campfires. Hilarity ensues (as do BLTs).

A good portion of the routes (with names like Vomit Launch, Tammy Faye Baker's Face, Barbeque the Pope, and Hand Job) kicked my newbie ass before I considered hopping on. Mychal and Mark were the guys that taught me how to ski - by first dragging me up to the top of the mountain and heaving me off a black diamond. They applied the same learning curve here. Gravity only works one direction, guys.

But climb I did, and fun I had. Full week of it, with a break only to scuttle through some lava tubes before crashing Mych's grandparents' for showers, shaves and home-cooking.

Personal Records: I led a 5.8 (Five Gallon Buckets) and didn't fall on one of the 5.10a climbs on Phoenix buttress. The scariest bit? Not double-checking the weather through the Cascades. Warm in Portland and hot in the high desert, but hail on Hood. Conditions brought me the closest to killing myself on that motorcycle since the March 2000 rainstorm between Talbot County Georgia and Nashville. It's not the hail that gets me - the bike stays upright even without my help. It's the cold. Hypothermia of the brain. Pay attention or die. My solution to staying focused is to monologue for hours on end. Alternately insipid and inspired, it's a stream of consciousness that I'm glad can't get recorded.

That bike's still bloody fun, though. On the way back, I came up Hwy 97/197 through Maupin, and I usually had the hilly desert curves to myself. But when I got stuck behind a farm truck going 55 uphill, a shift to the opposing lane and a light flick of the wrist took me to 95mph without trying. Blast-off.

After the hiatus of my Pacific Rim trip, it's swell to be back in the fraternity of the saddle. When I first bought the Nighthawk, it became apparent that I'd skipped the hazing step and jumped into a parallel world on asphalt, where all other member watch your back and nod your way. We even flash secret hand signals when we pass each other - you may have seen us indicate a thumbs up, point approximately at the road, or give a peace sign. Respectively, these mean "shiny side up", "rubber side down", and "vote for Kerry 2004".