31.8.12

Ahhh...



Global warming, say hello to my little friend.

The best sound to come out of Seattle in decades.

The worst thing to come out of anything in decades.

Grab your pipe, Old Timer, and take a seat.

Apparently these buggers never lived without electricity?


I knew it I knew it I knew it I knew it I...

Where Bogart lives.

Where Steely Dan lives.

Hymn de Fin — 08.31.12

Climb into a car, the back of a pickup, a scooter, motorcycle, slap on some walking shoes, dust off the jetpack, the rollerblades, your bigwheel—the weekend, it's here. And you're gonna need some orchestration to roll along with that beautiful scenery.


Here's a Hymn de Fin mix that is sure to do the trick. Lovely roadtrip tunes from all over—Portland, Idaho, Sweden, San Francisco, New York, London, blah blah and blah. These songs, strung together, make for a perfect river/beach/forest/Mars/city/party-bound voyage. The swell and fall—enjoy!


Hearts
— I break Horses —

Vomit
— Girls

Ffunny Ffriends
— Unknown Mortal Orchestra —

July
— Youth Lagoon —

Looking For Gold
— Solander —

Decide
— Caveman —

Amongst Your Earthiest Words the Angels Stray
— Years of Rice & Salt —

still.water
— IRONS —

Sketch (Adrift)
Woodworkings —

Hearts — I Break Horses Vomit — Girls Ffunny Ffriends — Unknown Mortal Orchestra July — Youth Lagoon Looking For Gold — Solander Decide — Caveman Amongst Your Earthiest Words the Angels Stray — Years of Rice and Salt still.water — IRONS Sketch (Adrift) — Woodworkings

30.8.12

Thursday Flash!



The Death of Pants

Pants in the future might be like a Kindle. You'll have only one pair and they'll never fit just right. Colors can change, but not the feeling—economy is everything. Atticus Finch wore linen trousers, gray like new dawn. He stood apart. In the future, he'd wear his Kindle pants and cross the street like the rest of us, head down in the rain.

29.8.12

%

I was never good at math—but lately everything I see seems to be numbers numbers numbers. It's a possibly detrimental conspiracy for someone who loves letters and words and long strings of sentences. What's the deal? What's with all these numbers?

How is it that some things...


...take 100% concentration, when we really only use 10% of our brains

May I ask:

What's with the economy and all this 99% business?


And while we're on money:

Where's the money, Lebowski?
69 cents — Isn't that 69% of a dollar?


Oh! And wait a second. What percentage of the senate is female? Huh? Also: while we're speaking of demographics, why is Portland made up of 49% homeless and 49% hipster?

On the topic of cleanliness:

Does washing your hands kill any percentage of germs?


And

Just what percentage of history is truth and just how much of it is this?

I'm talking about unchecked aggression here, dude. These numbers are killing me. Really. Shapes and colors—that's my forte.

28.8.12

Any last words?


I have a wretched habit. I read read read, dig into a story, crave the proper delivery of a tale—but my fingers always claw their way to the final page, so that I might sneak a glance of a book's last line long before I finish. I can't help myself. 

Often it's entertaining to see where an author will take a story, how the narrative will reach that final climactic moment when the reader slaps the book shut—or slowly lets the pages close back upon themselves, depending on the mood—and breathes deeply.


I spent some time with the bookshelf today, flipping through some of my favorite books, and I've come up with a short list of excellent last-liners. These are some of my favs—in no particular order. See if you can figure out where they came from (there's a list at the bottom if you get stumped). What are some of your favorite last lines?


1. For some minutes, before she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, she just lay quiet, smiling at the ceiling.

2. The waves broke on the shore.

3. He says that he will never die.

4. It was "My Darling Clementine," a good song. 

5. Today, Kavalerov, is your turn to sleep with Anichka. Hurrah!

6. And silently they walked on, arms linked, holding each other tightly.

7. We were alone with the quiet day, and his little heart, dispossessed, had stopped.

8. She looked up and across the barn, and her lips came together and smiled mysteriously.

9. Eusabio and the Tesuque boys went quietly away to tell their people; and the next morning the old Archbishop lay before the high altar in the church he had built.

