My So Called Life

Okay, Okay, if you were anyone during the 90's (and I know I was) you partook in the wonderfulness that is My So Called Life. This evening after kickin' it with Poot (for his B-day) I went over to Drew's abode and watched said Prime Time program.

I believe it was made by the same folks that did 30 Something. In all honesty it was a good thing to do. I loved My So Called Life not only because I identified with the whole youth culture thing, but also because it captured the American family.

This leads me on to a further point: where is the American family today? What is it? Most parents these days get a divorce, and in all honesty if the show went on any further I believe the parents (Angela's) would have gotten a divorce. But that is beside the point.

The point is that My So Called Life was a show that tapped into the Zeitgeist of a generation. But not only did it tap into that it touched the parental culture as well. How do I know this? The shows my family would watch together were "The Wonder Years", "Real World" (specifically San Fransisco{Pedro, saddness!}), and "My So Called Life."

All these shows tapped into something. It tapped into the joys and fears of all of us. It tapped into the fears and joys of our parents; it tapped into the fears and joys of ourselves as kids. It grabbed you by the guts.

I was young for the show. I think I must have been 11 or maybe 13 when the first (and last) season of "My So Called Life" aired, but it touched me. As a "fringe" person my whole life I needed something like this show that said "Hey, its okay to be the weird kid on campus. Its okay to be confused about sex and life because that is what is actually normal." It helped form my opinions of being young and about girls (I totally would have hooked up with Rayanne.)

But, in the end, it was just another T.V. show, right? Or was it? I believe that the show "failed" because it was too real. It hit to close to home. And all the "flyover state, middle American peeps (idiots) could not handle the truth of the world." Life is hard and fucked up. People get fucked up, kids do drugs, kids are gay, and nothing is as you want it to be. So, that's life, right? Take it or leave it. And that is what is fucked up America in the first place. Americans can't take life.

I was lucky because I had hippies for parents. They wanted me to learn about life. They wanted me to watch the right films and shows. I watched "The Graduate," and "Easy Rider," I watched "Jaws" with my father and "When Harry Met Sally" with my mom; I was exposed to what film and art should be. Maybe I'm wrong, but whatever. My So Called Life was still a great show.

Last Day of February First Day of Rock

Alright folk, it being the 29th of February and therefore a leap year, I thought I would blog about some bullshit and generally make an ass out of myself. But, dear readers, what do I blog about? Well, I guess for now I will just give you one of my many awesome updates.

First of all, I have beaten Halo 2 in about 4 days of play, and lost much sleep in the process. Last night I kicked it with my buddy Alex, who I haven't seen in at least 8 or 9 months. We played more Halo 2 and generally killed Brute, Flood, and Covenant alike.

Secondly, I enjoy my new job immensly. Because of said job, I plan on getting my driver's liscence (finally) so that I can work more. I have another shoot for SCCtv coming up and am stoked about that as well.

Lastly, I am awesome. That is all for now.

Outro.

Poetry on the Bus part 2

Two Haikus and one Free Verse:

Day Job
In the morning time
I catch two busses to go
To a job I love

Night Job
In the evening
I catch one bus to go
To a job I hate

No Name # 63
7:10am at the corner
of 3rd and Jefferson
Thick, black clad Adidas
woman shambles by
My chariot lurches
and continues onward
the faces I see change
from Monday to Monday
but I am the same

7:12am at the corner
of 3rd and Main St
an out of service
Community Transit
purrs to a stop
I am reminded of
early morning coffees
outside Amazon offices
with her.

There you go, another entry in "Preebz's Poetry on the Bus." Hope you enjoyed it.

Note To All

Get a French Press.

The Unberible Tightness of Ian

I have been tracking lately, and one of the exercises I have been doing with Lil' Poot is laying down "lines." Essentially we go out to a wooded area (in this case the West Duwamish Greenbelt) and lay down a long set of tracks through an area. After this we come back on a later date to follow the tracks. So far Poot has been pretty successful in finding the lines I have left, with the exception of about two spots that threw him off.

I am still no where near where I want to be in my tracking skills, but I have seen noticeable improvement in my skills. One of the things that has helped me considerably is laying a track and then coming back after a time (a day, two days etc.) to see how the track has aged. It is interesting to see how time and weather affect each track in each terrain differently.

