Frost/Nixon: Read up before you digest the Hollywood hype.

"If the right people had been in charge of Nixon's funeral, his casket would have been launched into one of those open-sewage canals that empty into the ocean just south of Los Angeles. He was a swine of a man and a jabbering dupe of a president. Nixon was so crooked that he needed servants to help him screw his pants on every morning. Even his funeral was illegal. He was queer in the deepest way. His body should have been burned in a trash bin."
Hunter S. Thompson, He Was a Crook, From Rolling Stone, June 16, 1994

Check out Thompson's obituary for his nemesis Richard Nixon by clicking here.

Opening Day

Stevens Pass opens for the season on Thursday. While I'm excited to welcome the snowy bosom of winter back into my arms, I'm reminded that life is short. Randy "Rowdy" Garvie lost his two year battle with cancer last week, and his spirit and energy will be missing from the hill this season. Rowdy brought a workmanlike quality to our events team. He never complained. He always had a kind word. He would be a welcome voice of reason and calm when stuff would frequently go haywire.

We honored Rowdy over the weekend at a memorial service at a yacht club. His passions included boating, and this standing room only, open bar affair illustrated how deeply and widely he was loved. While some tears were shed, it was primarily because Rowdy won't be around. They had an open mic where you could say what you wanted, remembering Rowdy. The funny thing is that it was more fun than solemn, much warmer than regretful. It is always funny to hear great tales of great men from the mouths of the people who loved him most.

I will remember Rowdy as a cool cat, a family man of high integrity and great spirit. His passing will leave a great void on the hill this winter, but he will still rent some space in our hearts. Godspeed!

Personality Disorder

Udder Chaos, a love story about two cows on the run from a vicious butcher, will open to limited screens in the Seattle area in 2009. The cows reveal their hopes, dreams and fears before falling to the butcher block. Don't miss this fantastic tale of love and love lost.

Waking up is hard to do

Totally late this morning. Luckily my boss it either too frazzled to notice or let it slide. Either way, I had another morning phoning dentists and calling DSHS to get our "adopted" 18 year-old into some serious dental remodeling. Perspective builder, for sure.

Muratic Acid and the Petcock

I am not a smart man. Just ask my friends, girlfriends, c0-workers, etc...

The person least aware of this is me. Always the last to know...

I was working on a motorcycle project (Imagine!) and decided to take a shortcut cleaning out the fuel supply lines on a KZ400 using muratic acid. I had used this product with great success in the past to eat away the rust inside fuel tanks that had been sitting for years. It doesn't harm the steel of the tank, and only eats away the rust and other crap and eventually rinses clean.

I poured out a small amount of the acid and dipped in the aluminum pet cock. This piece is critical as it controls the fuel flow from the fuel tank into the carburators. I dropped in the petcock and then turned my back for no more than a minute.

When I turned back around there was a viscous reaction going on, bubbling over and giving off a green gas. I hustled over and removed what was left of my fuel petcock. The acid had reduced it to just a hint of its former self. FUCK! I should have realized, or at least tested this on a less expensive, hard to find, elusive piece of equipement.

Like I said I am not a smart man. I am painfully reminded of this regularly, but my memory sucks.

How to Save Five Thousand Dollars

I have an addiction of purchasing big ticket items to make me feel good about myself. Maybe it has something to do with my parents, but I'm a firm believer that my dysfunctions are my own. My favorite big ticket items include motorcycles. I currently have six and I was contemplating the purchase of an upscale German marque, the 1973 BMW R75/5.

This jewel is on EBay and from the first glance, I knew I had to have it. German motorcycles are renown for their styling, reliability and simplicity. I have yet to even ride one, but I emailed the seller, eager to see the bike. I placed a bid of $2500.00 and hoped that maybe the reserve was ridiculously low. I got an email back almost immediately and the seller told me he could meet me in Monroe at 5pm. Deal!

I cut out of work early (very slow week) and zipped home. I know what my magic number was, and I hoped that maybe I could get a glimpse into the secret amount that the seller would let the bike go for. I met an older gentleman, maybe 60 years old or so. He was a talker. He started in and telling me all these details about his collection of bikes, showing me the details on this bike, the BMW owners club, etc. I noticed, however, that he dodged several questions about how long he has owned the bike.

