How many? Less than Three!

My friend Peet set up this site for me, and made the above logo of me in my Gothic Lolo outfit, and remixes songs and generates new ones, and is a helluva Dance, Dance Revolution and ParaPara Paradise player, and has had songs on two versions of DDR fan game In The Groove, and also made the song for this video, and is the first person I know personally who has something selling on Itunes. He knows an awful, awful lot about J-pop music and Japanese pop culture, and once casually suggested to a J-pop band, The Moist Towelettes, that they cover The Frank Chickens' hit, We Are Ninja, (Not Geishas) and they did it. They even made up a cute little dance.

His hysterically happy Becky record is available via Itunes, and he also drew the cover. He also has music projects called Peroxide Mocha and Grammar Rodeo. As if that's not enough, he's also one of the country's foremost experts in hideous mugs. He's such a special person, I just wanted to take a minute to tell you all about him.

Death in the Family

Teddy Bear Morgue

It's a bittersweet day for me, as my childhood bear, Boffo, escaped his closet sanctuary and was immediately mauled by birthday boy Chico Jones, who claims that he was keeping the house safe from marauding bears. It was hard for me to find my old bear less an eye and a nose, unable to see or breathe, and I had to have a long talk with myself about what exactly I thought I needed a 34 year old bear for. I finally put him down humanely, along with any remaining happy memories of my childhood.
At this point, what I am most worried about now is that Chico will think he would be able to take a bear he encountered in the wild. Perhaps it was his advanced age, but Boffo's total lack of defensive ability might have given my dog false confidence.

It's not the first time Chico has gotten confused on the subject of bears and dogs. When we took him to see Grizzly Man, we had to move to the back of the theatre because he was growling at the bears. You can't fool him, he knows Canis when he sees it.

The bear in question in happier days.

A re-creation of the crime scene.

Artsy Fartsy Hirsty Wursty

Autopsy of a Sliced Human Brain

Over a year after it opened, the lure of a Damien "Drugs and Animals" Hirst exhibit finally got us out to the Portland Art Museum's modern art branch in the Jubitz center (Paid for by the people who brought you The World's Classiest Truck Stop!). Because I can't pay attention when other people speak, I didn't realize that you enter the new museum via a downstairs hallway in the old one, and I wound up asking the girl at the front counter if she had anything on hand more recently deceased than the current Egyptian Rich Dead Guy Stuff. Once we got there, the new branch was really nice, with four floors of nice assortment of famous and less-famous artists. It's great to have some sort of contemporary art wing to the sometimes fusty and localized older museum.

Once we had enjoyed Oldenberg's giant, breathing icepack, a nice little assortment of Duchamp stuff, and the Longo crawling-drowning-yuppie sculpture, we made it to the top floor to all four (4) Hirst pieces. I was mildly disappointed at the number, but what they lacked in quantity, they made up for in size. Two of them were giant, one Pharmacy installation and a glass display of many, many animal skeletons. The other two pieces were a drug-spot painting and the above painting of sliced brains that has a lot in common with my infamous attempt at the Beastie Boys' Heil Seitan recipe from Thanksgiving 2002.

Away From The Flock

"But for me, from my point of view, I don't mind if it falls over... if you
break the glass you replace the glass, if the sheep falls out you can always get
a new sheep." - Damien Hirst

It's good for me to go to the museum, not only because I heart art, but it's also a helpful reminder of how tired my whole nosering-and-glasses, bob-haircut, art-chick bit is. It's like coming to the place in Battlestar Galactica where all your identical Cylons live. At least I don't wear clogs, so my spouse could still tell which one was me.

Emo-Philia!

It's important to point out that sometimes meeting your heroes is not all it cracked up to be.

I am back from my first trip to glorious Bend, OR, where I went on a comedy pilgrimage to see the cerebral palsi-ness of Emo Philips. Although it took seven hours to drive there and back, and we got pulled over in Redmond for looking weird, and we had curly fries and vodka for dinner, and we sat with a retiree couple who were just glad to be out of the house, we knew it was all worth it when the emcee took the stage and said "I'll bet you can't wait for your headliner, Elmo Philips!"

