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my little truck. totally.

July 11, 2013 | Category: Uncategorized | 5 Comments

i drive this truck around about 1/3 of the year. it’s one of the best made trucks to come out of the 80’s, a  Toyota 4-banger, R22 engine (the fuel injected one) and it will just last forever. i think i paid 1200 from Andy the Welder, actually from his mate, Jimmy. So little has ever gone wrong with it. it blew a head gasket in ‘09, and a guy named Pedro rebuilt it for $500 which is insane. and then he moved back to Mexico.

it’s one of those trucks that i let anyone in the neighborhood use. dump runs mostly, or moving.

i have had it painted for a while now, since 2004?
After Tricky Dick Cheney and his pet W led us into Iraq - that was spring of 2003? yeah, so Summer 2004. it was a dry night, i was so upset about  a war based on lies that i went outside and painted down the passenger side.
ALL THE PRESIDENTS MEN: SHAMELESS LIARS WITH BLOODY HANDS which i was neither proud nor ashamed to have on my truck. correction i was proud that i got a fairly concise message across with brevity, and that i made it fit without the last 3 letters all scrunched up at the end. i have no artistic skills, but i know what i like, and i can letter when i have to.
now, driving a truck like this around seattle is no great feat of daring bravado. it’s a pretty democratic city, a blue island in a sea of red . (and yes, the reddest counties receive the most welfare, like a lot of states)  few people would really argue with me, it was mostly at gas stations and parking lots. i’d usually come back with, ” you think starting a war and cutting taxes at the same time is a good idea? while cutting benefits to veterans?” and then they stutter and you know… but yeah, seattle? people would like it, which made for uncomfortable times, cuz i’m sitting at a light, and someone would roll up and toot the horn, you look over, and they’re all “thumbs up and a big smile” because they agree with my message and i’m just thinking “yeah, you just smiled at me for reminding you that we have young people dying in Iraq for no good reason, and it’s our stupid leaders that put them there, and half the country AGAIN voted these thugs into office. and it would feel weird to smile, cuz it was fucking depressing, so i just gave a weak smile back.  lame. i decided after about 2 years of that, i would not drive around town in the gloomy truck of angst, and gave it to some friends (PGee and Charms) for the weekend. just paint something cheerful on it. (there’s enough ugly cars in any city - let’s try to change that)
so they did. jellyfish blobs and a bear with fangs and some dude that may have been me, i don’t know, and i drove this around for a couple years. and then it got a little weird. or i got weird, that’s more like it. this was around the time we were going through our first (and probably last ) home re-model. hey, not ungrateful - i inherited this money, so easy come easy blow - and that’s what happened. it all went to the craftsmen, at the height of the economy. this is when Home Depot was open 24-hours a day, because you know, build! and at some point i mounted an ironing board on the back, and wired various tools to it, including a can of Pabst, - zoom in on the pictures and you can see them. and then in my weird passive/aggressive way, i just started talking shit. [let's just stop and admit that Seattle is a contender for  Passive/Aggressive Capital. is it the extreme rain+awesome sunshine=imbalance? is it maybe that the symbol for the city is a giant phallic tower piercing the sky while remaining round, slender and ladylike in its figure?]
anyway, i started talking shit, not that i meant to, i was just so spun over the fact that i was paying obscene amounts of money to both qualified craftsman and absolute shitheads, sometimes on the same crew, and confused by these new feelings of rage - like, “i want to kill this fucker, he is such a lying sack of shit”- that i would come out to my car in the Home Depot parking lot, and if some guy with a F250 was standing there eyeing it, i’d approach him, take on a generic drawl of an accent, (with a stuttering stammer, of course) and start pitching him with absolute fake earnestness: “Well, what i got here is a rack system for mah tools. i’m hanging out here looking for other craftsmen that may want to hire me to make such’n a rack for their truck. looks like you got a nice truck there buddy, an’ i think i could find you an extra big ironing -uh - custom rack, and mount it for you in a days time. and then, i got a way to affix all the tools you need. .. “
and of course, they thought i was a loon, and would back away or just turn on their heel and get on with their day, maybe shake their head and chuckle at this stupid simpleton.
other times, i would hang out, and offer my services as a craftsman. “i got my own tools, i got this thing that can saw things, called a saw”, then i’d point to the hatchet and say, “and i got this hammer i call ol’ Joe, an’ it can fix anything the saw can’t fix, and - i don’t know, what is the scope of your project, friend? cuz i’m real good at improvising, in fact i made this very tool rack here, i made it out of a old shopping cart from Safeway, so i got some welding skills too,  (and of course you could see that it was not an old shopping cart, it was an old ironing board, strapped to my truck ) and i found that the angrier i got at some of these guys working on my house, the more i would just stay in character and lay on the lies and act like a freak to strangers, and really, it must of been cathartic, cuz it felt so good and natural. (and i’m a freak, of course) mind you i only did this for a couple months, but i was always safe, since every smart man knows its super-bad luck to hit a fool.