I started checking out the bike more judiciously. Frame looks good. Original paint good. Electronics all work properly. No oil leaks. Good. I took the seat off the bike and noticed that one of the shock bolt nuts was missing, and that the bolt had worked its way loose. The other bolt was holding fast, but had also lost its nut. I offered a ride down to Coast to Coast for some new nuts and the use of some tools. We headed out and he seemed embarrassed. He should be.

Long story getting even longer, I then and there decided this wasn't the bike for me. Sure it was a great specimen, but my lust had given way to a gentle longing. I wasn't ready to part with my entire motorcycle fund just yet. I could keep on looking for the right bike.

"I'll tell you what," the seller started to reveal, "you can have it for $5000.00 today if you want it." I waited a bit before responding, and he opened up about needing the money to purchase another bike. He wanted an older Harley FL and was ready to give up the beemer.

I didn't buy the bike, and I feel much better about myself. I already have everything I need, and most everything I want, and then some. I think my addiction can be tamed. We'll see.

I guess it would help if I stopped being a whiny bitch.

So my latest bemoan fest started with our teenage houseguest coming home stoned again. While I'm not entirely anti-pot, I am against homeless/lazy teenagers toking up and not attending to their lengthy to do list. Jon is looking at $9000 of dental work and needs to get his drivers liscense. While I should be happy he is a good kid, his laziness sends me into a rage.

Add a nagging/clinging/passive agrressive girlfriend into the mix and my evening was shot. I try not to go to bed angry, but when I suggested she return $300 worth of clothes she purchased for me, the water works kicked in and between sobs I was able to catch "ungrateful" and "digusting." While I dig my lady when it is all good, it can't seem to get any worse. Aside from the obvious side effects of having a pseudo live in better half, my libido has waned. I'm a bit of a heavy breather usually but lately I have shirked my manly duties primarily due to the reasonable proximity required to my girlfriend. I can't "phone it in." I have to be present.

I now have more gray hair than brown hair, although both colors have mutinied and jump ship towards the shower drain each morning. I want to be happy, but I am anything but. What the fock is wrong with me? I can't seem to shake this vicious string of tattered love affairs that end up badly, with no winners, no smiles, no walks down the aisle... Fock.

So while I weave in and out of game face (work) and hate (life) modes, it manage to only be mostly irritating in a morning meeting. After trying to be diplomatic in making suggestions to the woman who has the "tough job" of shopping for things we need, I almost lost it. Each week I get to sit through discussions and segways into tangents of uber irrelevance. I know it is important to get a new tent. Does it really take 5 weeks to price it out? Can't you just call someone and have it delivered? WTF? Again, I need to take the higher road but want to go postal. Why am I still here? If I really hate it, why don't I stop whining.

Then when I bail to grab comfort food at lunch, I stock up on the biggies. Hot mac and cheese from the deli? Check. BBQ pork and spicy hot mustard? Check. I need some MSG and toxic cheese quickly or I am going to the gun shop. Whether I point it at someone (never, but it crossed my mind) or myself (all too often...) I can only guess, but the cold steel barrell of Granpa's old Colt might just be the prescription for what ails me...

So while I'm contemplating my killing spree and subsequent standoff in the candy aisle (Take 5 takedown at Top Foods! Film at 11!) I watch a dad and his daughter getting rung up ahead of me in line. He forks over his W.I.C. (public assistance) coupon for his groceries and a small pile of cash. He is still short. He is about $5.00 shy and removes the gallon of orange juice from the bag. The clerk handles this in the coolest way, not letting this gentleman be embarrassed in front of his daughter, dressed like a princess fairy halloween debutante.

He scans the others in line for any type of reaction, but everyone is suddenly interested in other things. "Lose ten pounds fast," "Angelina leaves Brad." Anything to occupy the void of having to show empathy, compassion, sympathy, scorn or regret.

I look over at him and his eyes look hurt and forlorn. His next W.I.C. voucher is a week and a half out. I give him a reaffirming nod and he smiles at the clerk. He scoops up his groceries and his daughter follows him out. I remember what it means to be broke, but it has been a while since I have tasted the despair, frustration and empty feeling of being at ground zero.

The clerk smiled at me and reaches for my comfort snacks. I managed to blow $16 on junk food to make myself feel better, when all I really needed was a quick dose of perspective. I have nothing to complain about. I have nothing to complain about. I have nothing to complain about.

