I have to admit. There's a big part of me that wishes I could start a rap duo, perhaps a trio, a la Salt n' Pepa, and swagger around, make up some synchronized dances, and rap about things like wedgies, bum poop, and people who don't dance. Those of you who were at Chopsticks the night that Jocelyn and I attempted to recreate Shoop, know this probably isn't going to happen. However, if it does, I'm taking a page from Kreayshawn's book. I especially like the blond girl who doesn't really do anything. Her vague gestures and half-hearted lip-syncing are mesmerizing.
May 27, 2011
May 26, 2011
Don't Forget
1. Sunglasses: Preferably mirrored. Multiple days of dancing and little sleep means you end up looking pretty bad. Sunglasses hide half your face. This is good.
2. Tickets: Though many have forgotten or lost their tickets (Laurence!), it always works out in the end. That said, it's better just to have them in hand.
3. Snacks that are palatable at all times: Portable food is good but no pink salmon in a bag. No PBJ, it's just too dry. Fruit, trail mix and hot dogs. Ramen for late evenings.
4. Clothes: For all seasons. Overpack. Bring many pairs of socks and multiple pairs of shoes. If it rains and you only have one pair of shoes and they are converse and they end up getting all wet and stiff and abrasive, you will be sad you don't have an extra pair of shoes.
5. Random art supplies and notebooks: It's good to take notes. Treasure these moments.
6. Camera: Charged and ready. Last year I only had one day with my camera. It spent the other two in my tent with a dead battery. Never again.
7. Unexpected items: This always happens. You have to embrace it. You end up at camp with a Dora the Explorer pinata or a plastic picture frame featuring Vietnamese girls in 80s swimsuits and that's okay. It's part of Sasquatch.
8. All necessary players for camping: This means pump for the air mattress, poles for the tent, gas canister for the stove. Sometimes it's the supporting actors that stand in the way of true success.
9. Hydration: I am going to bring lots of Gatorade, coconut water, and just plain water this year. And I am going to drink lots of it so I don't end up a husk of myself, capable only of half-hearted spirit fingers and toe shuffling by the end of the weekend.
10. Sunscreen: Even if it's not hot, we will still be milling about under UV rays for four days, leathering.
Happy Memorial Day Weekend !
May 24, 2011
Anticipation
Sasquatch is upon us. It always comes so soon, and I never quite feel prepared for the onslaught of music, laughter, dancing, late nights, early mornings, and hilarity that comes with it. This year, however, is different. I packed last night. Days ahead!
Obviously this was only Tier 3 Packing. Tier 2 Packing will occur the morning of and will result in at least five more random items shoved into my bag. Tier 3 Packing will occur five minutes before we leave and this will involve sheer panic and will result in inexplicable and useless items, as well as the last-minute stowing of things that I would not be able to live without (tickets, camera, chapstick, etc.).
So last night I put on LCD Soundsystem, went through my clothes, modeled my outfits, and danced. It's tricky. Danceablity, comfort, style, climate control: all these factors must be considered when selecting clothing for Sasquatch. I always want it to be nice and hot, but the weather forecast is not looking good, and even when it is, you can't avoid variability up there in the Gorge. So, I think I've packed the correct amount of things that I will wear because I want it to be warm, and things I need to wear because it won't be warm (see the abbreviated visual catalog above). My only goal is to not end up looking like a bag lady.
So last night I put on LCD Soundsystem, went through my clothes, modeled my outfits, and danced. It's tricky. Danceablity, comfort, style, climate control: all these factors must be considered when selecting clothing for Sasquatch. I always want it to be nice and hot, but the weather forecast is not looking good, and even when it is, you can't avoid variability up there in the Gorge. So, I think I've packed the correct amount of things that I will wear because I want it to be warm, and things I need to wear because it won't be warm (see the abbreviated visual catalog above). My only goal is to not end up looking like a bag lady.
May 23, 2011
Code name: DH
The term DH was spawned this weekend on a sidewalk in Bend. Sam and I went over there for the Pole, Peddle, Paddle. I did the downhill and paddling portions and the whole thing went like clockwork. I began the race on time, so things went infinitely better than last year. We got 6th place and substantially improved our time! Not quite champions, but still winners.
