"Hi...I need a pick-up."
It is 3:05pm and "Dwight" is on the University Volkswagen/Audi shuttle phone telling me he needs a "pick-up." This is exactly how he phrases it. He does not ask me when would be a conveniant time, nor how I am doing, nor dipense with any of the pleasantries that most of the customers at least attempt. No, Dwight is very to the point about needing his "pick-up."
Five minutes later I pick Dwight up outside the bio-tech company "Zymogenetics" on Eastlake Avenue. He is wearing khaki shorts and a hideous blue button-up shirt that he has failed to button. He has a butt-cutt. Upon getting in the shuttle he immediately starts talking on his cell phone. I hate Dwight. Nevertheless, he must be picked up and safely deposited at the Audi/Volkswwagen dealership (Dwight, as most pricks do, owns an Audi). This, afterwall, is what the job that I have diligently performing from 2:30 to 7:30, Monday through Friday, since January 3rd, 2007, entails. But now it is all about to end. Not in the manner that I described in a previous entry in which I gleefully lit my hair on fire and attempted to commit vehicular homicide; no, I am quitting this Wednesday.
In commemoration of this joyous day I decided to take notes this past Friday so that the whole world (i.e. Zach, Andy, Dan) could see what a typical day is like in the life of a shuttle driver. I scribbled on the backside of the schedule in between pick-ups so that I could recall details about the customers later on. Here is a quick synopsis of what would transpire: I drive a scant total of 33 miles and shuttle seven customers (5 male, 2 female). They range from: my kind and witty co-worker Jessica, to the VP of the private banking sector at Wells Fargo. Larry, one of the custormers, tips me 5 dollars. He is the only person out of the 7 to tip me. Larry is very torn about whether or not he should buy the midnight blue or the silver Audi A-4 convertible. We discuss this for at least 20 minutes in the shuttle. At one point he describes the new Audi grills as "in your face." Apparently the midnight blue convertible looks "meaner," but the silver more nicely accents the "in your face grill." Larry is in his 30's and lives in Silverdale. Silverdale, if you don't already know, Silverdale is mostly known for having a a mall that contains "Bon Marche", and for having a Red Robin.
Diane, the VP of the private banking sector of Wells Fargo, scares the shit out of me. I am not quite sure whether she is 41 or 71. She has a Louis Vuitton bag and enters the shuttle carrying a green tea-like beverage from Starbucks. I have shuttled Diane before, so we quickly ease into small-talk. I mention that I have been reading a book called "The Little Book that Beats the Market," and Diane perks up as the conversation turns towards investment. She gives me advice and then gives me her business card. Then we pick up John.
John lives on Capitol Hill and is a "sales-engineer" for T-Mobile. I spend the first 10 minutes after picking him up trying to figure out what the fuck a "sales-engineer" is. Diane and John begin to engage in lively banter. Diane tries to convince John to switch to Wells Fargo and John tries to convince Diane to switch to T-Mobile. It ends in a stale-mate when I interrupt to ask what a "hedge fund" is. As the conversation once again turns toward investment, John finds out that Diane is a VP and excitedly says to me, "Dude, you're sitting next to a VP!" I respond, "Dude, you're a douche-bag!" Actually I don't, because John is a really nice guy. He has tipped me both of the previous two times I drove him; strangely ,this time he does not (which was particularly weird because he lingered near the shuttle for about 20 seconds after Diane got out and said "bye" to me like 3 times). Diane may have been gorgeous when she was younger. She also may have been a vampire.
My final customer is Steven, whom I pick up from downtown at 5:35pm. Steven is an older businessman, smartly dressed in a blazer and slacks. He is also sporting a hat that looks like it was taylored in the 1940's. I ask him what he is doing for the weekend and he says they are having a birthday party at his house in Wallingford. I tell him that that sounds nice. Steven says that 21 years ago they bought their house in Wallinford for the barely-affordable price of 87,000 dollars. After the customary guffaw-ing on my part, he discusses the value of the house today. "It must be worth at least 5 times that," he explains, "but who knows what 'worth' means these days. I certainly don't." Steven is a hopeless romantic/philosopher.
