July 7, 2003

The stuff of Legends

For those of you who will be in town…

Jon Krakauer will be reading from his new book on July 30th, at Hood River Valley High School’s Bowe Theatre. The throwdown starts at 7 pm. This will also be the only stop on his multi-planetary book-hypin’ safari where he will show his slideshow, “Playing for More than You Can Afford to Lose: Ruminations on Mountains and Risk.” It has pictures from “Into the Wild”, Everest ’96, and other climbs Krakauer has survived.

Cost is a measly eight bucks in advance. Cost is a measly ten dollars for all you extreme procrastinators at the door. Proceeds all go to the “Krakauer Hardcore Life Maintenence Fund” and the Hood River Library after going through a dizzying array of money-laundering schemes and junk bonds.

I’ll be there. You will be, too.

July 6, 2003

Rowena 2 – Dane 0

We’ve had a nice couple days ’round these parts. Friday was the 4th (and I think it was the 4th in other places, too) and a special Holiday Edition of 25 mph air cranked through our lovely granite wind tunnel. When I got off work that evening I hauled on up to Rowena for a rematch. I figured I had my waterstarts pretty well dialed, and I was ready for more huge swells, more strong current, and more sharp slippery rocks coated in algae.

I rigged up my 4.4 (my biggest sail), got out in the water, fumbled in the bay for a while, got my waterstart groove on and hit the River. It was awesome. I was sweeping up and down these huge swells, cranked out on a plane, squinting against a fine spray of unshackled river…

It was awesome for about fifteen seconds. Then I ran out of river and needed to turn around. My current method for tacking and jibing consists of falling in the water, wrestling my gear around, waterstarting, and heading off in the other direction. This is what most windsurfers do for their first year, so it is important (nay, essential) that we have our waterstarts absolutely solid before biting off too much River. If you miss a jibe in front of a barge or paddleboat or 50 foot sturgeon, you want to be sure that you can waterstart in a snap and avoid being eaten or eaten or eaten.

At Rowena on the 4th of July, I discovered that I do not have my waterstarts dialed. I cannot waterstart in four foot swells with waves crashing over my head. I can try for two hours to do such a thing, but all I can accomplish are tired arms, a broken nose (my board, stupid) and a belly of river. I may have sat and soaked and fought out in the middle of the River for a long time, but it was a different experience than my last time with Rowena. This time she had a harder time completely brutalizing me. I knew what I was doing, I had the m4d 5k1llz to survive the extreme wind and waves, and the swells make sure I kept from getting swept too far downstream.

After two hours I was still only limping into shore, so with a couple hundred yards to go I just bit my lip and started swimming my rig back to the launch site. I did fine up until the last fifty yards, when my left calf decided it would seize up with the WORST CRAMP EVER and cripple me inches from the finish line. As I thrashed in the water and fought my horrible electrical failures, the other calf got the SECOND WORSE CRAMP EVER. It felt like the muscles in my legs were trying to tear out from under my skin and drain into my wetsuit. I tried bending, straightening and stretching my legs, but nothing helped the pain. I started gagging it hurt so much. Really, what could I do about it? I had to get back to shore, and now that I was out of the swells there was nothing to counteract the current. I grit my teeth and kept pounding my way back to Rowena.

I made it back to my launch site. Not only did I make it back to my launch site, I made it back under my own power. Nelson didn’t have to rescue a frightened little kitten from the big bad swells. Kyle didn’t have to drive his big bad van down to where the soggy little kitten washed ashore. If it wasn’t for the Agonizing Cramps of Rowena, this round would have been a clean draw. Sure, she isn’t playing fair when she turns my own meat against me, but a fair game was never part of the original agreement. We play to win. We play for keeps.

We play with the gloves off and the electricity on.

July 4, 2003

Musings on a July Fourth

I don’t talk much about love, sex or attraction very much around here, which I’ll admit is really kind of a shame. Love is one of the most interesting things that nature, man and society have cooked up for themselves, and it is one of very few subjects that can instantly cut deep into any individual. It’s not that I don’t have anything to say about the subjects. They all occupy my mind throughout the day just as much as they do anyone else. It’s just that, I feel my actions don’t accurately reflect what’s crankin’ away in the ol’ noggin’, and I think I just figured out why.