so by that time, i was done calling attention to myself, gave the truck to Charms and said, give me something gray. and i lived with that for about a year.
and things went along fine and without incident and of course that never lasts long.
January, 2009, we were coming up on the inauguration of Obama - i was excited, because he bodysurfs, and i’m so tired of politicians, i think that is the new measure i’ll use to judge them: do they bodysurf? it’s as good a parameter as anything else people put up there. law degree? meh. governor? nah. senator? yawn. bodysurfer? Big X in the box next to their name. so anyway, i was lucky enough to catch Weirdo in the middle of January, bad time to paint murals, and we sequestered the truck in a (secret) very cold warehouse, and he and Little Jen and I came up with some great Nascar-inspired logos to salute this historic time. it was a lot of fun, though i did nothing but paint the entire truck orange with 2 cases of spray paint i found at a garage sale. that’s why it was orange. but it was good, i think we nailed a lot of them, if not in execution, at least in spirit. [it is very hard to paint in sub-freezing weather- i am amazed at Weirdo's perserverance] so what you got is this here, and i was fully backing this truck, the message, everything. take a look:
I mean, HOME GROWN and it’s got the state of Hawaii? BO smoked weed in Hawaii, dude! that’s more spiccolli than your mom puffin’ a joint while wearing checkerboard Van’s . but the trifecta on that side is the “Giggle- Hella Life - Positive ” that is pure love baby, love for the Universe, love for Life, and i can tell you i soon entered some pretty dark days of depression, about six months after this paint job, and those clouds hung around me for years, and sometimes it was this truck that snapped me out of my funk, that reminded me all that i have to be grateful for, and that “a case of bad numbers is a lot better than a case of bad cancer”. yep. the economy plunged our business to depths we’d never seen, and with it went a little of my sanity. by the end of the year i was cross-eyed and riding the bus, my brain literally a fragile blob in an even more fragile skull. (go way back in this blog to read about that. or google “sagging brain syndrome”)
and you gotta love the STP turned to PMA - love that shit! - and skoal to GOALS  and  the nascar to CHANGE, we bit that one, of course.  and the silver rims, sprayed on like we was in Tiajuana. PMA is a great term, one of my favorite girls in Seattle has that on her arm, i’d be ok with frank getting that someday.
here we were running out of time, paint, patience, heat. but Jeff still squeezed out some  True Dat and some HOPE ala the NAPA logo. so yeah, why not, right? top it off with a 44 on the roof, and you’re set.
i drove this from January 2009 to May 2012. and i loaned it to lots of friends, some, like Johan, would come back and say , “dude, everybody stares at me when i pull up to a light. every. single. car.” and i had to tell him, eh, maybe. i don’t look around cuz i forget i’m in it, so i have no idea if people stare. i mean let’s remember - we’re in Seattle. we have not just medical marijuana, but we’re going to have the state SELLING us marijuana from state-run stores! we have two women senators! the Stranger is published weekly, with sex advice from Dan Savage - the hard-working homo behind the “It gets better project” (god bless him and Terry) and a leading defender of  gay rights. [full disclosure and name drop : i like  Dan and Terry and their boy DJ. we have snowboarded together, bbq'd at the house, thrown back shots of Jaegermeister at the top of a ski run. how frat-boy, right?] and of course it’s a pretty liberal town, so i didn’t get much flack for this paint job. shit, it says “POSITIVE” across the side! you gotta’ be a real poop-head to pick a fight with such a happy truck. it says Giggle for chrissake. Giggle! only a manic-depressive would drive around with “Giggle” on their fender.
in May 2012, i was ready for a change, not feeling the shine on Barry O like i did, and really fed up with the way banks had screwed the economy. Occupy Wall Street was going on, and i wanted something more current. PGee was available, always happy to help a brother like me out (a cheap brother with little to pay, except beer and stuff ) so he gave it this beautiful DUAL look:
DAYTIME: industrial, dirty city on one side, and
night time desert, get outside and see weird things with your friends…but he never got a chance to finish it. maybe this summer. Oh, here’s the Bankster on the front:
in GREED we trust. well, why not, right?
(wow, are you still with me? did you ever think this would be so long?)ok, i’ll finish up here, just say that frank came home from another crappy day of 6th grade and i said, “dude, want to paint something on the bed of the truck?” thinking he would grab a can and spray some alien, or robot, or disfigured head….and he said”yeah, i want to paint a Bee! do you know how important bees are to our life?” so PGee gave him some tips and this is what we got:

but for sure what i see people taking pictures of the most is the rear, the tailgate. it’s funny, i was telling this new friend that i am a mostly reserved person, i don’t like a lot of flash, i lead a quiet life, had my fun and now feel like i fade into the background. and we’re are walking through a parking lot, i stop at my truck, and say good night, see you later, and she goes - “this is your ride? you’re a ‘reserved person’? you’re full of shit!”
and i like this, the TotallyRainbow. what i really like is that i gave it to PGee, and DIDN’T say “gimme a big ol’ Rainbow- i’m feeling especially gay!” I just said, “paint something happy”. and really, when i was 18, i put a rainbow sticker on the back window of my ‘65 el Camino, because that’s what hippies (and born-too-late hippies like me) did, before the LGBT Pride movement claimed rainbows as RAINBOWS, and PGee has the hippie spirit (his brother and he were raised on the floor of their parents’ record store) so fuck yeah, we’re taking the rainbow back - ok, we’ll share it, right? - and i’m fine with that. [Peter Line put one on his pro model snowboard in 1994, i think]
Again, just trying to put a little color and smiles out there on the dreary roads of the city.
ok, that’s all i’m gonna say about the truck . it makes a hideous noise in the morning when i start it, just a screech from Hell, but aside from that, it’s strong. and you can borrow it, just put some gas in when you’re done. thanks.
my mom, Linda, Christmas 2010. picked her up from the train station. yes, the door panel is missing and the license plate rattles up on the dashboard but she didn’t mind. she was cool with stuff like that. miss you, mom.

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Parenting, the update

March 10, 2013 | Category: Uncategorized | 2 Comments

Here’s a conversation in my car today (driving to saturday detention. 2 hours, and you have to pay the teacher $10. yep - catholic school!)

Frank: I got eliminated from the spelling bee on the word “chisel”.

Me: Chisel? c-h-i-s-e-l ?

Frank: Yeah, but i spelled it c-h-i-z-z-l-e

Me: Like “for shizzle..?”