But anyway, back to the dumplings. This thing happens when I get hungry, and it's totally horrible. I go from being a charming, intelligent young lady, to a mumbling, irrational savage. I am filled with despair. I give up on life. And woe to the person who happens to be with me, attempting to help (i.e. Sam). I am not going to do a complete reenactment of the situation because I would lose all credibility. Plus, Sam would probably feel misrepresented, as this is the sort of thing that deserves both sides of the story. These are the facts: Sam purchased a dumpling from a man with a food cart and a ponytail. And then we got in a fight about the dumpling.
Even in the midst of this fight, I knew it was totally, obscenely ridiculous. The whole thing was so juvenile that I couldn't even justify it to myself. That didn't stop me from continuing on, bludgeoning reason out of the way, crossing my arms, and refusing the last bite of dumpling. Sam, in fact, threw the last bite away, because we were both too stubborn to eat it.
Once the dust settled and we walked away from the scene of the crime, we both acknowledged it was ridiculous and moved on with our lives. We got dinner and I became myself again. However, we have also discovered that if I am "dumpling hungry" or DH as it is now known, things need to be remedied quickly. For all I know, Sam is planning on packing Cheerios in a baggy for our next adventure out of town.
But anyway, back to the dumplings. This thing happens when I get hungry, and it's totally horrible. I go from being a charming, intelligent young lady, to a mumbling, irrational savage. I am filled with despair. I give up on life. And woe to the person who happens to be with me, attempting to help (i.e. Sam). I am not going to do a complete reenactment of the situation because I would lose all credibility. Plus, Sam would probably feel misrepresented, as this is the sort of thing that deserves both sides of the story. These are the facts: Sam purchased a dumpling from a man with a food cart and a ponytail. And then we got in a fight about the dumpling.
Even in the midst of this fight, I knew it was totally, obscenely ridiculous. The whole thing was so juvenile that I couldn't even justify it to myself. That didn't stop me from continuing on, bludgeoning reason out of the way, crossing my arms, and refusing the last bite of dumpling. Sam, in fact, threw the last bite away, because we were both too stubborn to eat it.
Once the dust settled and we walked away from the scene of the crime, we both acknowledged it was ridiculous and moved on with our lives. We got dinner and I became myself again. However, we have also discovered that if I am "dumpling hungry" or DH as it is now known, things need to be remedied quickly. For all I know, Sam is planning on packing Cheerios in a baggy for our next adventure out of town.
May 20, 2011
RIP Club 834
An era has ended. Club 834 has been a wonderful home since September 2009. Its University of Oregon-themed walls have seen the initial excitement of my arrival to Portland, combining forces with Heidi and decorating a new home, interviewing Craigslist roommates, Will's reign of terror, dust bunnies, R. Kelly on the porch, serious conversations over dinner, chaise lounge sleepovers, Charissa's welcome presence, gardening and tanning on the berm, floor-shaking dance parties, Heidi's homemade fancy cocktails, potlucks, nail painting parties, and lots of laughter. I will miss Club 834. And living with Heidi and Charissa. It's the end of an era.
The big purple house.
The big purple house.
Halloween at 834.
My tiny room was basically a giant closet.
Party on the porch.
Garden on the berm.
Reenactment of a photo at the Celebration of Summer Party.
Heidi at the Onesie Party
Stairs of doom.
Where's Charissa? The Christmas edition.
Kewpie doll and dust bunnies
May 19, 2011
House: Warmed
So, Sam and I have been in our new place for a week and a half.
It was time to have a housewarming party and debut all our hard work cleaning, unpacking, hanging pictures, and employing our interior design genius. We had the party last night and it was so, so wonderful. Everyone brought delicious food (pasta salads, artichoke dip, cheesy potatoes, snack trays, and enchiladas, not to mention heaps of wine, beer, and the like), witty conversation, and the special ingredient that makes a house a home: love. Aw.
A good time was had by all. Follow that up with a late night skate down to Swift, and the night was complete.