I have no love for shells and masks when it comes to people. One thing that I have always worked on within myself is making sure that everything I say, everything I do, everything I am passionate about, are all consistent. With this, I never try to act like someone I know I’m not. Sure, I am able to adapt to new and different social situations, and I can adopt differing lexicons depending on the people I’m interacting with, but I am always a wee bit conscious of how accurately I am representing myself.

I prefer to interact with the world straight-up. I’ll show my hand whether or not it’s the hand you think I should have. If I’m going to bust into Nada Surf lyrics at the Hook, or talk about drowning children in burlap sacks at the Event Site, or make up wildly improbable stories about installing decoy Gorges to throw off the invasion of tourists, that’s what you’re gonna get. I hardly concern myself with what you think may or may not be appropriate.

I value my Self more than I value your opinion of it.

And I realized, standing on the front lawn with a bottle of Rolling Rock, watching and listening to the fireworks explode down in the Gorge, that this is why consider dating to be an utterly dreadful experience. Dating is about putting on your very best shell and going out to meet someone else’s best shell. It is about romance, mystery and deception, not truth. It is fake. It is phony. It is professional wrestling.

The shell will never be as interesting as the real person. It is a distillation of their perceived ideals; how the person believes they are expected to act. The shell is like Play-Doh. When you have it in the jar it has the potential to be just about anything, but as soon as you cram it in the mold and start squeezing it can only come out as one long cylinder. Or star. Or smily face. It shaves off all the burrs, the flaws, the miscalculations. It burns all the herbs and spices and leaves you with saltines and Velveeta.

But don’t get me wrong. I like saltines and Velveeta. I think most people do. I know my eyes would be a lot less blinder if it wasn’t for tan skin, long legs and generous bosoms. I think the bikini is one of the greatest inventions of all time. Navels drive me absolutely wild, and I find belly-button piercings to be the sweetest cake icing ever to grace this fine Earth. But now, you can’t live on saltines. You could try, but it would be a miserable and tasteless existence. Same goes for shells. I’m fine if all that is asked of me is that I visually admire, but if it turns out I need to carry on a conversation and the shell isn’t up to snuff, I get real bored real fast.

Life needs content and substance to be worth a damn. Knowing how things “are” in the world is infinitely more interesting and rewarding than knowing how they merely present themselves. I like to get down in the nitty-gritty, to see the greasy gears, to pull them apart and stick them back together again. I’ve always enjoyed focusing my energies on learning things, creating stuff and producing content, and those who simply sit and prune away at the same old junk really have nothing to offer me.

I’m not bitter towards people who are more concerned with presentation than myself. Really, if that were all my beef was it would be easier on them than the reality: that I’m bored with them. The ultimate insult. That they aren’t even worth my time or consideration. They are sitting at the state licensing office. They are waiting in line at the bank. They are rush-hour traffic. They are boring.

But then, I am unduly harsh. You can meet all sorts of interesting people while licensing your boat, depositing a check or driving home from work. It is when people think that no one is looking that they truly become fascinating.

Then there are those of us who know that people are looking, and just don’t give a damn.

We’re called nerds, and we’re here to rock.

July 3, 2003

rocketh the faith

Those of you who were becoming concerned during my extended absence, you were correct in doing so. Those of you who actually called on the telephone to make sure I was OK, I am much obliged.

As a reward for keeping the faith, I have updated the lovely Q&A section on the About section. Some things have changed. Some things have not changed. Some things never change. Just remember that even Jesus can’t promise a turn-around this fast.

football injury

We haven’t written for quite awhile because we have been having big troubles with our electronic writing machines. These problems have been so big that we have started to pluralize ourselves at randoms. We’s wants our precious.