In other news I was in the Maha up on the hill and started chatting with this dude about wilderness and tracking. It turns out that he is an avid nature person and quite familiar with the Duwamish Greenbelt. After a chat I found out he also plays guitar, so when I have more free time we're going to jam and check out nature.

Later on that same night Thompson, a former employee of the Lion Rouge, met me at the Maha. After one drink and an appetizer he was hooked. Then we went back to his crib and drank some Joose, a highly alchoholic Malt beverage which is surprisingly tasty. Suffice to say I got a bit boozy and punched a hole in his bedroom door Jackass style.

After this I went and kicked it with his awesome neighbors, some 19 year old kids who love music. We jammed with me sining and playing guitar and this guy Tyler on electric piano. Then we had a dance party and listened to early Tom Waits. After a while the cops showed up and told us to keep it down. It now being 3 in the morning I decided to get home before I caused anymore trouble.

The next day I met up with Thompson to pay for his door. . . I'm not entirely irresponsible after all.

One Pot, Two Pot, Three Pot, Four

I finally had the chance to enjoy one of Seattle's finer dining establishments called "One Pot." One Pot can be best described as "a comunal dining expierience." What does this mean to the average person? Basically, you sit around a huge dinner table with friends and strangers. Then, you eat, drink, and be merry. The food is usually crafted by one of the many fine chefs we find here in the Northwest.

The most recent event was held under the Mo Bar next to Neumos. The decor was brick walls and pipes. The music being played, everything from mo-town to Beirut, from Elliot Smith to Ella Fitzgerald. The food was simple and elegant, from the pork and lamb meatballs in a simple tomato sauce, to the raw milk cheese, to the delectable braise rabbit.

I missed out on much of the table side festivities as I was running plate after plate from the partially remodled kitchen to the downstairs VIP room. But, what I caught, I liked. As I cleared the tables of the plates, grabing some sweet morsels that were left I chatted with Seattle restauranteurs. "Have a glass of wine" one offered which started a long conversation on what lacked in the Seattle food community and the finer parts of Pinot Noir.

The creater, Michael Hebberoy, is what I would most accurately coin as "Awesome-tastic." He is a visionary, and it seems his battle cry is "Kill the Restaurant." While cleaning up after the event we chatted about the finer points of dumpster diving and about cleaning someone else's plate (this was brought on when I lovingly picked a large hunk of exquisite rabbit that had been half eaten from one of the dirty plates and said "How could anyone waste this awesome rabbit?" and then promptly shoved it in my mouth). "I've worked in the restuarant business since I was thirteen. If someone sent back half a steak, I'd be like 'Hey! That's good steak!' and later on when I got older all the wait staff would get grossed out, but I didn't care. It was still a good steak." It turns out we are avid fans of both culinary practices.

Being from Portland Hebberoy has some of the Northwest Sensibilities, but with a joi de vivre that can only come from that big-little city. In many ways Portland is much more of a major metropolitan area than Seattle could ever dream of. Sure, we have the people and the economy, but Portland has something that Seattle has lost: Heart. Portland lives for culture, food, art and music; in Seattle it is our weekend, our hobby, but not our soul. From the public tranist that functions to the late night donut spots, Portland is a 24 hour city, and its proud heratige of counter-culture lives in the viens of Hebberoy.

Love him or not, he is a man on a quest to change the way the world looks at the table, at community, and at gastronomy. Whatever Michael has in store for Seattle and One Pot I will be looking forward to with big eyes and an empty stomach. . . and maybe a few drinks in me.

Quick Update

I watched Ghost Rider. It sucks. . . but I still kinda liked it. But only a little.

Prose before Hos, or Poetry before Ho-etry

After I got of work over at where ever it is I work (not telling you, suckers) I found myself both bored and on the bus. And what, pray tell, is the cure for boredom? Herpes. (Jokes)! It's writting shitty poetry on the bus! So with out any further ado, here are two poems I wrote, which will begin a new "Ian's Poetry on the bus" thing which I will probably never do again. (Okay, with some further ado.)