10. After Passover he became a Jew.

11. And somewhere the stinging smell of burning leaves. 

12. At last he made Charley understand that he wasn't supposed to talk to him.

13. The old man was dreaming about the lions.

14. It was the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan.



1. Franny and Zooey — J.D. Salinger  2. The Waves — Virginia Woolf  3. Blood Meridian or the Evening Redness in the West — Cormac McCarthy  4. Gringos — Charles Portis  5. Envy — Yuri Olesha  6 Mysteries — Knut Hamsun  7. The Turn of the Screw — Henry James  8. The Grapes of Wrath — John Steinbeck  9. Death Comes for the Archbishop — Willa Cather  10. The Assistant — Bernard Malamud  11. The Magus — John Fowles  12. The 42nd Parallel — John Dos Passos  13. The Old Man and The Sea — Ernest Hemingway  14. Moby Dick — Herman Melville

More Marathons

So. I've added two (newish) marathons to the Movie Marathons page—Richard Scarry's Favorite Movies and Get Off...The...Ph...


Of course, Richard Scarry—the children's author—would love any movie akin to his apple-driving character, Lowly Worm. The movies in this marathon at least mention these slimy nightcrawlers in some fashion, whether in a subtle turn of dialogue or in full Kevin Bacon, shotgun-blasting glory.

The second marathon—named for one of the best Dumb & Dumber quotes—is pretty straightforward: it's dudes on phones. More importantly, dudes who can't seem to get enough of phones. How obnoxious!

Invite some friends over. Make a drinking game out of it. Host a dinner party. Whatevers. 

27.8.12

It's time to get weird

Here's a semi-new preview of Jonny Greenwood's score to the upcoming film The Master, Paul Thomas Anderson's new project about a WWII veteran struggling to reconnect with society, instead finding himself welcomed into a new religion called The Cause.


The film—which is bound to be all kinds of unsettling—stars Philip Seymour Hoffman, Joaquin Phoenix and Amy Adams. It's out September 21st. Listen to a portion of the score below.




Hello Monday.

Our weekend Spanish celebration went off without a hitch. Friday evening greeted us with our first meal at Portland's Los Gorditos. We ordered dinner-to-go at the new Pearl location and even saw one of my Spanish 203 classmates there. 

Cambria ordered the Carne Asada Tacototes (not tah-ko-totes, rather tah-ko-toe-tays). I, on the other hand, waded knee-deep into a Garbage Burrito.


On Saturday, Wifey and I spoke to the always entertaining staff at Tenth Ave Liquor. We discussed the variances in tequila and mezcal and the cough-syrupy wrongness that is Early Times. Meanwhile, I defended myself against the accusations that I was a soulless ginger, while Cambria blushed at the onslaught of driver's-license-photo compliments. 

We ended up with this fine, wormy purchase:


We capped off the weekend with the perfect Sunday night dinner: Homemade Taco Pizza. Cambria lead the way, as she is the taco-pizza expert—Trader Joe's dough, tomatoes, onions, mushrooms, refried beans, lettuce, olives and taco meat. She even crafted it into a loving homage to the state of Oregon. And little Margaret helped, of course.


Wifey, you're the best!

Just to top off such a Spanish-tinged weekend, I also finished Gringos. My Spanish summer now seems all sewn up—now I'm bringing in the fall with Willa Cather. Glory hallelujah!

24.8.12

Ahhhh...Friday.

Duck!

Dogs or cats?...Dogs.

Has your Ipad been coughing lately?

He's got bite!...No really.

When your building's on fire, scream "Yelp!Yelp!Yelp!"

Carnival candy's the worst!

Why I've decided to stop eating bacon.

Never trust a knee-toucher.

Hymn de Fin — 08.24.12


It's here, it's here! The end of the week! Time now to turn the volume knob clockwise and flip open that lawn chair. Here's the week's Hymn de Fin, with both fresh tunes and old—Portlanders, Southerners, T-Rexian wonders, danceables and sleepables. Happy weekend!