Well there you have it. I hope that provided a small window in the the illustrious world of shuttle driving. Applications are available in the Volkswagen customer service area. Just ask for Fahmin. In the words of "Lawrence" from Office Space: "fuckin-a..."
-Boosh Clown
Monday, July 30, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
God Save the Queen
On August 17th I will embark on a voyage that will take me from Seattle, WA to Buenos Aires, Argentina over land. This means that I will not skip any stretch of land via ferry or plane or pterodactyl. However, river boats are ok, mostly because I think they will be absolutely necessary in the 50-mile or so stretch of narco-trafficker, paramilitary infested wilderness that exists between Columbia and Panama. This area, known as the Darien Gap, is the one leg of the trip I am somewhat apprehensive about. In the year 2000 two British botanists were kidnapped in the gap by Columbian guerrillas and held hostage for 9-months before being released. The book The Cloud Garden chronicles their story and is possibly the worst thing that has ever been published. The first three or so chapters talk about nothing more than how excited these two blokes were to see the “dizzying array of orchids” that the gap had to offer. In the story, getting kidnapped at gunpoint seems somewhat secondary. Worse yet, everything in the book is told from the perspective of BOTH of the unlucky Brits (completely unnecessary considering they were within 10 feet of each other for the majority of the ordeal), the end result being the reader getting the impression that the two guys were completely insane/brain-dead (at one point I strongly suspected that these two spent a large portion of their time in captivity fantasizing about, and possibly masturbating to, the plentitude of flora that lay just beyond the grasp of their chubby English fingers).
That said, I will be writing a book about my trip. My goal is to write something that somewhat resembles this blog, but with stronger themes and more exotic description of far-away lands. What will probably end up happening is that I drink too much, black-out on tequila, and pee my pants. Either way, it should prove to be a fairly epic trip. I am particularly excited about Columbia and Argentina. On a side note, my shuttle-driving days are officially numbered. I quit next Wednesday. Shit doo.
-Boosh Clown
Hate of the Day: Bob Levy
Like of the Day: Aaron Lennon
Song of the Day: Solta o Frango by Bonde do Role
That said, I will be writing a book about my trip. My goal is to write something that somewhat resembles this blog, but with stronger themes and more exotic description of far-away lands. What will probably end up happening is that I drink too much, black-out on tequila, and pee my pants. Either way, it should prove to be a fairly epic trip. I am particularly excited about Columbia and Argentina. On a side note, my shuttle-driving days are officially numbered. I quit next Wednesday. Shit doo.
-Boosh Clown
Hate of the Day: Bob Levy
Like of the Day: Aaron Lennon
Song of the Day: Solta o Frango by Bonde do Role
Drop it like it's tibid
I am having a quarter-life crisis. I have these about once every two weeks. I am having this one because I realized, walking back from the gym today, that if I was to view my current life situation positively I would be: “A college graduate with unlimited potential.” However, viewed negatively I could be: “A pudgy cripple with a bad haircut.” So it's time to decide: is the glass half-empty or half-full? (see footnote) I like to think that I think the glass is half-full, mostly because I can’t imagine that anyone would look at a glass half-filled with liquid and put emphasis not on the liquid, but rather on the empty space surrounding it. Does this make me an optimist? Not at all. Nor would looking at the glass as half-empty make you a pessimist. But it might make you a schizophrenic.