*** photo by the lovely Eva Hume. Here's her blog. That Polaroid is from my going away to Japan party when Liz still lived in the Prescott house. Ah memories.
May 18, 2011
Summer Thighs
Okay. So I totally hate shorts. I think they're unflattering. I have been on a crusade against shorts for years. This is mostly because they look horrible on me. I have the torso of a tall person and the legs of a short person, weird scars on my knees, and shaving intensely irritates my legs. None of these qualities are conducive to shorts-wearing. So I have to admit there is some jealousy mixed into my hatred of shorts.
And now that we are getting some sunshine in Portland, people have started dusting off their shorts, their rompers, and their spandex. I can't say that I'm celebrating. But as I biked home yesterday I mused on the future barrage of shorts and I thought, I need to accept shorts. They're not so bad. Maybe I should start wearing shorts this year, as an affirmation of life. I should stop hating.
And then I stopped at the light at 28th and Glisan. A server came out of the Lucky Inn with drinks for some of the derelicts sitting at the picnic tables. And she was wearing this.
Shorts that were basically underwear with suspenders attached + patterned maroon control-top pantyhose + ironic old lady orthopedic nurse shoes. The support portion of the hose (the opaque part) extended a good six inches past where the shorts ended. To which I say, SICK.
I took back my vow to accept shorts then and there.
What do you think about shorts? What do you think about control-top pantyhose as outerwear? Has a new movement begun?
And now that we are getting some sunshine in Portland, people have started dusting off their shorts, their rompers, and their spandex. I can't say that I'm celebrating. But as I biked home yesterday I mused on the future barrage of shorts and I thought, I need to accept shorts. They're not so bad. Maybe I should start wearing shorts this year, as an affirmation of life. I should stop hating.
And then I stopped at the light at 28th and Glisan. A server came out of the Lucky Inn with drinks for some of the derelicts sitting at the picnic tables. And she was wearing this.
I took back my vow to accept shorts then and there.
What do you think about shorts? What do you think about control-top pantyhose as outerwear? Has a new movement begun?
May 17, 2011
River Rodent
I saw a beaver yesterday!
Now, when a typical Portlander makes this statement it's pretty safe to assume they were frequenting one of Portland's many strip clubs. I believe that we have the most per capita, though I would have to double check that statistic. But no. Never fear, dear reader, I was not at a den of sin last night. Not even close.
I was on the mighty Willamette in a canoe.
I am participating in the Pole, Peddle, Paddle this weekend. It's a race from the top of Mt. Bachelor to Bend comprised of downhill ski/snowboarding, cross-country skiing, cycling, running, rowing, and sprinting legs. My company put a team together last year (we got 15th in the corporate division!), and we're going back for the glory this year. Last year I did the downhill snowboarding portion. In an unfortunate turn of events, I missed the start by about four minutes and was miserably late. This year, I'm trying the whole snowboarding thing again (if I don't make the start I'll probably get fired), plus the canoe portion with my coworker Jerry.
We went out on the Willamette to practice last night and it was beautiful. We saw herons, baby Canada geese, Dragon boaters, and the aforementioned beaver. It swam parallel to us for a bit and then slapped the water with its tail and dove under. Nature is so exciting. Way more exciting than strip clubs.
Now, when a typical Portlander makes this statement it's pretty safe to assume they were frequenting one of Portland's many strip clubs. I believe that we have the most per capita, though I would have to double check that statistic. But no. Never fear, dear reader, I was not at a den of sin last night. Not even close.
I was on the mighty Willamette in a canoe.
I am participating in the Pole, Peddle, Paddle this weekend. It's a race from the top of Mt. Bachelor to Bend comprised of downhill ski/snowboarding, cross-country skiing, cycling, running, rowing, and sprinting legs. My company put a team together last year (we got 15th in the corporate division!), and we're going back for the glory this year. Last year I did the downhill snowboarding portion. In an unfortunate turn of events, I missed the start by about four minutes and was miserably late. This year, I'm trying the whole snowboarding thing again (if I don't make the start I'll probably get fired), plus the canoe portion with my coworker Jerry.
