Rejection, the Sequel...

Whoohoo! This one's a doozy. Jordan Green from Ankeny Briefcase, Donald Miller's long awaited (2 years) literary journal, rejected my story - finally! What a relief. I thought from his dozen emails (over the past 2 years) praising my work, he'd actually publish one damned story. Instead, "we just picked 30 we liked and went with them." Great.

Now, I'm not mad. I just want to say one thing.

Jordan, kiss my butt, you buttkissing notalent - (strike) actually I don't even know if you have talent, because I can't find a damn thing you've written! As for Don Miller, I haven't read him in two years, since he sold out to the shallow CBA money trench. "Keep it edgy" you said, but I found some of the shit you're using - and it's edgy allright. It's perched on the dull edge of gay-Christian, happy-ending, seekersensitive, reacharound babble. Enjoy the navel-gazing-revolution that is Christian try-too-hard literature. All the arbitrary pipe smoking, ear-piercing and beard growing won't save bad, unoriginal writing.

As for the next issue, you'll excuse me if I don't hold my breath. I'd rather write fortune cookies than be in the Ankeny Briefcase. At least one person would read it, and they'd have something to digest afterwards. Oh, and good luck trying to Emergify CBA, but if you pull your head out of you-know-who's bung for two seconds, you'll see that it's pointless.

Pirates and Ninjas are Soooo, incredibly over

So this will be my only and final reference to the fad:

See? haha, with the keys and the one word, and that's all pirates can say! Get it? haha. Okay, Done.

Boobs, boobs, boobs...(read on)

Dear Princess Leah,

Okay, I know the breastfeeding in public debate is pretty much over, but here's the thing: this chick comes into Concordia Coffee everyday, at least everyday I'm there, purposefully, just to flop 'em out. Everyday! Now, I laugh at people who think it's wrong. My reaction is like anyone in my family who has a kid, the focus is on the baby. I think "if he's hungry, get 'er done!" It's a little odd, though, that she stands up and twirls around, kid latched on, no covering, for all to see. "Yay, look at my me!" And you want to obey, because it's a baby, but a boob too, so you can't look at the boob, but you can look at the baby, but not now, because the boob is there, and this is a private moment, done in public, like people kissing, so look and you're a perv!

Then, I'm at New Seasons and behold, another one. This girl's a hawk. Her eyes dart around, making sure nobody looks. Did I mention she was in a crowded line at the deli? She sees me and gives a look of disgust, like I was Dirk Diggler with an inflatable luge doll under each arm. It's not fair. I'm not lusting. I'm looking at the kid and thinking, gee, when's my turn? (to have a kid, duh)

Breastfeeding is good. It's natural, and some phenomenal things happen through breastmilk. I've heard a mother can take in a bacteria or virus, build an immunity, and pass it on to the baby through milk. Breastmilk is used to heal infections - someone I know said she rubbed it on her baby's eye and the rash went away. Breastfeeding burns 500 calories a day. Heck, that's good enough reason. Still, it's an awkward thing in public.

Grey, where are you? You'd have the right take on this.

Here's what I propose:

Guys, (uses the vocative) you get one glance at breastfeeders. Lesbo's, as well. One glance! And if you're caught, no penalty. You get the same allowance for people kissing. You look, but don't stare, because who cares?

BTW - Princess Leah, you need to drop a comment soon, or I'll have to re-address my blog to the middle distance, or to Claire, my new beloved barrista! =o]

Oyster Love

Oysters are yummy. I know that because I was told so for many years, yet I couldn’t stand them, and no human being should eat them, but by my late twenties, I ate them happily. Call it coming-of-age. Somebody handed me a shell with a little white growth on it, and, luckily, alcohol wasn’t far. I drank the sluggy sea lugie and it’s cold amniotic fluid, rinsing my throat clean with Sauza or whatever cheap thing we had. A quick shiver in my thorax and it was over. Since then, oysters are not so spare, but a function of availability. If they’re on the menu, I’m having them. Now I live in Portland, and oysters are as common as Krispy Kreme in Kentucky, Popeye’s in Virginia. They’re on every corner, not even advertised, because everyone knows you can order them at a hardware store. You can walk into Meineke Muffler and have a half dozen Hood’s with a glass of chard.

But I’ve slowed down my oyster eating in recent years.

Summer of ’05, I went oyster crazy and bought a quart of fresh Hama Hama’s from Washington. They had to be eaten right away or they’d go bad, so I did, and it never occurred to me that oysters have no fiber at all. They were good, though, and one felt a wild sexuality eating them. You felt manly for conquering a fear of something so gross and slimy. Face it, oysters, to be sure, look and feel like something you’ve coughed up in one of those lung-clearing, end of a bad cold coughing spells, put over ice, then dipped in some sauce and down-the-hatch. The taste is a little like sweet, raw, live mollusk with a good bite that’s hard to put words on—maybe that’s the oyster’s little pipi bag. With a good wine and a dipping sauce of horseradish and ketchup, a little lemon and dill, you can eat three or four a day until your shit becomes so impacted and claylike you’re stuck on the pot in a gleefull, constapatory clench.