Frank: For shizzle my dizzle!

a high-five followed, and yes i’m a bad dad.

not as bad as the dad who let Frank watch his kid! welcome to the Future - it will arrive in a text…

but of course that got me to thinking, about parenting, it’s as much fun or as much work as you make it, and i’ve written about Johan here and he’s still the General, a model that many would do well to follow, but there’s lots of others.   these are some random pics on my phone, from the past couple months, all relating somehow to Parenting.

this is (left to right) an 11-year old girl, Isabella Gomez, her dad Alex, and her coach, Phil. snapped this just after she was awarded 1st place in the 11 & Under division at the Mt. Baker Banked Slalom. beat the boys her age, too! Alex is from Mexico City, and he boards, and he seems to be an awesome dad, totally supporting his daughter’s competitive and athletic nature. what a journey he must be on - Mexico City to Minnesota to Seattle. great energy.                 

this is a picture of Austin Buza and his Mom, Sharon. they are a great team. we first met Sharon at a Minor Threat contest a few years ago - she was a soccer mom like none Johan and I had ever seen: brought hand-made signs, just notebook paper, but with a sharpie she’d written “GO!” and “Rip it Up” and “Yay Austin” and basically stuff that would make any kid cringe -mom standing in front of you before you drop in for your run, yelling praise at you - but he’s a good sport, and wtf - she obviously loves him to death. she’s an awesome lady, hard working, teaches at the Summit on weekends, enters contests , - another kid that’s lucky to have a parent like this.

Here’s proof that’s there’s justice in this world: Mike Ranquet, a professional hell-raiser and trouble-maker, loved and known the world over for his talented skating and snowboarding, and his ability to take things a little too far (and his sweet nature, as well) - is now the father of TWINS! hell yes! about 20 months old, and he and Beth got ther hands full and people are so stoked for them, right on, Mike!

and i’ve got to include this text from my Mom, cause like it or not, we learn a lot about parenting from our parents. i thought for my mid-life crisis, instead of doing the traditional “sports car or mistress” i would learn (or try to learn) a musical instrument. been taking bass lessons for about a year, then took a group class where we got to perform live in a bar, in front of strangers. well, adoring strangers. mom’s 74, texting me that day. like the proud, supportive mom she’s always been. ssome things never change, 50 years later. i hope i’m still that supportive, 20 years from now

and here’s my happy family. me, Lisa and Frank. i am truly blessed. thank you to all parents who are out there, working hard to raise good citizens, kind & strong.

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cry me a river

October 25, 2012 | Category: Uncategorized | 6 Comments

ok, it’s been a while since i’ve written, 7+ months, whatever, and how (fill in your adjective here) that i’m choosing a rant to start things off. but i am.

what the F is it with people who live like robots? we do this at all levels. i like a cup of coffee in the morning, usually two. here in the house. then i do that pooping thing, and then i’m on my way. ok, so maybe that’s robotic, but if i break that routine, i don’t have some upside-down day where i’m always telling anyone who’ll listen how i didn’t get my coffee or BM today, and blah blah -christ, Move On! and there’s people - i’d like to say sheep, but people, that eat at regular times. what’s up with that? “oh, 12 noon - time for lunch.,” wait - are you hungry? or are you “12 noon”?

but that’s not what bothers me. it’s these people out there, and you kinda suspect who they are, but they percolate up and Blossom every Monday. maybe you work with someone like this. (i have). maybe it’s oh, i don’t know, your Bank Teller! and you walk in and you’re all friendly, and no you don’t remember their name but you still walk up and smile and say ‘hello! how are you today?’ and you hand them whatever is in your hand. and they do that slight pause, then the sigh, and the tight smile with the up-turned eyebrows and look at you, and with this weird sing-song voice say. “Oh you know - MON-DAY!” and then they make this bitter ‘i got semen in my mouth and i want to spit” kind of face. and I’m like Really? you don’t like monday? ooohhh i feel so bad for you.

Wake the fuck up, clown. from where i stand, it looks to me like you’ve got a job, you’re not crippled, you live in America, and you’re White! now what’s your problem again? how about you quit your job, pack your bags and travel somewhere far away. and then i’ll meet up with you a year from now, and i’ll say, “hello, how are you today?” and you’ll be laying in a sweat on the floor, and you’ll manage to lift your head long enough to say, “uuhhh, eehh- you..uh…know..Malaria…(sigh)…vomit…”  hey. not wishing malaria on anyone. just saying , come on people, let’s show a little gratitude for what we have, alright? monday. shit on that.