We went out on the Willamette to practice last night and it was beautiful. We saw herons, baby Canada geese, Dragon boaters, and the aforementioned beaver. It swam parallel to us for a bit and then slapped the water with its tail and dove under. Nature is so exciting. Way more exciting than strip clubs.
May 13, 2011
Hair Dos
I bleached my hair.
Not a lot. I don't look like Courtney Love or anything. But I decided I wanted some nice summery highlights, mostly at the ends, like I spent a lot of time in the sun a long time ago. I went to Vanity Junkie because I had a living social coupon. Terrible name, but it actually turned out to be a nice place. I showed the stylist this picture from the Garance Dore blog:
And I told her that's what I wanted. And she said okay and then she just started right in. It was terrifying. I sat there in the spinny chair, covered in a drape, while she picked through my hair and painted it with smelly bleach solution, and I silently panicked. Surely she should have studied that photo more. Surely she should ask me more questions. I should have asked to see her hair-dyeing license. My previous experience with bleach involved two awkwardly placed streaks of orangey blond that a lady at Great Clips put in my hair. I thought it was totally awesome. It looked like this:
Anyway, all I could think while sitting in that chair was that she was going to take the foil off and my hair would look like she dipped it in a vat of bleach and it would be weird and yellow or even worse, orange (you how it looks when Japanese people bleach their hair and it turns orange because their hair is so dark?), and I would have to smile and say I liked it and then I would run out and cry in my car for a while and then I would have to hack it all off. And I thought, I have been sitting here forever. What could she be doing? Doesn't she know my hair's turning yellow? Why doesn't she come back? I'm going to have to cut it all off. Oh no. OH NO. And then she came back and checked it and said, "Let's let it develop a little bit more."
And I said, "Okay" with a slightly sing-song voice but inside I was saying NOoooooooo, it's going to look horrible. You're ruining my hair. Ruiniiiiing.
And then she came back and washed it out and then she dried it and it looks great. I love it! It looks summery and light and subtle and not at all weird or yellow or like I'm back in eighth grade. Success.
Not a lot. I don't look like Courtney Love or anything. But I decided I wanted some nice summery highlights, mostly at the ends, like I spent a lot of time in the sun a long time ago. I went to Vanity Junkie because I had a living social coupon. Terrible name, but it actually turned out to be a nice place. I showed the stylist this picture from the Garance Dore blog:
And I told her that's what I wanted. And she said okay and then she just started right in. It was terrifying. I sat there in the spinny chair, covered in a drape, while she picked through my hair and painted it with smelly bleach solution, and I silently panicked. Surely she should have studied that photo more. Surely she should ask me more questions. I should have asked to see her hair-dyeing license. My previous experience with bleach involved two awkwardly placed streaks of orangey blond that a lady at Great Clips put in my hair. I thought it was totally awesome. It looked like this:
It was a dark time.
Anyway, all I could think while sitting in that chair was that she was going to take the foil off and my hair would look like she dipped it in a vat of bleach and it would be weird and yellow or even worse, orange (you how it looks when Japanese people bleach their hair and it turns orange because their hair is so dark?), and I would have to smile and say I liked it and then I would run out and cry in my car for a while and then I would have to hack it all off. And I thought, I have been sitting here forever. What could she be doing? Doesn't she know my hair's turning yellow? Why doesn't she come back? I'm going to have to cut it all off. Oh no. OH NO. And then she came back and checked it and said, "Let's let it develop a little bit more."
And I said, "Okay" with a slightly sing-song voice but inside I was saying NOoooooooo, it's going to look horrible. You're ruining my hair. Ruiniiiiing.
And then she came back and washed it out and then she dried it and it looks great. I love it! It looks summery and light and subtle and not at all weird or yellow or like I'm back in eighth grade. Success.
May 11, 2011
Roast Beef
Last weekend I went down to Corvallis with Sam and Kyle Arthur in a large diesel truck (borrowed from my dad). We were on a mission to pick up some free furniture from Kyle's dad's place and decided to make a night of it. Friday night Corvallis. Woooo.