I broke the computer at work trying to install some RAM. The computer had 128 MB of SDRAM. SD is an abbreviation for “slower than a kitten in a knitting circle.” I think it was originally a German phrase or something. I wanted the computer to have 256 MB of DDR RAM. DDR is an abbreviation for “faster than a sprocket in a locket.”

I wasted a day trying to get the computer to work with a bad stick of RAM. The bad stick of RAM came from a store in The Dalles, which is a 40 mile round-trip from Hood River. If Hood River is Duluth then The Dalles is Superior. By all sense and logic The Dalles should have been the town that flourished. It wasn’t built precariously on a hill, it had mo’ betta’ ports, it was a much bigger town, and it had way more land and forest fires than Hood River.

Now The Dalles has more trucks and gun racks.

As I said, it is 40 miles from Hood River to The Dalles and back again. It is the most beautiful round-trip you’ll ever do for a stick of RAM, good or bad RAM notwithstanding. I got to do it twice in two days because I needed good RAM, not bad RAM. The girl at the counter kept flirting with me, so I really didn’t mind the trip.

Once I was done flirting and I got the good RAM, I wasted a day figuring out that the computer at work has a crap-ass motherboard that won’t work with DDR RAM, even with a good Sprocket. I even tried a stick of mo’ gooder RAM from my personal computer, but to no avail. I was to be stuck with Kittens at work.

While switching RAM around between work and home I blitzed my personal computer. First I broke a DIMM slot off my motherboard. I mean clean broke it off, like a football injury. DIMM slots are where your RAM goes. No DIMM slots, no RAM. Luckily I had two extra DIMM slots that I didn’t break off, so I could still yell in my computer’s face and force him back in the game.

But my computer didn’t want to play the game, so Windows went into an infinite boot-reset loop. Occasionally it would spit out error reports, but these reports were nothing but lies to cover up the real problems. Head trauma. Beaten as a kid. Sensitive to high-pitched noises. It would go boot-reset-boot-reset-boot-reset-boot-reset until I got tired and went to work to swear at the computer there. When I was hoarse from yelling at both computers I would boot into Linux (which worked, of course) on my personal computer and plead for help from my friends through this thing called the inter-Net connection.

I don’t know Linux very well, and it’s amazing how much damage you can do in a real hurry if you don’t know what you’re doing. I wanted to mount my Windows harddrive under my Linux partition so I could rescue my data from it. At this point I was very frustrated and angry and accidentally changed the ‘root access’ password to dsafghsajk or something else so archaic I would never remember in a million years. “No problem,” said my wise ‘nix friend, “for you can boot off a Linux floppy disk, edit the passwd file to delete the password, and login again.”

I booted off a Linux floppy disk. I edited the passwd file. I didn’t know how to quit the edit program so I filled up the passwd file with a ton of gibberish before I managed to escape. Now I didn’t know my ‘root access’ password or my ‘user’ password. Windows was gone. Now Linux was gone.

I booted off a Windows install CD. All I wanted to do was repair my existing copy of Windows. All Windows wanted to do was delete everything and perform a clean reinstall of Windows. I’ll give you three guesses who won that round, and it wasn’t Richard Nixon.

So here we are. Windows is working again but now it is narcoleptic and has forgotten everything about me. I can’t find my e-mail and all my programs have gone missing. My computer boots 10 times faster than it did before. Most of my personal data seems to be intact, but it is hanging out in smoky bars all over town.

Someone please tell them to come home.

June 29, 2003

Adventure Log: Helen

10:36 AM – Left the house in the Green Dragon Wagon, rocking out to Matt Pond PA’s Nature of Maps. We are currently set to meager rations and a grueling pace.

10:42 – Dogs were waiting for their owners outside Safeway. Got $40 from the ATM.

10:46 – Bought Oregon and Washington maps from Walt at the Chevron station. Paid for it with the ‘minimum bill possible’, a rare $8 bill.

10:53 – On the highway near Viento. Rain and sticks start falling from the sky.