The weather this last weekend in Vancouer, BC was proof that God has temporarily forgotten about the Pacific Northwest. Instead he has focused on more God-fearing areas like the Bible Belt and the Midwest, where they are bathing in sun and enjoying temperatures that make Seattle look like an walk-in freezer. It might also have something to do with the hippies. For my last essay as a college student I wrote about my disdain for hippies, a disdain that becomes more deeply rooted in blind hatred with every passing day. The paradox is that I, by some standards, am embracing traditional “hippie” values with more gusto as the summer days pass. By traditional “hippie” values I do not mean sniffing one another’s armpits while playing in drum circles. This is what hippies actually do. I’m talking about the ideals that hippies claim to embrace, things like, but not limited to, not being that stoked on technology. For example, why is everyone and their brother completely wet for the iPhone? If one has an iPhone, where do that person’s priorities lie? I don’t want to be too abstract or profane, but I think their priorities might lie in some kind of underground, group-masturbation cult captained by Steve Jobs. Anyway call me a hippie but iPhones and iPods are not that tight. They kind of suck. I wish I had an iPod. I have to pee hella bad. Shout out to Bunktown and his new publication: bunktown.blogspot.com
Footnote: I find it interesting to note here that in the whole “Glass half-empty/ half-full” equation the contents of the glass are rarely brought into question. For instance, if the glass is filled with say, an “Adios Motherfucker” (Wednesdays) from Earl’s, then it is definitely half-full, half-poisonous, and you are definitely completely -fucked. However, if the glass is filled with some sort of delicious fruity concoction like a strawberry-mango smoothie then it is definitely half-empty and you are definitely half-bummed.
Hate of the Day: Desolation Sound
Like of the Day: Urban gathering areas
Song of the Day: Crazy by Willie Nelson
The weather this last weekend in Vancouer, BC was proof that God has temporarily forgotten about the Pacific Northwest. Instead he has focused on more God-fearing areas like the Bible Belt and the Midwest, where they are bathing in sun and enjoying temperatures that make Seattle look like an walk-in freezer. It might also have something to do with the hippies. For my last essay as a college student I wrote about my disdain for hippies, a disdain that becomes more deeply rooted in blind hatred with every passing day. The paradox is that I, by some standards, am embracing traditional “hippie” values with more gusto as the summer days pass. By traditional “hippie” values I do not mean sniffing one another’s armpits while playing in drum circles. This is what hippies actually do. I’m talking about the ideals that hippies claim to embrace, things like, but not limited to, not being that stoked on technology. For example, why is everyone and their brother completely wet for the iPhone? If one has an iPhone, where do that person’s priorities lie? I don’t want to be too abstract or profane, but I think their priorities might lie in some kind of underground, group-masturbation cult captained by Steve Jobs. Anyway call me a hippie but iPhones and iPods are not that tight. They kind of suck. I wish I had an iPod. I have to pee hella bad. Shout out to Bunktown and his new publication: bunktown.blogspot.com
Footnote: I find it interesting to note here that in the whole “Glass half-empty/ half-full” equation the contents of the glass are rarely brought into question. For instance, if the glass is filled with say, an “Adios Motherfucker” (Wednesdays) from Earl’s, then it is definitely half-full, half-poisonous, and you are definitely completely -fucked. However, if the glass is filled with some sort of delicious fruity concoction like a strawberry-mango smoothie then it is definitely half-empty and you are definitely half-bummed.
Hate of the Day: Desolation Sound
Like of the Day: Urban gathering areas
Song of the Day: Crazy by Willie Nelson
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Funstation
"The Funstation Private Island is your very own personal oasis on the water. Invite a few friends along to enjoy your private island which is packed full of features like cup holders, headrests, built-in removable coolers and a spacious soaking pool with mesh bottom surface. Choose to relax on the large sundeck and soak up the sun, or cool off in the mesh bottom soaking pool. There's always a party waiting to happen on the Funstation Private Island."
Like of the day: Busch Athlete
Hate of the day: Scott Verplank
Song of the day: Find What You Get by Bang Gang
Like of the day: Busch Athlete
Hate of the day: Scott Verplank
Song of the day: Find What You Get by Bang Gang
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Rippin' it?
Boys and girls I come to you tonight from apartment 512, a mini-studio (imagine a shoe-box that has a toilet in it) on the corner of 47th and 11th in Seattle's University District. I am bored out of my mind. I have just finished reading various chapters of Chuck Klosterman's sophomore publication Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa puffs and find myself feeling witty and generally in the mood to do something vaguely (I am copying the shit out of him) intrepid in the hopes that it will somehow turn out fun and maybe even (but most likely not), meaningful.
