space coast to space needle
it is quite likely that this blog will disintigrate into a stream-of-conscious randomfest. a randompallooza, if you will. enjoy. and just remember, i am as lost as you.
observations from a quarter of a day spent in travel, in no preferential order, and completely nonsequitor:
3:00 am is too early to be up. memphis is extremely proud of their musical heritage. and their bbq. i live in the most southern state, but had to travel considerably north to tennessee to actually hear a southern accent.
ever notice how when you ask a guy for his id, he slaps his ass like he just suddenly realized that despite the fact that his wallet has been with him all day he isn't really sure if it is still in his pocket? like the words "can i see your driver's license?" make him think that it is possible that his wallet has vaporized right under his very bum? a guy will even have a brief look of relief cross his face when he feels it. i do it too. i take it one step further. i not only slap my back pocket, but suddenly and maniacally check for my keys, too. like, if my wallet can magically disappear, what's stopping my keys from doing the same?
in the town of orting, wa, pierce county, there is a bell tower, erected in the center of town in 1989 to commemorate the 100th anniversary of logging and the moving of coal down from the mountain (also known as orting's centennial), and under this bell tower is a time capsule to be opened in 2089, and in this time capsule is an orting centennial calendar, and the majority of the artwork depicting scenes from orting's 100 years, and the things that it is famous for (namely, logging, the shipping of carbon (later to be used as fuel), and daffodils) were drawn in pen and ink by yours truly.
oh how disappointed the future openers of said time capsule are gonna be on that day.
i stop at orting's liquor store to pick up the fixings for tom collinses, and not far in front of me parks a classic car. out pops an older gent, resplendant in pegged 501's, black boots, and slicked back pompador. "sweet ride daddy-o" i say, without the slightest hint of irony. "what is that, a '50, '51?" "'51." "niiiiiice." we shoot the shit about rat rods and early fifties caddies (my favorites) and later when i leave, it occurs to me that despite my apparent lack of sufficient hair for a duck's ass, and the skinny puppy t-shirt i was wearing, i still was pulling down a fair bit of street cred in my dorkboy glasses, dickies, and converse all-stars. the devil knows his own.
there should be an "annoying" section of the plane, where the people who want to be annoying can go be annoying together, and not bother the fucking people who fucking want to fucking sleep cause they had to fucking get up before fucking 3 am to fucking get to their flight to fucking make the fucking connecting flight so that they could fucking sit next to the fucking annoying fucking people who won't allow them to fucking sleep in the first fucking place.
the day was clear and bright, and as i looked out of my window i see mt st helens. at least i think it is mt st helens. well, it must be cause there to the south is mt hood. which would mean that mt rainier is somewhere off to my ri--and as i think this, the plane banks some and there it is: my mountain! there are mt rainier (in all of its pierce county country hick glory), mt st helens, and mt hood, all lined up in a straight row, beautiful. and i know it is near.
but it doesn't fully hit until i am outside in the indian summer breeze and i get the mountain-lake, fresh-fruit, evergreen, clear-stream smell that i always equate with home, but had somehow managed to quit smelling till i moved away.
fuck, it is nice to be back.
darth sardonic
observations from a quarter of a day spent in travel, in no preferential order, and completely nonsequitor:
3:00 am is too early to be up. memphis is extremely proud of their musical heritage. and their bbq. i live in the most southern state, but had to travel considerably north to tennessee to actually hear a southern accent.
ever notice how when you ask a guy for his id, he slaps his ass like he just suddenly realized that despite the fact that his wallet has been with him all day he isn't really sure if it is still in his pocket? like the words "can i see your driver's license?" make him think that it is possible that his wallet has vaporized right under his very bum? a guy will even have a brief look of relief cross his face when he feels it. i do it too. i take it one step further. i not only slap my back pocket, but suddenly and maniacally check for my keys, too. like, if my wallet can magically disappear, what's stopping my keys from doing the same?
in the town of orting, wa, pierce county, there is a bell tower, erected in the center of town in 1989 to commemorate the 100th anniversary of logging and the moving of coal down from the mountain (also known as orting's centennial), and under this bell tower is a time capsule to be opened in 2089, and in this time capsule is an orting centennial calendar, and the majority of the artwork depicting scenes from orting's 100 years, and the things that it is famous for (namely, logging, the shipping of carbon (later to be used as fuel), and daffodils) were drawn in pen and ink by yours truly.
oh how disappointed the future openers of said time capsule are gonna be on that day.
i stop at orting's liquor store to pick up the fixings for tom collinses, and not far in front of me parks a classic car. out pops an older gent, resplendant in pegged 501's, black boots, and slicked back pompador. "sweet ride daddy-o" i say, without the slightest hint of irony. "what is that, a '50, '51?" "'51." "niiiiiice." we shoot the shit about rat rods and early fifties caddies (my favorites) and later when i leave, it occurs to me that despite my apparent lack of sufficient hair for a duck's ass, and the skinny puppy t-shirt i was wearing, i still was pulling down a fair bit of street cred in my dorkboy glasses, dickies, and converse all-stars. the devil knows his own.
there should be an "annoying" section of the plane, where the people who want to be annoying can go be annoying together, and not bother the fucking people who fucking want to fucking sleep cause they had to fucking get up before fucking 3 am to fucking get to their flight to fucking make the fucking connecting flight so that they could fucking sit next to the fucking annoying fucking people who won't allow them to fucking sleep in the first fucking place.
the day was clear and bright, and as i looked out of my window i see mt st helens. at least i think it is mt st helens. well, it must be cause there to the south is mt hood. which would mean that mt rainier is somewhere off to my ri--and as i think this, the plane banks some and there it is: my mountain! there are mt rainier (in all of its pierce county country hick glory), mt st helens, and mt hood, all lined up in a straight row, beautiful. and i know it is near.
but it doesn't fully hit until i am outside in the indian summer breeze and i get the mountain-lake, fresh-fruit, evergreen, clear-stream smell that i always equate with home, but had somehow managed to quit smelling till i moved away.
fuck, it is nice to be back.
darth sardonic
Labels: back to the old house, on the road, pierce county motherfucker, randomness
posted by darth sardonic at 6:33 PM
4 Comments:
Awww... that's the way I feel every time I see the Collegiate Peaks. And the Sangres... and the San Juans...
And the continental divide.
Hope you enjoy.
ty z i sure am
I am completely in love with you, you know? In a completely platonic way, of course, but still completely head over heals every time I read a post like this.
lol krissie ty so much, i appreciate that. someday, when i finally get my magnum crappus finished n published, i will sign you a copy.
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