Emo is, dare I say it, even more dashing at 50 than he was at 30, and his jokes are as surreal and mean-spirited as ever. He has gained approximately 3 pounds, so you can no longer see his hipbones rub together when he walks. He was kind enough to chat with us in greenroom afterwards, although I mostly just talked nonsense at him. I'm petitioning to bring him to Portland in July for a show. He's aching to join us in our pinko outcast majesty, and I believe he has an inkling that he might well serve as our king.

Snow Day!

From the bus stop at 7AM- I thought things might go badly.

Thank goodness we had five inches of white stuff dumped on us Tuesday, because after MLK day on Monday, we might have had to work four days *in a row*. Unfortunately, that much snow keeps Portland at a standstill, because we don't really have much by way of chains or snowplows, and essentially we depend on local children building snowmen to clear the streets. Multnomah county is bussing in snowman-hungry children from as far away as Nevada to get the city back to normal.


Spouse tried to make a snow angel in the backyard, but something went horribly wrong and we wound up with an image of what would happen if you died in the snowy woods and wild bulldogs ate your face off.


Bulldogs, satiated with fresh people meat, but annoyed that the snow is up to their elbows.

Goth Nite

Over the long weekend, we took the opportunity to take in a spooky, sinister evening at Hive at Lola's room, and we dressed appropriately as a sad, chubby French Maid doll and a transvestite military man. Walking up to the bar, I wondered- Aren't I getting a little old for this shit? If the reader has an opinion, I would kindly ask them to keep it to themselves.

Bike Essay

Me and my bike, making snow angels.

I sent this essay in to a contest for to promote bike commuting, and it was not good enough to win a prize, but it's plenty good enough to annoy you people with.

Mental Health:

I am the last sane person at my office, because I never have to worry about the over-capacity parking lot. Whenever I arrive, I put my bike in the same bike room. And if the racks were full, I could lock my bike to another bike, or I could chain it to a railing. If I were really stuck, I could put it in my office. Try that with a Jeep, and you’ll find you can’t. My tinkling laugh rings out when co-workers run into meetings panting they had to park and walk from Vancouver.
I am guaranteed an hour and a half of quiet "me" time a day, when I am not annoyed by the horrible, grating chitchat of friends and loved ones. If you are a friend or spouse, I'm not talking about you. I'm talking about the others.

Continued Education:

I can pull a blown tube, replace it, and put the tire back on the wheel while standing. It's like the world's slowest, lamest magic trick. I can trigger the signal at stop lights by rolling over the mysterious tar circles. The motorists think it’s magic, or that the light turning green has something to do with elves.

Fitness:

I have calf muscles that could cut diamonds, or at least slice bread, or definitely spread butter on bread. Unfortunately, that makes for really greasy, buttery calves.


In closing, go ahead and ride a bike, because who wants to live forever anyway?

My Favorite Things

Slowly but surely, my next birthday is creeping ever-nearer. This year, since it falls on a Monday, I get my birthday off work, and I will spend most of the day devoted to tribute to my birthday twin, Dr. Martin Luther King, but the evening is all about me.

At 7:30PM, I invite you to join me at the Vegetarian House at 22 NW 4th to enjoy some delicious fake-meat Chinese food and to bask in the almost total lack of ambiance, save the promotional material for their cult. We'll eat family-style and wipe the chopsticks on the tablecloth.

At 9, we can walk across the street to Dante's, to claim our seats and enjoy some chitchat and drinks before Karaoke From Hell starts at 10. We'll be singing onstage with a live band that is nearly as drunk as we are. Here's the songlist. You can start planning your moment of triumph now!

You can attend either, neither, or both activities, whatever strikes your fancy and works with your schedule.

Gifts are not expected, and nor are they really deserved. I just don't wanna grow old alone.