oh, and while we’re on the subject of bank Tellers, when i come in to deposit cash (that’s part of my job, i’ve been lucky enough for 20 years to run a retail store and at the end of the week, i go to the bank and deposit - wait, i don’t need to explain this -) when i walk in and hand you deposits, don’t make a some scrunched-up pained expression and say “oh, (exhale) you have a lot of deposits. i have to count all this?” Hey! you work in a Bank! thats where the money goes. wtf? get a job at a car wash, maybe you can complain about “Oh. (big exhale/sigh) another car!”

ok, i think i’m done. thank you. let’s all agree to not be robots, whenever possible. deal?

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World's Oldest Grom

You might think you know what’s going on in this picture. bunch of kids, holding up trophies, just finished a contest or something. old guy in the back, probably a father or coach or troop leader. and that’s that.

But the truth is much deeper, much sweeter, and without getting too sentimental i’ll break it down for you. If you like heroes, read on. If you’re a new parent, stay with me - you might learn something.

the old guy, the grey-beard, is Johan Malkoski. Lives in Ballard, got 2 boys, runs a snowboard company. Johan is known throughout the industry as a ball-breaker, a sales manager who says no as often as he says yes, a guy who takes his stand and defends it, a man who speaks directly and only says it once. I call him The General. [when the food riots come in 2018, I will be reporting for sentry duty under his command, closing off NorthBeach/Crown Hill from the marauding invaders of Ballard] Most people that meet him are confused at first, then intrigued, then slapping high-fives, then telling people at work about their “new friend”.

THIS IS THE TRUTH: i have met more than one woman who has told me that when she met Johan, he made her uncomfortable, mad. that he was a pig. (a pig!) And every one of those women has come back to me and said something like, “he’s changed, he’s a lot nicer now, he’s one of my friends”. and i tell every one of them, “Darling, he hasn’t changed a bit. He’s the same as ever. YOU just learned to appreciate him”. and i stand by that. i felt the same way, and i’m a dude, i think.

I’m a-jump back here, to the time i was 8 years old. 1969. I grew up in a “small town” outside of downtown Los Angeles. Glendale, CA. population about 100,000. Glendale was a baseball town, you played 8-years, like it or not, you just did that. provided of course that you “made the cut” - back then, there was no “everybody bats”, “everyone makes the team - too many kids? we’ll just make more teams”- nope, back then we had “try-outs” and woe be the boy who didn’t make the cut. everyone else would be playing ball, and he would be sitting in the dirt, pushing a stick and singing to himself. I’m not saying it was better then, just saying how it was.

So, Glendale had 2 years T-Ball, 3 years little league, 3 years Babe Ruth. after that there was Connie Mack, but that’s when most of us dropped off. we didn’t have the skills/passion/sobriety to continue past age 15. Anyways, back as an 8-year old, no clue that my stepdad would be a deadbeat and that my parents would split up in a couple of years, my life was T-ball. 3rd grade. 8 years old. I played for the Orioles. (Back when a fitted hat was the only hat available) And our coach was an old man named Joe Rose. and when I say old, i mean he was Legit Old. Yellow teeth. Hair growing out of his ears. Hair growing out of THE TOP OF HIS NOSE! I had never seen hair grow on the outside of a man’s nose before, and it’s probably an image i’ll carry to my grave. And this image: Joe Rose, short, hunched over, and filled with a passion for the game, chasing us around the bases. Seriously, this old man would chase us from 1st to 3rd, sometimes to homeplate, yelling and scaring the living shit out of us. i would come home and burst into tears because this old man was like nothing i had ever witnessed. We didn’t have that in our house. And i loved it. (Years later, he would pop his head into the dugout, checking in. i’m 15, stoned, ashamed as hell)

And I’m guessing if you asked the kids in this photo, “do you have a parent like Johan in your house?”, the answer would be “no”. How could they? What you don’t see from the photo is all the kids who didn’t place, didn’t get a trophy. But if you were there, you would have seen Johan talk to every one of them, before every run down the course, and pump them up. Help them focus, talk to them like he was talking to his own kid: “you ready for this? you gonna send it? what are you doing on the first jump? then what? alright, go out and kill it!” Every kid got his love and support. Kids that didn’t have a chance in hell of advancing, they got the same pep talk.