For those of you who haven't spent a lot of time in Corvallis, it has a large state university. That's about it. Of the two state universities in Oregon, it's the one that is more focused on agriculture, science, engineering, and other such things. Serious things. Things that involve wearing Carhartts and shoes with rugged soles and being socially awkward. If you want to experiment with your sexuality, get your nose pierced, or grow some dreads, you should go to Eugene.
Anyway, it was a total ghost town. We walked from Kyle's dad's house to a local bar, bought a pitcher, and watched some tough girls play pool. There were beards, and sweatshirts, and old grizzled men wearing stained baseball hats. Sam started to fall asleep. He was actually concerned that we would have to carry him back to the house.
Kyle Arthur would not be defeated and attempted to take us to another bar in town, the "Dirty Dirty" Peacock. There was a cover so we didn't go in, but it did look more promising. The windows upstairs were steamed up and shuddering with bass. The crowd looked, well, less good ol' boy than the last place, but still pretty tough. The kind of girls that bleach their hair with home kits and aren't afraid to dump a beer on your dress. We continued to a place called Impulse.
Oh Impulse. Ye of terrible bartenders, rap music videos, and a wall of couches covered in pillows. There was a DJ playing and hoochies dancing (actual hoochies! They were wearing awkwardly short dresses that required tugging down every five seconds, which they managed to incorporate into their self-conscious dancing). I was impressed by a trio in red and black, accenting their dancing with high kicks. You can't go wrong with high kicks.
We sat on the couch with the mountain of pillows and people-watched. A girl who looked like Meg from Family Guy stood against the wall near the bathroom. Every once in a while she would sidle closer to the dance floor and start waving her hands around. Then she would get embarrassed and retreat back to the wall like a turtle wearing a stocking cap. We saw scrunchies. We saw super-aggressive, hands on the knees grinding. We saw the most awkward white dancing we have ever seen.
AND THEN. Remember the high-kicking dance trio? They got on stage. They said, "We're Roast Beef!" and then they started rapping. They were actually a female rap group. Amazing. They were like Salt n' Pepa if Salt n' Pepa was just okay and had a crappy sound system, but they had some synchronized dance moves, decent style, and added a whole new element to our Corvallis adventure. We were like, Roast Beef. Awesome.
But as we were leaving we saw a poster. They were actually called Rose Bent. Not quite as great. But still pretty good.
For those of you who haven't spent a lot of time in Corvallis, it has a large state university. That's about it. Of the two state universities in Oregon, it's the one that is more focused on agriculture, science, engineering, and other such things. Serious things. Things that involve wearing Carhartts and shoes with rugged soles and being socially awkward. If you want to experiment with your sexuality, get your nose pierced, or grow some dreads, you should go to Eugene.
Anyway, it was a total ghost town. We walked from Kyle's dad's house to a local bar, bought a pitcher, and watched some tough girls play pool. There were beards, and sweatshirts, and old grizzled men wearing stained baseball hats. Sam started to fall asleep. He was actually concerned that we would have to carry him back to the house.
Kyle Arthur would not be defeated and attempted to take us to another bar in town, the "Dirty Dirty" Peacock. There was a cover so we didn't go in, but it did look more promising. The windows upstairs were steamed up and shuddering with bass. The crowd looked, well, less good ol' boy than the last place, but still pretty tough. The kind of girls that bleach their hair with home kits and aren't afraid to dump a beer on your dress. We continued to a place called Impulse.
Oh Impulse. Ye of terrible bartenders, rap music videos, and a wall of couches covered in pillows. There was a DJ playing and hoochies dancing (actual hoochies! They were wearing awkwardly short dresses that required tugging down every five seconds, which they managed to incorporate into their self-conscious dancing). I was impressed by a trio in red and black, accenting their dancing with high kicks. You can't go wrong with high kicks.
We sat on the couch with the mountain of pillows and people-watched. A girl who looked like Meg from Family Guy stood against the wall near the bathroom. Every once in a while she would sidle closer to the dance floor and start waving her hands around. Then she would get embarrassed and retreat back to the wall like a turtle wearing a stocking cap. We saw scrunchies. We saw super-aggressive, hands on the knees grinding. We saw the most awkward white dancing we have ever seen.