Get Alive
AU

Nothin' No
 David Vandervelde — 

Swim
— Sunglasses —

Elizabeth's Theme
— Dirty Beaches —

Flood's New Light
Thee Oh Sees

It's Nothing to Me
— Lee Hazlewood

Tormentas
— OMBRE


It Is So Nice to Get Stoned
— Okkervil River — 

Get Alive — AU Nothin' No — David Vandervelde Swim — Sunglasses Elizabeth's Theme — Dirty Beaches Flood's New Light — Thee Oh Sees Nothing To Me — Lee Hazlewood Tormentas — OMBRE It Is So Nice To Get Stoned — Okkervil River

23.8.12

Thursday Flash!

My love for short fiction has grown over the years. Brevity ain't easy, but to write in terms of the barest bones is both the ultimate challenge and the greatest reward. In order to push myself as a writer, I've decided to devote a post each week to flash fiction—the shortest of the shorts. So. Here's the very first Thursday Flash:



Blindness
Two starts and still no finish. He couldn't go on much longer. He'd managed to hold his agent at bay with a little piece about a blind veteran's slow plunge into madness. He called it Out of Sight, Out of Mind—but every time he saw the title page, he thought of his children. Where were they anyway? He hadn't seen them in years.

21.8.12

Hasta luego — El final de mi carrera españolas (posiblement)

Seeing as the end of Summer Term fast approaches—and my sanity is beginning to sink like a tar smothered 19th century Nantucket whaleship—I've decided to commemorate my long history of Spanish tinkerings by devoting it an entire post here on Tiquismiquis.

For several weeks now I've been reading Gringos by the southerner Charles Portis—who also wrote the better-known True Grit. I've been struggling to find time for this masterpiece of aimless wandering, but not because of any lack of interest. 

Portis is an incredible weaver of dry wit and stripped language. I've followed the rambling American expatriate Jimmy Burns from Mérida to the Mayan ruins, endured the onslaught of quirky characters and ever-shifting locales, and have just ended up in the middle of some bizarre hippy sacrifice. Still have 80 or so pages to go, but the adventure thus far has been otherworldly!


Wifey and I plan to accelerate our Friday night with a bottle of mezcal and—perhaps perhaps perhaps—some delicious Mexican food. I didn't know it at the time, but years ago I drank Scorpion Mezcal—including the butt-end of a withered scorpion. Apparently tequila can be considered mezcal, but mezcal cannot be considered tequila....?... The trick is in the extraction.

A heap of Agave

This weekend promises to be una gran fiesta y un largo descanso! Perhaps Sunday will present itself as yet another opportunity to see John Turturro do his do-rag thang! Until then, I've got three more days of language barriers, perfect tenses, presentations, examenes y pruebas. 



20.8.12

It's time to get weird


Animal Collective has apparently turned around and run the other direction since their 2009 hit Merriweather Post Pavilion. Here's the official video for "Today's Supernatural" from AnCo's new record Centipede Hz, due out on September 4th.


I've always considered the band to be one enveloped in frequencies—from the metallic grating of Spirit They're Gone, Spirit They've Vanished to the warm hum of Feels to the dripping wavelengths of MPP. And now, with Centipede, the band has packed up their sound and jumped into the sun! Take in the new frequencies at Animal Collective Radio. How splendid!

17.8.12

And...breeeeeathe....ah. The weekend!



The best way to get a social worker's attention. 

Bust that cellphone and survive the wild.

Wait for it...wait for it...

There's no crime too small. 

Found an essay by one of my favorite professors.

My fear of the deep end explained.

Hymn de Fin — 08.17.12

Time to take the weekend by the nose ring.

The weekend is watching from just around the corner. Tremble tremble tremble, it says. Workers pouring out onto the streets! Youngsters and old alike, hittin' the pavement, just itchin' to take me for a spin! 

I don't know about you, but Friday's like a fuse and there's no better way to watch the weekend ignite than with a proper anthem. So...

Here is the very first "Hymn de Fin" — A musical swan dive into this week's finish line! I hope it inspires some old-fashioned fun.


Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings
Father John Misty

Over Here, Over There
Dr. Dog

Holly 
Starfucker

Foreground
Grizzly Bear

Ruthie
— Frank Fairfield —

Comfy in Nautica
Panda Bear

Spiral
Wye Oak —


Here's a little Soundcloud link with the Hymn de Fin Mix and a quick taste of Father John Misty below. Happy Friday!