I know it. You know it. Some days are just brutal, though. I can't shake this feeling and I regret bitching about it. Tomorrow, they say, will be a better day. I certainly hope so. For everyone.

Spinning wrenches

I can't seem to find the balance I want with work/life/love/repeat.

For whatever reason, I find myself knotted up, frustrated, angry and aggravated. Thoughts of sawing the head off my tormenters only bring me brief moments of glee. I don't think they are the problem. I think the problem must be me.

But I don't want the medicated solution that Zoloft of Prozac provide. Too many friends spin into that state and never return. I don't want to lose my edge. I just want to dull it a bit. I can't seem to not care. I sweat the small stuff. Every small slight offends me. I hold grudges. What the fuck? I need to hook myself up to a pair of jumper cables and drive some voltage through my brain. Maybe it will work. Who knows.

I find the greatest solace in the solitude of spinning wrenches. Everything fits together nicely. Systems mesh at certain points on a motorcycle. If it is greasy, I was it. If it is rusty, I make it shine. If it doesn't work, I try to fix it. Very straightforward and very fun for my simple mind.

Do I bail on the corporate lifestyle and try to find inner peace? I can't afford to right now. I hope it all comes together and I find the balance I want in my life. Logging long miles on a bike for me tends to work best, followed by the required maintenance on road ready rides, or helping get a non runner closer to the street.

I hate this self loathing anger boiling inside me. I don't really hate people. I only hate most people.

Skinny dipping by the full moon

When my best friend got married, he had his nuptuals and ensuing bash at his 50 acre farm in New Hampshire. While the bride was already knocked up, the booze flowed freely and the debauchery reached all sorts of inappropriate levels. But that is another story in and of itself.

Greg has a brother and sister, but he chose his sister to be his "best man." I remember this keen distinction very clearly, as did the snubbed brother Nick. While he did get over it, I really dug the fuck that Greg would continue his "fuck tradition" mindset and embrace how close he is to his sister.

She is in a few words amazing, gnarly, real and uninhibited. Ildi is a rare bird in a world of clowns, half steppers, lazy drones and copy cats. We spent the majority of the weekend riding around on Honda CB 175's, zipping around town on beer runs, buying smokes and seeing how fast we could get the little bikes to wind out. It was fun, and we had co-pilots and other rabble rousers tagging along.

We had been good friends in college. I was at UMASS while she was at Clark. Our friends overlapped quite a bit, and through her I met the Eastern Boarder crew, Muzzey, Trevor Kupetz and other derilicts and fun merchants. It gave me a sea of sofas to crash on, memories to reflect on and experiences I can't remember and some I can't forget. We never dated. It was never like that, but I had a crush on her once in college for about a month. It was cool though. She made it easy to be friends.

But when the wedding died down and the drugs shifted from softer to much harder, the tone of the party began to change. You can only keep a monkey in a suit for so long before he'll rebel and tear it off. Imagine that same scenario, but with drunken buzzards who blow up shit for fun, get cramps from holding a beer 24/7, and generally are the funnest friends you can have. Someone turned it up a notch and others started hiding beers. It was getting late and getting out of hand at the same time. The civility and courtesy of the event had given way to the traditional New Hampshire beer swilling brawl.

Ildi decided to rent Greg and Haley a room for the night at the local hotel. The recently wed bride and groom jumped into the back of my dad's pickup truck while Ildi and I headed to a lake side motel. Normally, this type of tourist trap respite would be sneered at and dissed, but here it seemed appropriate. After trading hugs and high fives, I Love You's and goodnights, we headed back to the smoldering remains at the farm.

Along the way we stopped at a small park. It was quiet and dark and we headed down to the edge of the lake. Without a word Ildi stripped down and did a shallow dive into the calm lake. I quickly did the same and we talked quietly while we enjoyed the warm water. As the bright moon smiled down on us, thousands of stars gave some contrast to trees surrounding the edge of the water. I watched Ildi swim and the trail of the shimmering ripples when she ducked under the water. The dance between night and the lake was calming. It was refreshing to feel the water on my skin after standing so long near the bonfire earlier.

The gentle quiet of the lake, the revisited innocence of skinny dipping, and night air cooling my skin when we hopped out of the lake is such a strong memory. We laughed as we got dressed and headed back to the truck. While the crush I had in college popped back into my head, I realized that a decade had passed and we were different people now.