AND THEN. Remember the high-kicking dance trio? They got on stage. They said, "We're Roast Beef!" and then they started rapping. They were actually a female rap group. Amazing. They were like Salt n' Pepa if Salt n' Pepa was just okay and had a crappy sound system, but they had some synchronized dance moves, decent style, and added a whole new element to our Corvallis adventure. We were like, Roast Beef. Awesome.
But as we were leaving we saw a poster. They were actually called Rose Bent. Not quite as great. But still pretty good.
May 6, 2011
Weekend!
I'm really glad the weekend is here. I'm actually not going to be doing much in the fun category (driving a truck to Corvallis, picking up furniture, moving furniture, moving stuff out of my house, moving stuff into new house, cleaning, and so on and so forth) but it is going to be productive. While I do these various productive and back-breaking tasks I am going to imagine that I'm actually here:
My new dream travel destination: Bosnia-Herzegovina.
May 5, 2011
Crude renderings of shoes
I'm not even sure what's available in the pile anymore (it just keeps growing) but I'm thinking there are a gray pair of heels (leather, vintage, bows, adorable) that would be perfect on a pair of feet with slightly shorter toes. On me, it kind of looks like ET has possessed me and is trying to escape feet first. Yeah. Think about that image. I have really long toes.
Also there are some brown Dr. Martens, some kind of plaid Ked looking things, some short vintage black and white patent heels, and possibly some crazy witch business work shoes. Anyway, just say the word Alexis (or anyone else), and I will set something aside for you.
Breaking News
OH MY. The Glitch Mob was added to the Sasquatch lineup for Saturday. This is great news. This is like discovering a bunch of friendly robots dancing with sparklers. By the way, why haven't we done that? We should take sparklers this year. Or is it illegal to run around with flammable objects at music festivals? I can't be the first person to think that sparklers at a dance party are a really good idea.
Also breaking news: Sam and I spent our first night in the new place. It is magical.
May 4, 2011
Free Stuff for You
Moving is so exciting. I stopped by the new place this morning to grab my phone charger out of a bag I dropped off the day before, and I just can't wait to move in. The floors are so shiny and it smells like new paint. All the surfaces are crying out for me to cover them with unicorn figurines and little rocks. It's going to be wonderful.
But man, moving is also a lot of work. I have been shuffling and sorting papers, throwing out notes from college classes, saving all my old letters, and getting rid of stuff that I don't use very often. I have shoes, snow clothes, a blender, pots and pans, etc. etc. etc.
I'll be doing a big Goodwill trip soon, but I want to give friends first dibs. So, if you have any need for new-to-you clothing, shoes, snowboard stuff, or kitchenware, you should stop by Club 834 tomorrow night.
But man, moving is also a lot of work. I have been shuffling and sorting papers, throwing out notes from college classes, saving all my old letters, and getting rid of stuff that I don't use very often. I have shoes, snow clothes, a blender, pots and pans, etc. etc. etc.
I'll be doing a big Goodwill trip soon, but I want to give friends first dibs. So, if you have any need for new-to-you clothing, shoes, snowboard stuff, or kitchenware, you should stop by Club 834 tomorrow night.
May 3, 2011
All that is holy
First of all, I went to the Midwest last weekend. Chicago and Kankakee specifically. I flew in on Thursday night and Sam picked me up. He was holding a sign. A hand-drawn sign. The stuff dreams are made of. We went out in Chicago that night with some friends and ended up at this tiki bar called Trader Toms or something similar. They served giant blue drinks. There were only about ten people in the entire place (a totally different scene from the packed karaoke bars of Portland) and we sang in a steady rotation. After I was warmed up (these vocal chords have a strict regimen of Total Eclipse of the Heart), Sam and I sang Dio. Or rather, I sang Dio and Sam followed along. It's one of my favorite karaoke songs ever and I really like to put some effort into it. Head banging, falsetto, growling, the whole deal. Sam's friend Andy took me aside at one point during the weekend and told me that he was really glad that I sang Holy Diver because it was at that point that he felt like he really got to know me.
Here is the video. You can judge for yourself whether or not that is a bad thing.
Here is the video. You can judge for yourself whether or not that is a bad thing.
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