NO NAME #74
Two by two these long steel snakes
swim by the window
of the number 55
flashes of irredescent color
-the shape and rhythem of letters
handstyles, and names
going home, again
to ancient household of mother and father
going home, again
like whipped and beaten pup
tail between legs
-faint smell of urine on my face
going home, again
in hopes of leaving
again


Waves of Concrete and Gallons of

I feel the pressure against my bowels
And bladder
Each bump of metal grating
Creating more force inside me
Five stops, four stops, three stops
The great hulking behemoth pauses
And snakes a turn around the corner
Five stops, four stops, three stops, two stops
I bite down hard and taste iron,
This is only temporary relief. . .
Four stops, three stops, two stops, one
Now, feet beating hard on wet concrete
Hot iron pushing in my guts
Each step rings cacophony in my body
Each step one less to take
The pace quickens, moves
More frantic
My body’s water
And earth
Screaming for escape
And home.

So, there you go. Some poetry before your ho-etry. Peace out and all that bullshit.

Meditations on Myself

The past week has been both trying and wonderful. I find myself completely and utterly in love with my new job as a job coach. I would tell you all more, but I am bound to confidentiality, suffice to say I am for the first time in my life doing something I really feel matters. Let me rephrase, for the first time I have a job that is to do something that really matters.

In the past I worked on many wonderful projects for the community because I was a boyscout. Some people may think it is a silly organization, and I personally disagree with its views on homosexuality in scouts, but there are many good things about it.

My first forrays into the wild Northwest National Forrests were with the boyscouts. I learned how to identify plants and animals, made my body more physically fit through activities and campouts and eventially gave much back to the community through service projects and finally my own Eagle Scout award.

After boyscouts I gave all this up. I was in College, I was dating, I turned 21 and had many nights of drunken debauchery. I played music with my friends until the wee hours of the morning. I "spent the night" at girl's houses I just met, and partook in many other odious acts of vandilism and self-destruction.

But I always missed the feeling that scouting gave me. Yet, I never allowed myself the time. Recently, I have taken up tracking and wilderness skills with much vigor. I find myself identifying plants such as Oregon Grape, Salal, the White Pine, and the Yew Tree. I look for signs of animals, such as tracks, hairs and scats. I watch the sky for birds of prey. I think longingly about lashing.

Now, with the new job I have I am again providing service to people who need it. I am helping the community again. And more importantly I am making a difference in one person's life. And in all honesty, that person is making a difference in my life as well.

And I find that after all this time it turns out I am still a good person. Sometimes it is nice to go back to the old ways. Maybe I'm just being Post-Modern in my own life, or maybe I am actually the person the people who love me tell me I am.

If you cry then I'll cry. . .

I was watching one of my favorite shows today, American Chopper, and as usual the episode was a brilliant cross section of what is awesome and aweful about America. If you are unfamiliar with the show, let me fill you in. A father and son work together to build crazy themed "choppers" (custom motorcycles that have a longer than normal rake) and get into fights and generally cause havok. While all this is happening the fat and lazy younger brother Mikey tries to bring hilarity and mirth to all to ease the tension of the two anger factories, Paul Sr. and Paul Jr.

In recent episodes the two Pauls have been getting along much better and generally having a good time working on bikes, such as the "My Name is Earl" bike for the NBC show of the same name and the University of Michigan Wolverines bike for a children's hospital charity.

The show has grown in budget and sucess as the bike builders have grown in sucess, built and destroyed shops, built bigger, better bikes, and blown up and/or destroyed as much as possible. It even seemed the two of them had been getting along better and set aside thier father-son infighting.

This episode took a step back to earlier days. Paul Sr. and Jr. had probably one of their worst fights in show history (trust me I have seen every episode) and I was both entertained and worried. It seemed as though it would leed to father-son fist-e-cuffs.

I think much of my curiosity in the show comes from the relationship I have with my father, and the similarities that our relationship has to the relationship of the Tutles. It worries me that my father and I have had so many explosive fights, and maybe this show has given me refuge, somewhere to go where I can comiserate and maybe have a laugh at something that isn't so far from home (pun intended).

In this particular episode the two Pauls fight wasn't about the shop or who has better ideas in bike building it is about the universal theme that boys grow into men and must "fight" for respect from thier fathers. Do all men go through this? I doubt it. But when you pair two strong minded and creative individuals together, they can butt heads.