I always think of that night when I'm feeling down. The celebration and excitement of the wedding, and the secret secluded calming in its wake will always stay with me. I miss my friends and the time we spent together. I'm glad the memories seem indelible to me at this time.

I am lame

I am officially lame. While many of you already know this, I certainly didn't. I fancy myself to be above the hype, the hoopla and hubbub. When I pilot one of my two wheeled chariots around Puget Sound, I become one with the machine, tuned into the ride and forgetting all my work and relationship related stress.

I thought the acquisition of a Harley Davidson would help my motorcycle addiction, creating a finish line of sorts for the obsession I have with buying and selling motorcycles. The Harley was off putting at first, heavy and loud. I couldn't get into it, and I would log hundreds of miles on my trusty old Japanese XS360 while the pile of American Iron sat idle in my driveway.

I started to ride the 1000 cubic centimeter Sportster after my Yamaha wouldn't start one day. Noisy and rattling, I went for hundred mile run out to North Bend and back. I had some kinks to iron out on my Ironhead, but the motor pulled to infinity and I buried the needle a couple of time on the Snohomish River road between Monroe and Everett.

I started to enjoy the ride, the howl of the rumbling pipes and the deep bark coming from the v-twin engine. I know it isn't an Evo motor. I know it isn't a Fat Boy. Everyone keeps telling me what my bike isn't, but I take pride in not having a cookie cutter chrome drowned ride that only sees miles on the sunny weekends. I ride my bike all the time. Rain or shine...

The Harley Dealership wasn't exactly an ego boost either. One salesman offered me a $1000 in trade towards a "real Harley" and let me know that they couldn't work on an old bike like my 82 Sportster. After thinking about it for a few minutes and feeling like a complete dipshit, I walked around behind the shop to the service area and looked for the most grease stained, buzzardy mechanic I could find. I saw him choking back a cigarette and he gave me a nod as if to ask, "what the fuck are you doing back here?"

After introducing myself and asking him for some advice about my bike, he warmed up. "Old Ironhead Sportsters are cool. Take the time to warm them up good, a couple of minutes at least. You need to make sure the oil is moving through the motor." He gave me some great advice and offered some tips. "You don't need some fifteen thousand dollar bike to have a good time. Take good care of the bike you got, and ride the wheels off it." He gave me the number of a shop that would work on older Harleys. "Don't worry about the sales people. They have to sell new bikes to make money. Don't fall into that trap."

I headed home and looked at my Sportster in a whole new light. I found a killer Ironhead website to help me with my questions and technical details. How do I change the oil in the motor and in gearbox? Got it. I started spinning wrenches and getting greasy fingers dialing in my ride. I was proud of my bike and hopped on that thing for short rides, long rides and everything else in between. I had already clocked 1000 miles on the thing and I had just started riding it.

It was all well and good until yesterday. It was a rare sunny afternoon with a little bit of cool in the air. I decided to head out Hwy 203 towards Fall City and back before it started to get dark. I put on my tattered Carhart work pants and my hoodie with my well work work jacket. I have a metal flake glitter open faced helmet from the seventies that I scored at the swap meet for $6.00. While I know bugs hurt like a motherfucker when you catch one to the face at speed, you just can't be the open air feeling while riding a motorcycle. I headed out of Monroe and blitzed at speed clicking off gears and watching the speedometer climb. When I rolled to a stop at the light in Duvall, another bike pulled up next to me.

This blacked out Dyna Wide Glide had eye popping chrome everywhere that wasn't deep black. I'm guessing it was about 20k worth of bike and another 5k of bling bolted and wired on. This thing had electric blue hidden mini LED lights sending blue all around the chassis and motor. While I think that looks gay as hell it was pretty trick. The pilot had the head to toe HD package with helmet, bandana, shades, gloves, jacket and boots. The only thing missing was the chaps. It there had been chaps in the equation I would have written the guy off immediately.

But the bike looked pretty dope. It was a tight looking rig and it and shined brilliantly. When the light turned green and the Wide Glide turned left, I realized that I had bike envy. This is what bothers me so much: I felt the token rise of desire for another bike based on appearance. It doesn't matter that my bike has performed awesome since I got it. It doesn't matter that my $3000 machine is paid in full. I saw the nice and shiny badass latest and greatest and it made me feel like less of a biker.