11:15 – You know, New Mexico is the only U.S. state that boasts “U.S.A.” on its license plate. It’s like they’re saying, “Hey, it’s not Mexico, Mexico… it’s New Mexico, United States of America, dawg!”

11:26 – PRESS F1 TO PULL OVER THE WAGON AND SIZE UP THE SITUATION. Stopped at VIEW POINT. There may be more trash and empty beer cans here now than there was in Lewis & Clark’s time. It may smell less like urine, however.

11:28 – Looked at detailed Washington map. “APE CAVE?!?! HELL YEAH WE’RE GOING TO APE CAVE!”

11:29 – Switching CD to Cowboy Curtis’ two-song EP. This should keep me going for another hour or so.

11:45 – Entered Portland, City of Roses.

11:47 – Left Portland.

12:01 PM – Threading through the mountains at speeds that make my car creak with every turn. Life suddenly becomes exciting and dangerous.

12:35 – PRESS F1 TO PULL OVER AND SIZE UP THE SITUATION.

12:39 – Tried to get into the Speedway Bay Recreation Area, “Brought to you by Pacific Power.” They wanted $3. I said nuts to that. That’s $3 I need for sinister plots.

12:42 – Just got passed by a Model T.

12:45 – My car needs gas and I need to pee.

12:46 – “Well, I’ve got Yale and then I’ve got Cougar. And then I’m fucked.”

1:09 – Reached Cougar. Found gas and potty. Everyone is happy.

1:11 – The kid in the Hyundai next to me is listening to shitty music. He is wearing Oakleys, a wifebeater and an upside-down-and-backwards visor. His car is purple and has a pink feather boa draped across the dashboard. A sparkly pink “I’m Innocent” stick is on the windshield. Either this guy’s real car is in the shop and he’s borrowing his sister’s, or he’s got a lot of explaining to do every time he picks up a girl for a date.

1:39 – Mount St. Helens is a silly-looking mountain. If it were in junior high it would be wearing a funny hat and glasses and would get slammed into the lockers by the cool kids.

1:42 – I have reached Ape Cave. No apes are in sight yet; probably because they’re all in the cave. The rangers want to charge me a fee, apparently. I’ll just tell them I’m with the apes.

2:03 – I got into Ape Cave, but it was huge and my flashlight was small and powered by the batteries left over from my CD player. A good Woocher is always prepared for spelunking, even if he is ill-prepared. My light works fine for the cramped spaces beneathe universities, but is insufficient for lava tubes two miles long and big enough to drive a Volkswagen through. There was way too much darkness for giant apes to lurk in, so I got out quickly.

2:04 – I have decided to take a winding road alongside St. Helens up to the town of Randal, and to take another road down to Trout Lake and back to Hood River. The ranger says the trip would take at least five hours. I thumped my chest and said I was hardcore. She said have a good time.

2:24 – Got sidetracked into Lava Canyon. If I spin around really really fast I can see Mt. St. Helens, Mt. Adams and Mt. Hood all at the same time.

2:45 – I drove a little bit further, and got sidetracked into the actual Lava Canyon. The first was a decoy to throw off tourists of less-cunning intellect than I. Lava Canyon is fashioned with lots of danger signs: Easy Trail. Harder Trail. EXTREME WOOCH! TRAIL! with ladders. Please Dangle Children Over Edge. All Men Banished from Rainbow.

3:45 – Climbed into the rigging of the Ship, a dark and hulking volcanic formation. Ate a Cinnamon Toast Crunch Milk and Cereal Bar.

4:15 – Dunked head under a tiny waterfall.

4:26 – Returned to the Wagon. Time to devise another plan.

4:28 – Decided to go to Carson, a town on the Washington side of the Gorge. 90 to 51 to 30. Should be fun.

4:47 – Got distracted by a sign for “Climber’s Bivouac.” Need to go see what that is all about.

4:49 – If they’re not going to bother paving a road, why do they still bother putting all those washboards down under the gravel?