And that’s love.

I’ve carried Joe Rose in my head for a long time.

I’m guessing these kids will be doing the same with Johan, years from now, when they have children of their own.

Thanks, Johan

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…maybe that’s what makes them so sweet.

Thursday morning, i had to take frank to get braces on his teeth. (i know, what else was i going to do with $6800, right? fortunately, they take monthly credit card payments. it’s like leasing a car you can never drive. or even sit in) After dropping him off at school, i came home to get my bike, to ride in the bitter cold to pick up the little truck, which was getting a new windshield after EIGHT YEARS of a full crack running across it. took time to make a smoothie (fascinating story, i know) and because i took that extra time, i was home when the door knocked. and who should be there, some solicitor or bible-thumper? no, it was Juan Diaz. His full name Juan Jose Perez Diaz, of Chiapas, Mexico.

Juan is a nice guy. hard worker. illiterate, too. (i know he’s illiterate, because he can’t write down words when i don’t understand him, and also because his friend Manuel told me Juan doesn’t read or write, and only went as far as 4th grade in school). he doesn’t speak English, but i’m good enough at Spanish to be understood by him. We met back in 2006, when i was looking for some day-labor to help me with the house re-model. there used to be a small operation called - i forget, casa latina?- that was a meeting place for daily workers, on Western by the 99 on-ramp. he worked on the house off and on for about 6 months, until he left in December ‘06, to return to Chiapas to be with his wife and 2 kids. i gave him one of my many travel bags, as back then i had a bit of a bag problem.

he called me a couple of years later. he was back in Seattle, looking for work. i had him do some landscaping, but really, i didn’t have much for him. in 2010, he showed up at my door, and i took him to work with me. we were giving the base-grinder an overhaul after 20 years, and he sanded the rust for two days. he’s always kept the same phone number, so when i was tearing up my front yard this Spring, i rang him up and he did some heavy digging with me. He also brought his roommate, Manuel, who is a great cement man. he was awesome to have as a digging partner, and he and i mixed 4 pallets of cement into those little electric mixers one day, while Manuel did the finish work. (like 350+ bags?)

Juan and Manuel have been coming up to Seattle for over 6 years, arriving in Feb., leaving in early Dec. during that time, they have had to live in this in-between world, avoiding immigration agents, and taking jobs that pay by cash or check. for a check, they have social security numbers that someone gave them, that aren’t theirs. their long-time employers know this. they live 4 to a apartment, make their lunch every day, send their money home every week or two, back to their families in Chiapas.

every year when they return, they have to sneak across the border. this involves paying a guy to smuggle them, at a fee of $2,000-$2,500 all the way to seattle. this last trip, they were stuck in the desert for 4 days, waiting for their ride to arrive. that was a tough one, and they said this would be their last trip here. they miss their family, their children. the warm weather. the food. when i last saw them in September, i wished them well, and good luck and all that.

so, here i was, thursday, 11:30am, a time when i’m rarely at home. and here’s Juan at my door. why? well, he was flying home later that day, for good, and he wanted to say goodbye. he rode the bus for almost 2 hours to my house, on the odd chance that i might be here. why didn’t he call? he said his english wasn’t good enough to say goodbye properly. naturally, i was moved, and said we should have a shot of tequila.

i excused myself, and went downstairs to open up Dinky’s, a small tequila bar that pops up sometimes in the hallway. since my brain thingy, i can’t drink as often/much as i used too, but i built it when i was still crosseyed and thinking i wouldbe back to my old drinking self soon enough, obviously delusional with pain-killers. wearing an eye-patch can make you think you have magical powers.