So this is what I'm going to do. I'm going to sit in my mini-studio (which is tiny but does have a fairly spacious deck with a beautiful view of downtown Seattle) and drink the Kokanee brand beer that is in my fridge. And listen to music. Annnnd, assuming your eyes continue to move down this page and absorb the words, describe the experience. So now I will head to my fridge (which is also "mini") and extract the first cold bottle of Kokanee. Time to tap the Canadian Rockies.
Beer One
The first sip was oddly satisfying. In the past I have only usually drank Kokanee while in Canada, which usually means Whistler. The first sip reminded me of Whistler, specifically the time I traveled there with Courtney McFarlane, Grant Leslie, and a bunch of other high school kids that were about two years younger than me. Being a college kid that had just returned from Arizona State I was treated by these high school kids like a minor (I cannot overemphasize the word "minor" here) celebrity, which resulted in me 1) feeling very old but strangely confident and 2) having my jokes laughed at far too profusely by kids that were too fucked-up to question why a kid two years their senior didn't have friends his own age to hang out with. I remember doing one thing in particular that triggered outbursts of ravenous glee from Grant and the other kids rather effectively, and that thing was me pretending like the Schmitt's Animal Pack (12 beers) was actually an animal, and in this case, some sort of wild cat (puma, mountain lion etc..) I would go out onto the deck where the beer was kept cold in the freezing temperatures and pretend to approach the Schmitt's Animal Pack with extreme caution. After I eventually reached in to grab a beer I would pretend that the container was ferociously attacking my arm (I'm pretty decent at imitating the hiss and growl of a wild-cat) which resulted in a sort of seizure-like dance that ended in me pretending to be shook up by the savage encounter. I would then return satsfied to the living room of the hotel to the wild laughter of Grant and the other occupants.
At first I thought it interesting that these be the events that most stick out in my mind from the trip, but then I realized it wasn't all that weird considering I couldn't really go out ( mostly because Courtney doesn't go out and the other kids weren't yet 19) and thus was fairly bored for the majority of the trip. In fact, Grant and I eventually decided that Whistler sucked and ended up taking the Greyhound back to Seattle because Courtney and her friend Kelsey wanted to stay an extra day to pursue some boyz they had met.
I realize these previous 3 paragraphs may have sucked, but bear with me, I'm only on Kokanee "one" (by the way I'm listening to the song Crimson and Clover by Tommy James and the Shondells and it is amazing).
Beer Two
I now have to choose what song to play next, and one track in particular is jumping out at me: King's Crossing by singer/songwriter Elliott Smith. This song reminds me of a girl named Mara who I kind of (kind of) dated while visiting Barry Sevig in Costa Rica. It is the most significant thing I took from my relationship with her, probably because a) our relationship wasn't that significant (Mara you probably won't read this but if you do please don't firebomb my house) and b) the song is fucking amazing. We listened to it several times while in a Toyota Yaris in the Caribbean town of Puerto Viejo whilst huge, disgusting land crabs skittered along beneath our feet, an experience that was nothing short of unique. The song is most notable for its intro which is am amazing crescendo that culminates in Smith's wonderful lyrics, "...she told me whiskey works better than beer."
And now I am torn between writing about two things: 1) The fact that I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I learned that Elliott Smith had committed suicide by stabbing himself (twice!) in the heart and 2) How visiting Barry and White Mike (accompanied by Yager) was probably the greatest month of my life.
So I will try to compromise and write briefly about both. As for the death of Elliott Smith: I was in the atrium of a building at Arizona State in which I had Spanish class with my friend Kevin (one of the smarter, funnier people alive), doing homework when Kevin approached me and informed me of the LA natives untimely suicide stabbing death. (I must mention here that I still remember the name of our Spanish teacher. Her name was Rita Massa and for me at the time she was quite possibly the sexiest woman that existed. Weirdly enough, her sexiness ceased to exist when she spoke (albeit rarely) in English. Then she just kind of looked like a nerd with oversized nostrils). SO, given my current state, I was disturbed by the information but mostly just focused on dreaming up a way to have sex with my aforementioned Spanish teacher.