5:07 – Apparently “Climber’s Bivouac” is where you go when you want to climb St. Helens, which I think is a silly idea because this is the only mountain that keeps doing everything in its power to get shorter and easier to climb. To climb the mountain they recommend you come outfitted with ice axes and crampons. I had fingernails and Chacos. You are required to have a climbing permit. I had an ATM receipt. There is snow and wind up on the mountain, and you must dress accordingly. I lost my shirt playing poker with the lava flows.

5:11 – Going to Carson, and the Gorge, and Hood River, again.

6:26 – In the mountains, a green exercise bicycle was sitting on the side of Wind River Road. I slowed down for a moment, but the whole thing stunk of evil so I kept on driving.

7:01 – COWBOY BREAKFAST. SUN. 8-2. Grub for all the cowboys that get up early and all the cowboys that stay up late. I know where I’ll be next Sunday.

7:19 – Stopped at the Hatchery on the way back to Hood River. The swells were a good five feet high, and there were at least fifty windsurfers out on the water. When I left town today there was nary a breath of wind.

7:40 – Stopped at the Event Site to see what was shakin’, and saw only about forty sailors on the water. If I hadn’t cleared out my gear to make room for my adventure, I could have rigged and gone out. Damn.

7:51 – Driving home from the Event Site I spent those $3 that Pacific Power tried to weasle out of me. I bought three pounds of cherries out of the back of a truck. “They were picked about an hour ago,” said the orchardist wearing a South Park t-shirt. They were absolutely delicious as well.

7:56 – Stumbled in the front door, drunk on mountains, wind, and cherries.

June 28, 2003

Trout Fishing in Hood River

It’s hot. It’s 100 or 200 degrees or so. It cooks your brain.

The locals are cranky because all the windsurfers are wandering around town and taking up space. The windsurfers are cranky because there’s no wind and they’re all stuck wandering around town. Thomas the Tank Engine is cranky because it is so hot his train whistle can only shimmer like the puddles of water on the tracks. All the kids are cranky because Thomas is just a train, not a real tank as promised.

The ice cream truck music plays strange counterpoint to Santana.

People are out and driving mean and crazy, but it’s not their fault because it is so hot that all the stopsigns have evaporated and the streetlights are melting and running thick in the gutters.

Here’s a good thing to do: Walk out on the sandbar until you can see Mount Hood peaking over Hood River. Watch out for fossilized ripples in the sand and pools of steamy bathtub water. Dive in where the sailboats died and swim a spell. Hurry up and do it now before the River melts.

How do we keep the wind from ever dying again, you wonder. The answer is simple. First we pave the desert. Then, every night we send a fleet of liquid nitrogen trucks to Portland and freeze the town like a giant beer sno-cone. The wind will funnel through the Gorge with a fury unknown since that of Woden himself.

The trout will save their shiny muscles and get blown upstream.

And so.

Welcome to Brainside Out, Cowboy Edition. Kindly refresh if you feel it necessary.

June 26, 2003

At the Edge

We are close. We are so close it is frightening. We stand before an orchestra that plays the music holding up the great crystal dome of the heavens. A few more pages recoded, a few minor tweaks to our stylesheet, and we go live with the biggest redesign since our inception back in February 2001.

It will be this weekend.

This baby is solid. I’m ready for this. I know I’m ready. I’m ready for XHTML. I’m ready for CSS. I’m ready for the Mistral Edge. I’m ready for Rowena. I’m ready to be the fastest gunslinger both on the water and in the glass fibers of cyber-reality.

Brace yourself, yo, or the wind will knock ya down.

June 25, 2003

slant rhyme olympics

Tova: Fancy pants!

Sun Ra: schmantzy rants!

Tova: Prancy cads!

Sun Ra: Nancy Caddish

Tova: Trance-filled raddish

Sun Ra: Psychedelic trilling catfish

Tova: Like a melon? Silly prat, dish!

Sun Ra: Thrice times a yellin’, willy-nilly English.

Tova: Nice pines in Belair – it’s a dilly, really. Squeamish!

Sun Ra: Christ lines in air over Philly, Auntie Mitch.