And so for a week my diet was wine, oysters, crab and salmon, and I paid dearly. My brain felt like someone shat in my head, gave it neurons and called it good. My stomach felt like a sockfull of marbles was lodged there. I only found relief in my Aunt’s backyard where she kept a wicker swingset, which I ate, and pooped like a decapitated fire hydrant. The end.

Rewrite of PNW, aka, Smell of Cedar, now...

A Suspicion of Cedar. Please forgive the crappy formatting - it's blogger's fault, won't post as-is. =o[
Steve

Portland Bullett Points

In my dream last night a very old Poodle crept up from the woods, at least 18 or 19, white and wobbly, skinny, mangy, and had black spots. He carried a piece of paper in his mouth, a report card, with several of different colored metallic stars, plenty of written praise for the year, but the grade was D+. I was with my half-sister, and we tried to find out about the dog and found pictures of him sitting with rich people and winning dog shows. This Poodle was barely alive and he had crawled upon a pedestal to die. Initial dream analysis states a dying dog means deterioration of instincts. In ancient times, dogs were viewed as keepers of the underworld and can be guides into the unconcious or land of the Dead. Dogs can also represent sexual drive (haha).

Today is my 11th day in Portland. It's also the first real Portlandly day, and I notice the world reigning in a little and people finding thoughtful quiet tones in the absence of sun. I have been hiking, exploring, camping, and some reading and writing (not enough). I even injured my finger -- probably broke it. Portland reminds me of a Western Greenwich Village, or Williamsburg, NY. Lot's of "cool areas" or "ecclectic neighborhoods" as they are described, which are really streets where 8-10 blocks are dedicated to groups of restaurants, pubs, cafes and galleries. They are tamped tightly into small, ancient buildings, or alleyways, or behind buildings, even a small building with a trailer behind where crepes are made.

My bedroll is in the basement of a house on Sumner and 29th, a nice home with a large garden full of tomatoes and plenty of things going on, parties, birthdays, outtings, church, what not. I saw a rat run across Alberta yesterday, stealing from South to North for a new life. People get along here. A man struck up a conversation with a lady at Concordia Coffee and they talked for over an hour while their dogs played beneath them. Then they sat together outside with another lady and laughed like English gentility.

There were two job offers, for those who really care. I turned one down, in effect, by calling up and saying I'd like to learn the business and learn sailing, since the guy had a sailboat. Probably didn't sound very eager. I haven't heard back. The other was more "we'll use you for various jobs that come up" which is more my speed and frees up time to write. I think of that movie, The Misfits, where Clark Gable keeps saying "it beats wages!" He sure was a funny old bastard in that movie, always drunk and happy.

A Sad Day...

Steve Irwin 1962-2006

My friend, whom I never met, died yesterday by rare stingray attack. Steve Irwin, aka, The Crocodile Hunter, took a deadly stab from an otherwise docile stingray yesterday while filming underwater.

“If ever he was going to go, we always said it was going to be the ocean. On land, he was agile, quick-thinking, quick-moving, and the ocean puts another element there that you have no control over," says friend and manager John Stainton.

Unrelated:

Watched DAVID HOROWITZ on C-Span last night (in Portland, he would only be on at 2AM) giving a speech at Duke University. His is a book I need to pick up. Amazing 2 hours - the only other conservative I have seen take on a whole auditorium of liberal students was William F. Buckley.

PICS, pics, pics

Lot's of totally random pictures.

Sisters, Oregon. Second stop on my way to P-Town.

Random pics of Sisters I took today. I'm a crappy photographer, I admit.

Chad, my host, toils at Sisters Coffee.

Left: is a '46 Willy's, which is the jeep my brother always wanted to build. So here's one already built to the hilt, parked by Mar-Val.

Below: A fox we trapped.









Above: Brett Waddle's Bronco - I rock-crawled this baby in Sierra Trek, it's the sweetest-assed Bronco ever! Check out the article.

This is Joe, my little bro, and his sweet jet. He just got captain so he can finally tell people what to do.

The Verb in Brooklyn, NY, where I hung out and wrote a lot of stuff. You can feel safer there than at alt.coffee in my opinion. The Verb is featured in my story New York Moses.










Skunk we trapped - any questions as to why the plastic?
Pagosa Springs, Co. Non-gay public baths are fun (Not that I've tried the other). They had 18 baths, all ranging from 80 to 112 degrees (the Lobster Pot).