16.8.12

Noire Portland: The cheaper the crook, the gaudier the patter.

I was walking home from Spanish 203 today whilst cramming el pluscuamperfecto de subjuntivo into some dark recess of my mind (where it will hopefully never bother me again) when I suddenly felt the urge to solve a crime!

With all this sunshine it's hard to recall Portland's rainier days—dark months when you can wring the rain out of a skyscraper and watch the city-dwellers recede into the shadows like wary hermit crabs. 

But today, even with that great ball of fun lighting our way, the city still looked like a mystery. So don a fedora and buy yourself a pack of Chesterfields. It's time to weed out the crooked.

Dead man crossing.

Yes, we're the beautiful City of Roses—fine fine fine—but roses also have thorns. I tramped through the South Park Blocks trying to beat the heat, but it was gettin' to my head. People lounged around without a care, like they couldn't sense the other side of things, the city below the city, the brick behind the fancy new siding, the real face behind the mask.


North I headed and as I neared the end of the South Park Blocks, I paused for a moment to take in a grand view of The Roosevelt Hotel. It reminded me of some locale in Paul Auster's The New York Trilogy. Perhaps someone was watching me from one of the hotel's dark windows, or perhaps I was watching them.


Yes, Portland has it all—the makings of a fine noir city. But without a steady rain beatin' me in the back or the scrunching of wet tires echoing through the streets, my mouth was beginning to get dry. Luckily I passed by the Hotel deLuxe, where the walls are lined in gold, glamour and glitter. A man needed a diamond jacket to pass off here, but no worries—he could always duck into a dim-lit boothseat in the Driftwood Room and order a bubbly Portland '85.


Finally, I tottered home past the old Pennoyer Mausoleum and Ella St. Social Club, where the night's antics had yet to embark. I kept my eyes on the windows, but as always I couldn't make out who was playing records in the upper office. 



With feet like cinderblocks, I finally reached my destination under big ol' Blue Volvo, watcher of Burnside, keeper of secrets. 


By this point I was delirious, nearly dead from the heat. My little itch to solve a crime was stretched thin and warbling with each passing semi. My noir mood quickly gave way to thoughts of a popsicle—cool lemon lime. Ah, forget it! Perhaps cases are best solved in the rain.


15.8.12

Don't look back (even you, Bob Dylan!)

Been thinking a lot about the A Bao A Qu, the first creature described in Jorge Luis Borges' The Book of Imaginary Beings.

What varmints stand your hair on end?
Borges chronicles the fable of a sort of listless blob, which camps out at the base of the Tower of Victory in Chitor. One can not see the creature when first ascending the massive spiral staircase that wraps around the tower, but the A Bao A Qu senses all humans, conscious as it is "to the virtues possessed by human souls." 

With each step of the visitor, the A Bao A Qu grows more defined and the passage of the climber literally breathes life into the once dormant creature:
"When a person climbs the stairs, the A Bao A Qu follows almost on the person's heels, climbing up after him, clinging to the edge of the curved treads worn down by the feet of generations of pilgrims."
I shrink at the thought of a staircase stalker. Borges' entry reminds me of growing up with a dark basement where the concrete laundry room could never be seen in full view—a room of corners, shadows, dripping pipes—and the oil furnace would kick on like backfire from an old pick-up truck. I avoided an entire third of my childhood house because of fables like this, and I'm sure I'm not the only one.

You know that feeling: both hands gripping the laundry basket, light from the top of the staircase burning down on you, cutting sharp wedges out of the darkness. You try to peer into that void space—if you've got any guts—but you still can't see anything, at least not by way of eyes. The imagination is a whole different story.

I'd be okay the first two or three steps. The sprinting would inevitably follow and the remainder of my journey would be spent trying to hold onto the laundry basket while resisting the force of gravity that wanted to see my teeth eat the stairs. 

To tell you the truth, I haven't gotten any better at conquering that fear—only better at hiding it.

Borges never tells us outright whether the A Bao A Qu really seeks the blood of its visitors, but my ominous stair-climbing history tells me, first and foremost, run.

14.8.12