As for the greatest month of my life in Costa Rica, well, it was the greatest month of my life. Yager and I were visiting Barry, Mike, Hunter, and friends, who lived in one of the nicest houses in the town (Puntarenas). We surfed pretty much every day and when we weren't surfing we were usually drinking Cuba Libre (rum and coke in a can!) and smoking Delta Rojos by the fistful (Bryson). There is nothing that compliments a warm Costa Rican breeze like a cold beverage and a dirt-cheap cigarette.
Beer Three
Well here we are at Beer Three and I can already feel it. Why? I'll tell you why: Because I have the tolerance of a 4 year-old girl. At this point the Kokanee doesn't really taste like anything (not that it did in the first place). I am looking around my apartment in hopes of finding something inspirational to write about, only to realize the that my apartment is (mildly) depressing and (completely) uninspirational. The thing that bugs me about my apartment's decor is that there is no real "theme" (I'm light-years away from even thinking about fung-shuei). There is a map of Mexico, 2 paintings given to me by Barry, an Adam Brody poster, some random pieces of paper with Japanese writing, some pictures ripped out of Stuff magazine, and a poster stolen from Earl's on the AVE advertising one of their deadly concoctions (The "Alabama Slamma" (Thursdays)). The counter is strewn with empty beer bottles, some dirty cups, a cutting board that has chocolate all over it (I was cutting up a Power Bar with the intent of feeding it to the baby bird that I heroically saved a few entries back), and a bottle of Vitamin B-12 (Carrera your rad).
So there you have it. Not much to write about eh? I guess its time to find a new song to play and also take my first bathroom break (incidentally the size of my bladder pales in comparison to that of the 4 year-old girl, who can (coincidentally) out-drink me ). The song I have chosen is "The Way We Get By" by Spoon, which in addition to accompanying a really cool Jason Dill part in the Habitat skateboard video, is also probably the greatest song ever made.
Beer Four
I'm giddy right now. To reflect my giddyness I have chosen to play the song "Bizarre Love Triangle" performed by Commercial Breakup (seriously so good). I'm giddy because somewhere during the end of Beer Three I was struck by the outlandish idea of sending this blog entry into Chuck Klosterman. But that is not all. Not only will I send this blog entry to Chuck Klosterman, but I will send him it with a petition asking him to fly me out to New York City for the weekend of July 27-29. I will ask to meet him, proclaiming that I am one of his biggest fans (true statement), saying that I would love to meet him and possibly have a beer with him and maybe go to some kind of uber-cool Esquire party with him and also I could hang out with one of my best friends Scott Leslie, who is an investment banker for Credit-Suisse and has an apartment in downtown Manhattan and whom I have wanted to visit ever since he started working there but have never really had the time or the money. (both statements somewhat untrue but what is true is that I really want to visit him, and that I have never been to New York City besides the airport) The hard part, undoubtedly, will be getting Chuck Klosterman to read it. I assume he gets letters pretty regularly from crazy (crazy in the "I love that guy, he's crazy" sense of the word, of course) people like myself with terrifying regularity. But if he reads it and somehow decides on a whim to fly me out there It would be the coolest thing ever (this last sentence is painful but it might just be my overactive bladder). So, Chuck, if you've gotten this far. Please. Fly me out there. I'd do it myself but I honestly don't have enough money because I'm planning on taking an 8 month trip to Central and South america over land and attempting to write my first book about it. I am asking for a handout. Somewhat. I will not deny that. If a little blatant flattery at the end would help here, the part in Killing Yourself to Live where you describe your first bad drug experience and subsequently having to "piss like a diplodocus" is the greatest thing I have ever read. See you soon!!!!!!!
p.s. im done drinking. sorry. 4 beers coupled with fatigue has me feeling extremely tired. I know i am incredibly ifeminate. Night.
p.s.s. The last song I am listening to in this whole charade is "Caring is Creepy" by The Shins. This is their best song ever and at the risk of sounding extremely trite (I have no idea what that word means) I am playing it because caring actually is creepy. I have to go to the bathroom.