I told my girlfriend about the incident later that night. She laughed and said of course I would always feel like that from time to time, but this was my first Harley and buying that was a big deal. Would I really go and buy a $20,000 bike so I can feel cool? She thought it was funny because I usually don't buy into the hype. "Go ride your bike and you'll feel better."

So I did. And I do. It still bothers me that I felt that twinge, but I am human I guess.

"You can't always get what you want..."

Strictly Brawlroom

Why is it that work is such a huge part of my life? I wish I had the capacity to just punch in/punch out and look at it objectively. Unfortunately I have too many loose wires inside to tone it down, play the game and roll with it. I am waist (waste) deep in a battle to do my job, but I keep getting tangled in bullshit, process, lameness and turmoil. What happened to letting people who specialize in marketing create the marketing stuff?



Case in point: Our new "policy" on creating partnerships within the agency makes perfect sense. In a perfect world, we would get objective feedback, insight, ideas and move forward. Now when I ask for feedback and input, certain folks rise to the occasion to revisit any wrong they have ever felt, bitch about their duties/job/boss/workload, or be deliberately difficult. WTF? Dude, if you hate your job, quit. If only I could practice what I preach.

"Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss." The Who.
I didn't get the drift of Roger Daltry's lyrics until just recently. Funny how a 37 year old song can be so apt in my life today. I was told yesterday that the submissions I was asked to write for two awards applications were being pulled. I'm being punished for raising a dissenting opinion to our new esteemed director. Such tactics only sell the agency short. I'm sure someone will win a prize for innovative digital media in the future, but it won't be me this year, that has been made clear. This new culture of micromanaging and "collaboration" is such a farce. I'm disheartened to say the least.

The exciting thing is that we're introducing a new media project to the masses. I think it will help make a glut of information digestible to new potential riders of public transportation. New turf. New method. People should be hyped, for sure.

Yet my partner in the project and I are already being told that "We'll talk at the de-brief meeting about how it should have went..." and bullshit like that. Can we finish the fucking project before you start telling us what we did wrong? What the fuck, dude? In this so called "team" environment I have had my spirit dented, reeled in, severed and then trampled on.

"The director is above reproach. You must respect the hierachy." Ok, I'll be happy too. How about if he respects our hard work, our long days to make the shoot happen, our efforts to find foreign language translators and get the project off the ground. Correct me if I am wrong, sir, but didn't we start this project before you worked here? It seems the only person not totally stoked on what we came up with is you. Again I ask, what the fuck?

Cut bait and screw? I don't want to, but I'm frustrated beyond belief. My "boss" won't go to bat for me because she respects the hierachy. Lame. I remember the first big meeting with the new boss who said he "wouldn't be one to mircro manage" and he would "let his good people do what they do best." I wish I had a tape recorder, but alas, I took him at his word.

The worst part of this whole deal is that my partner in crime (KJ) and I have risen to the challenge, plowed new terrain and learned an awful lot in the process. Nothing is worse than being shot at by your own team. The absurdity of it all is pleasantly ironic. In the future my director wants to become more digital, but he alienated the two people who actually took the bull by the horns and launched a digital project. That is irony of the tallest order.

This place is started to really gnaw at my innards. I hate my job this week, and I hate myself for allowing that to happen. Help me Obi Jan, you're my only hope...

Bordering on total sanity

I'm not sure what I did to take this vicious Karmic 180 degree turn, but it is brutal. Bad vibes, bad energy, bad times. What the falk did I do? Work sucks. Girlfriend, headache. Motocross, I'm old. What the hell? I've been chained to a desk for just about a year and a half and now I'm a pile. I don't even have the drive to ride my skateboard anymore because I'm too fat to reach down and grab for a frontside air. I know, I'm lame ass for being a bitch, but I think once I get it out I'll feel better...

I don't.

Fuck!

Kill me. At least let me fall off the wagon and get into a bar fight so I can have a shiner for a while. That might help. Maybe.

Maxed Out

If you get bored, love to read or have a significant problem with credit card debt, you have to read "Maxed Out." Also a a movie by the same name, this book explores the sub-prime credit dilemma and reveals a banking industry that is actually targeting people who are at risk to default. While it is both maddening and frustrating, you have to read till the end. Congress continues to be in cahoots with the financial masterminds, creating a disappearing middle class and increasingly huge gap between the very rich and the very poor.