At the end of the fight the two predominantly stoic men embrassed each other crying and told each other they were sorry. I have to admit, I shed a tear. Not because of these two men fighting, but for the times my father and I have not been as able to forgive each other.

And now, having moved back into my parents basement I find myself caught in that struggle again, but now with a stronger idea of who and am and a greater sense of independence. I no longer feel the need to justify my life to my father. I no longer feel like a faliure at life. I no longer feel I need to prove anything. If it hasn't already been proved it never will be.

Two Things

So I have two things of note for today, Sunday February 10th 2008: The first being I have made a concerned effort to continue my streak of creativity, and the second being I have a new job as of an hour ago.

Let me start with the first. I have been working on a script, at least the outline of a script, for a very personal story. I decided to take the advice of the lovely and talented Drew over at OMSTV and write out the story as a personal narrative. The writing is going well, and will continue to do so later today while I "work" at the Red Lion. All I can say is "It is good to be creating again."

Second I just had an interview for a new job for yours truly. Essentially I would be job training with someone else to help them learn their job. While this may be a little outside my comfort zone I look at it as both a challenge and a bright new opportunity to make cash money.

So with that I look forward to the upcoming weeks working more and creating more as well. Tomorrow I wake up at 5:30 and go to work!

Typeface, and the dilema of art in the Modern (or Post-Modern?) world.

Last night I watched the film "Helvetica" which is a documentary on the type face Helvetica. I'd like to give you an example, but blogger does not offer Helvetica as one of it's fonts. It does have ARIAL (arial) which is essentially a knock-off of Helvetica.

The film is both interesting and superbly crafted. The interviews are informative, the shots are both cinematic and contain a sence of uniformity, which is where the type face Helvetica came from. It was made durning the Modernist movement, which focused on functionality. It is clean and functional, which is very much in the vien of Modernism. This film spurred a long discussion with Drew and I on art, Modernism, and Post-Modernism.

This got me thinking. Many people say we are now in Post-Post-Modernism, while others contest we are still in Post-Modernism. Which is true? If you think about it Post-Post-Modernism would just be a throwback to Modernism, right? And the truth of the matters in some ways a lot of design and art has gone back to the roots of Modernism. Be it conformity to specific rules, use of white space, or the idea that text (Helvetica) should be clean and clear; the text should not show the emphasis, the ad/art/design should show the emphasis.

Some still contest that we are in Post-Modernism, that having progressed this far with art and technology we can only build upon the ideology of Post-Modernism. Drew brought up an interesting argument about Post-Modernism in film. Looking at a director like Michele Gondry one could make the argument he is a Post-Modern director. He acknowledges the intellegence of the audience and our synicism towards the world, but asks us to suspend disbelief and step into a world that is both magical and very "home-made" ("The Science of Sleep" and "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" both do this). This understanding of irony as well as the look at what is magical and beautiful in the world really embodies the ideology of Post-Modernism. The other film she used as an example of this outlook, this embodiment of Post-Modernism in film, is "Singing in the Rain."

On the surface "Singing in the Rain" and "The Science of Sleep" are two very different films, but there is a kindred spirit to both. These films accept life's injustice and irony but also ask the viewer to look at the world for what is wonderful and magical. These films ask us to suspend the pessimism and synicism of our everyday lives and cherish what we have and what is really important.

But I digress.

Look at the world that you live in. Whether it be Seattle, New York, Stockholm, London, or Copenhaagen, look at the text that surrounds you. How much of it is Helvetica? You would be surprised to see that this little Modernist type face is everywhere and on everything. Your tax forms and W-2s are in Helvetica. "Washington" on the Washington state liscence plate is in Helvetica. Ads, signs, nutrition facts, logos (ARCO, Olympus, American Airlines) all are Helvetica.

For myself I am still trying to suss out what this means in my life. Maybe the Post-Modern foundation I have built my ideology on has slightly crumbled. Maybe it is the fact that I am getting older and that the cold hand of death looms closer everyday. Or, could it be the fact that I have been stagnant and now am awakening to the creative in myself again? I don't know. What I do know is that we are surrounded. Like the Force of the Star Wars saga, Helvetica "Surrounds us, penetrates us and binds us to the Galaxy." Or at least our own little corner of the Galaxy. But it is up to you, in this Post, or Post-Post, or Post Post-Post Modern world, to decide what it means for yourself.