I called Juan downstairs, and his eyes lit up. i didn’t understand anything he said, but it sounded like “holy shit, you have an electric virgin and all this tequila in the closet i built 5 years ago? what the fuck is going on, whitey?”

here’s a few shots from our un-planned ‘adios fiesta’

this is the first shot. don Julio. a smooth anejo, like nothing he’s ever tasted. reposado man, for sure, and i have to agree. anejo is always smooth, but where’s the taste? we moved quickly to reposado.


the Cimarron! for all the tequila i’ve enjoyed, you would think i knew what the horned animal on all the bottles is, what he’s representing. anyone know?

he kinda’ got this look, like, “how many of these are we going to do. and don’t i have a plane to catch in a few hours, and i’m riding the bus, right?”

we talked about his family, he has two kids, a girl 12, and a boy 10.

now he’s feeling the fire in his belly, speech getting a little slower, more reflective. i give him my email address to write to me when he gets to Chiapas. he gives me his….name. (see above) Juan Jose Perez Diaz. i try to explain the internet to him. now it’[s his turn to nod politely and pretend he understands.

and now for some Centenario.    Bueno! Que Sabor!


and now on to something called Antiguo which might mean “old tasting and Musty”.

i think that here he’s starting to question this whole visit. “when will senor john stop this and maybe give me a ride home?”

but i was not driving because i now had to get on my bike and make my way to Hwy 99 to pick up the truck. so i walked with him up the hill to the bustop at 85th. it was really cold, and i can only imagine how much he won’t miss this weather. i made him give me a awkward hug, and we wished each other well, Bueno vida and con Dios , and he had brought a camera so we asked a stranger to take some pictures and he got on the bus, and i on my bike.

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Remember Tad? like, a 300-pound big ol’ hairy dude? we all rocked out to him and his band in the 90’s. so, how weird is it to see your son sing a Tad song, 20 years later. the low growl at 2:55 just kills me.


here’s some guitar work, with a sweet 13-year girl handling the Mark Arm vocals.


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October 19, 2011 | Category: Uncategorized | 1 Comment

today, October 19, is the 1-year anniversary of my brother Larry passing. (OUR brother Larry, because he was loved by many) i’m not up for writing a story or a tribute or anything like that, but i’ll share this screen-shot, which is from my son’s facebook page, last sunday. Larry was a positive guy, always looking for the fun, seeing where the good could be had. and this posting from Frank just makes me, i don’t know, proud? happy? - happy that an 11-year old kid can put something up there that celebrates the simplicity of a good day. Frank and Larry, while 30-years apart in age, connected really well. that was Larry’s gift, and Frank is lucky to have good memories of their times together. as we all are.

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worth the drive

September 27, 2011 | Category: Uncategorized | 1 Comment

all good in the hood

all good in the hood

i don’t usually put pictures of myself up here, for obvious reasons, but this one captured me at a time i want to remember. i had driven a few hours to arrive at a house on the coast that my friend terry had rented, to celebrate his 40th birthday. the idea was for a surf weekend, but the weather and waves were against us, but it didn’t matter. it was a testimony of the person he is, people driving that far to sit in a house, eat a lot, and be around their friend, with none of the daily world to interrupt, just for 24 hours. it was worth it. and a bonus: his wife and two children, and witnessing the parenting they did, it’s fun to see your friend that was a bachelor for so long, now dealing with diapers and nap-time and blocking off the stairs and trying to get his friends to “please, can you talk over there, and not so loud, my boy’s trying to sleep, blah blah blah”. i loved it. terry shot this pic after we had a nice talk, standing in the dunes.

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Brian Fairbrother

September 9, 2011 | Category: Uncategorized | Leave a Comment

That’s his last name
Which I never knew until now.
So when people ask
as they have, as they will
I must say no, we were not
Not in that way.

More like a friend that you take for granted
Like so much that is so consistent in life
The beat of your heart, the pulsing of blood
You rarely stop to think about it.
To say “wow!” or ” thank you so much for being here”.

Like the Aurora Bridge.

And that’s what he was.
As reliable as the bridge.
Always there.
Every day -
Working and serving,
Whomever came his way
And never complaining.

Like the bridge.

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