Banking used to measure your earnings with regard to your obligations to determine your credit worthyness. Now banks will send you an unsolicited check for $5000 at 19% interest. Recent law changes have allowed banks to change their strategy and charge exhorbinant amounts of interest. Borrow some loot and miss a payment? Now banks can charge you overdraft, late, not-on-time, early payment and other fees at rates they set. Gone are the days of the $10.00 NSF fee. Now $50.00 for being a few hours late on an online payment are the norm. Don't believe me? Read the book.

Once again the government has made the corporation stronger than the citizen it is supposed to protect. Without campaign contributions to fight for representation in Washington, we will continue to be exploited for TRILLIONS of dollars in bank fees that didn't exist 20 years ago. From a business standpoint, banks and credit card companies (now the same thing) are killing it. From a moral standpoint, both our trusted lenders and leaders are failing to do the right thing.

Cut up those cards, go to the library and read this book. You are warned...

Free Bike Happiness

I never realized how cheap I was until I was sifting through the clothes for sale at the house across the street from mine. The old guy had died and his kids were having an estate sale.

I didn't want to pay fifteen dollars for a sheepherders jacket that really would have looked pretty cool as I whittled away the miles on my vintage motorcycle. I like it and all but I'm really trying to not be a major part of this consumer cycle so much. I'm going Freegan! Sort of.

That being said, I did manage to score an excellent very cheap oversize chair for only ten bucks, complete with oversize ottoman. On the way home with the chair over my head, I asked if I could have the bicycle covered in bird shit and dust under the overhang next to the garage. The oldest son looked estatic. "Take it." That was all I needed to make my weekend.

I grabbed my trusty Home Depot bucket and some soap and cleaned the heck out of that dusty old Schwinn. It started to reveal a very nice and shiny undercoating, and pretty soon I was looking a pretty decent free bike to add to my arsenal of cheap/free bikes. After about 10 minutes scrubbing and then lubing the chain, I was ready to test the tires.

Weather worn and showing cracks on the sidewall, the tires managed to work with the tubes in symbiotic apprehension and agreed to hold air. This first pedal around the block was all I needed to commit and decide to buy new tires for this underutilized machine. Free bike!

I flipped through all the gears, adjusted the brakes and then cleaned the bearings in the wheels and steering stem. Fresh grease really loosened up the ride and pretty soon I was breaking away across Monroe with the second best free bike I have found to date. This 10 speed was fun with a bullet however, and I couldn't seem to skate to the store anymore. I had to ride my free bike.

After spending $10 on tires and $6 on new handlebar wrap, I guess I can say that the bike is no longer officially free. But the spirit of this journey lies in turning one persons trash into another persons free transportation, and that is the root of Freeganism. Use it or pass it to the next person. Share the fun, share the wealth and stop bringing over containers full of shitty crap made in China. If you need a bike and think this one will work for you, it's yours. I just hate to see perfectly good things go to waste.

BTW: Free bikes are everywhere. Spend a little bit of time looking and you'll be stoked. The best part? If it gets stolen, you're not out any real money. Chew on that.

What does it feel like to be stoned?

I used to be a bit of a stoner. Aside from being a major booze bag to boot, I usually had a nifty little satchel of the green wax tucked away somewhere next to my pocket pipe. If I didn't have a beer in my hand, I was usually baked and enjoying life. Aside from the accompanying nasty habit of choking back Camel Lights all the time, being stoned was pretty fun.


Now I find myself falling into this orbit around a "job." I'm watching the clock instead watching the weather channel. I'm looking at my bank account instead of at my forward lean. I'm dressing like a complete doid instead of not giving a fuck about anything other than cold beer, big jumps and pussy.

I'm not sure when it happened, but the switch went off in my head that perhaps it was time to settle down, find a "real job" and build a future for myself. This notion is chewing away at me a bit today, as I always lived like each day was my last. Pound that fucking beer, take another bong hit and grind that corner before you pass out. I still can't remember most of the 90's, and the whole cluster of the early part of 2000's is a bit hazy as well. Shit, I can't remember last week let alone last year.

My point is that while I'm being handed easy money every other Friday for "marketing," I still yearn for the balls to the wall full on assault of guerrilla tactics which included throwing a contest, throwing a party and throwing up. It isn't all about getting fucked up and being wasted. That was secondary. The primary purpose was the revelry, the rambunctiousness, the noise, the shit talk and the comaraderie. We only only do nice things here at this job. I used to only do nice things when I absolutely had to.

So this program, this plan, this current rotation around my pension, 457 and so called light at the end of the tunnel feels hallow. If I yell I can hear it echo, devoid of any passion and slowing wearing away my drive to be innovative and outspoken. I guess than keep beating me down with boredom, meetings and the mundane with more money. It seems my spirit has gotten fat enough on the easy pickens to resist resisting. I am slowly becoming the douchebag I hate.

So what now? Do I dive back into action sports and learn how to sell, design or market things I love, toys of excitement, planks of pleasure or funsticks? No. I've been down that road. Reducing your fun to a priced producable product may have it perks, but you see how it's made, where it's made, how much it costs and how it all works. That takes away a bit of the shine.

No, I think I need something weird like a marketing job for an Alaskan fish hatchery or to move to Europe and follow the World Gran Prix motocross circuit in a camper. Either way it would be a good mix of the new with the totally strange. That might be just what I need.

Are you fucking kidding me?

I'm gonna go off on a rant here, but I'm not going to feel bad about it. I just had my first annual review at my job and received a score of "fully proficient." This is a bit of a let down for me. I'm choosing my words carefully.

I'm fucking irate. I am so angry that I feel like a kid who wanted a bike for Christmas and got a bunch of new underwear. Fuck. Fully proficient? Are you serious?

Every monkey that punches a clock at this place scores "fully proficient." I wanted and thought I achieved the coveted "exceeds expectations" status as a first year employee. I can't throw a tantrum. I can't whine or bitch. I have to smile, say thanks and take it in the tank. Fuck.

I work with a bunch of great people, but lets face it, not too many of them are pushing the limits of marketing with their cutting edge posters and brochures. I brought new media to this agency to the point where the marketing manager presented a Power Point on the subject (that I wrote for her, nonetheless). Fully proficient? Fully cutting edge I would counter.

I tackled old people, young people and one very angry middle aged women. Add all the hoops I jumped through just to get here and I think I did an exceptional job. I am so mad I could spit fucking nails through the wall. I can't really call bullshit on two bosses who are smiling when they say this, but how is it that I'm the one with all the projects and the rest of the team is going on vacation? Fuck.

You got a raise, right? Sure, I got a raise. I got the token 3.3% raise that everyone gets. But let me fill you in on something: I'm not everyone. I am a marketing fucking machine. If you can't keep up, then maybe I'll pack up. This is bullshit. Fully proficient. Eat it.

At one point or another a scooter became a priority. I hardly ride it, and when I do it doesn't go very fast. I can't remember what bug bit me and gave me scooter fever...

Well, after spending pretty much the whole weekend cleaning, rewiring my bathroom fan (not a new fan, mind you, a new fan motor and fresh wiring) and bleeding brakes on one of my four stroke girlfriends, I took the old Honda C-70 passport out for a spin. Despite sitting in a motorbike coma for five months, it sputtered to life, coughing through the dust and was eager to please. "Ride me."

I zipped down the street and clicked up from first gear into second. It was getting dark and the Bap Bap Bap Bap rhythm of the motor seemed a good match for the night. I twisted the cute bitsy throttle to the stop and clicked up into third gear. I think I was clawing my way past 30mph but I couldn't tell because the speedometer light is out.

My little town of Monroe is much different at night. The hustle of cars heading to the lake or the mountain fades quite a bit. The neon hum of Hwy 2 still burns through the remains of dusk but really arrives at full brilliance in the dark hours. Truckers are lured to fish sandwiches, pizzas and other cheap eats. Toursists fuel up, piss and head on their way. Monroe did itself a disservice be becoming a rest stop on the way to better, funner, glossier destinations.

It is this underdog, under appreciated status that gives Monroe an authenticity I dont' find in say Woodinville. Feeder communities that thrive on being able to look down their noses at the podunk shouldn't be so quick to judge. Monroe is at a crossroads, pun intended. I hope that my community sees fit to revamp itself and seize this chance to be more than a slurpee stop.

Time will tell. But as I whizz around town with my 70cc's of retro Japanese thunder, I dig the fact that nobody bugs me and nobody cares. Everyone is too busy in Monroe to worry about what everyone else is doing. That totally rules.

I don't know too much about Grindline, but I can say that they are fun merchants of the highest order. Leaving a concrete wave of construction in their wake, Grindline has blessed me with four ripping parks within twenty miles of my house.

The Carnation, WA (murdertown) is a delicious mix of deep end trannies with bowled corners, mellow shallow end and over vert pocket. It will let you be lazy if you need to bang out your mini ramp tricks, or push you out of your comfort zone with all sorts of hips, coping and speed for your fix. It also sits in a really nice setting, with a playground, BMX jumps and grassy field as immediate neighbors. Wanna bring the cooler and the grill? Carnation is the ticket.

Duvall is the best use of space I've seen at a skatepark, period. The street course have everthing a street monkey would want: ledges, rails, street gap and more. A jewel adjacent to the street course is the left hand kidney bowl with stairs in the shallow end. Unlike a real pool, I can grind this one. The first time over the stairs I felt like Salba. The pool is challenging yet not impossible to skate. After a few carves you need to either tackle the stairs or dump speed somewhere. There is plenty of room but it isn't a trench... It is such a good example of skateboarding terrain. Check it out.

Whoever thought up the aggregate coping for that bowl is a genius. I was trying to deduce the thought process on that one. "Hey, let's put pool coping in." "Hey, how about we try something different. I think this will work." "Cool, let's do it."

I don't know how they arrived at the final decision or how they tested the product, but I am so glad they did. It absolutely rips! Grindline: thank you. If I knew who you were I would shake your hand. As it is now I feel like I owe you a case of PBR's. Swing by to collect.

Border crossing back into hell

A couple of winters ago I scored a coveted chopper seat on way up to
Baldface lodge. Shotgun has the best view, and you get a headset.

The shredding was epic. I was rolling deep with talented industry types, but I'll spare you the name dropping. It was the trip you always dream about, and I was finally on it. The helicopter ride from Nelson up to the lodge was my first, and the terrain was beautiful.

It was the anniversary of Craig Kelly's death, and even though I never got a chance to meet him, he was definately there in spirit and still held in high esteem among the guides, cooks, patrons, owners, etc... The experience was surreal and wonderful. I can't wait to go back.

Rolling back through the border, crossing from ultra mellow friendly Canada, back into the United States (Nazitown, USA) shouldn't have killed my stoke, but it did. The border guard gave us an hour long hard time. Searching for contraband we didnt' have, hoping to find drugs we had already smoked, eager to justify his detention of our group with some key discovery.

We're not dumb. Of course we're not going to smuggle drugs across the border. That is why we went to Cananda in the first place: personal freedom. After all the bullshit, we were allowed to pass with a warning about registering laptops and camera gear. Lame.

I followed the road around a tight bend and slammed at 40mph (60kph Canadian) into Bambi. The poor little fawn was uplifted from her paws and punted into a nearby ditch. Dead on impact. We stopped the car and I fell into hysterical laughter. I know it is no laughing matter. I had just killed a deer with the rental Tahoe, but couldn't shake the irony of being so free in Canada and so scrutinized in my own country.

Muzzey took the photo we headed back to Stevens Pass. I was a little less stoked. Sorry Bambi.

Guestation Period

The best thing about old friends is the utter lack of pretese. They know how weird you are, and there is no looming sense of cordiality, hospitality or obligation. I hate pretense and while I am a used car salesman/marketeer by day, I enjoy my time at home in a different way.

The E.B. crew rolled into Washington for tour of skateparks, snowboard resorts and gentleman's clubs. Five deep and with two rigs, Jay, Alexei, Steve, Spike and Bryan got right in the mix. I have had guests from hell in the past (Mike Baker, Heath with his two dogs, my parents) but these guys are mellow. I'm stoked they came back to WA and I'm sure it will be the official unofficial annual trip each year.

Aside from the slight hint of dude smell coming from the 10 snowboard boots and 5 gear bags, the whole endeavor has been killer. I must be getting fat, old and soft when feet start to bother me. Weak.

Time on my hands

I'm stuck here at work and waiting for that second hand to pick up some speed.

Three more hours and I'll be happily in the saddle of my latest project, a 1978 KZ 400 A.

With just a few more kinks to iron out, I think this motorcycle has what it takes to become my daily driver. I need to install new fork seals and get the petcock to stop leaking. She's a runner and I'm pretty hyped on it. My little brother wants a bike to putt around on down in Venice Beach. I think this might be a good candidate for him.

Swap meet this weekend. I'm gonna roll up with every piece of motorcycle stuff I own and put prices on everything. Change is good, but dollar bills are better.