-Boosh Clown
So this is what I'm going to do. I'm going to sit in my mini-studio (which is tiny but does have a fairly spacious deck with a beautiful view of downtown Seattle) and drink the Kokanee brand beer that is in my fridge. And listen to music. Annnnd, assuming your eyes continue to move down this page and absorb the words, describe the experience. So now I will head to my fridge (which is also "mini") and extract the first cold bottle of Kokanee. Time to tap the Canadian Rockies.
Beer One
The first sip was oddly satisfying. In the past I have only usually drank Kokanee while in Canada, which usually means Whistler. The first sip reminded me of Whistler, specifically the time I traveled there with Courtney McFarlane, Grant Leslie, and a bunch of other high school kids that were about two years younger than me. Being a college kid that had just returned from Arizona State I was treated by these high school kids like a minor (I cannot overemphasize the word "minor" here) celebrity, which resulted in me 1) feeling very old but strangely confident and 2) having my jokes laughed at far too profusely by kids that were too fucked-up to question why a kid two years their senior didn't have friends his own age to hang out with. I remember doing one thing in particular that triggered outbursts of ravenous glee from Grant and the other kids rather effectively, and that thing was me pretending like the Schmitt's Animal Pack (12 beers) was actually an animal, and in this case, some sort of wild cat (puma, mountain lion etc..) I would go out onto the deck where the beer was kept cold in the freezing temperatures and pretend to approach the Schmitt's Animal Pack with extreme caution. After I eventually reached in to grab a beer I would pretend that the container was ferociously attacking my arm (I'm pretty decent at imitating the hiss and growl of a wild-cat) which resulted in a sort of seizure-like dance that ended in me pretending to be shook up by the savage encounter. I would then return satsfied to the living room of the hotel to the wild laughter of Grant and the other occupants.
At first I thought it interesting that these be the events that most stick out in my mind from the trip, but then I realized it wasn't all that weird considering I couldn't really go out ( mostly because Courtney doesn't go out and the other kids weren't yet 19) and thus was fairly bored for the majority of the trip. In fact, Grant and I eventually decided that Whistler sucked and ended up taking the Greyhound back to Seattle because Courtney and her friend Kelsey wanted to stay an extra day to pursue some boyz they had met.
I realize these previous 3 paragraphs may have sucked, but bear with me, I'm only on Kokanee "one" (by the way I'm listening to the song Crimson and Clover by Tommy James and the Shondells and it is amazing).
Beer Two
I now have to choose what song to play next, and one track in particular is jumping out at me: King's Crossing by singer/songwriter Elliott Smith. This song reminds me of a girl named Mara who I kind of (kind of) dated while visiting Barry Sevig in Costa Rica. It is the most significant thing I took from my relationship with her, probably because a) our relationship wasn't that significant (Mara you probably won't read this but if you do please don't firebomb my house) and b) the song is fucking amazing. We listened to it several times while in a Toyota Yaris in the Caribbean town of Puerto Viejo whilst huge, disgusting land crabs skittered along beneath our feet, an experience that was nothing short of unique. The song is most notable for its intro which is am amazing crescendo that culminates in Smith's wonderful lyrics, "...she told me whiskey works better than beer."
And now I am torn between writing about two things: 1) The fact that I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I learned that Elliott Smith had committed suicide by stabbing himself (twice!) in the heart and 2) How visiting Barry and White Mike (accompanied by Yager) was probably the greatest month of my life.
So I will try to compromise and write briefly about both. As for the death of Elliott Smith: I was in the atrium of a building at Arizona State in which I had Spanish class with my friend Kevin (one of the smarter, funnier people alive), doing homework when Kevin approached me and informed me of the LA natives untimely suicide stabbing death. (I must mention here that I still remember the name of our Spanish teacher. Her name was Rita Massa and for me at the time she was quite possibly the sexiest woman that existed. Weirdly enough, her sexiness ceased to exist when she spoke (albeit rarely) in English. Then she just kind of looked like a nerd with oversized nostrils). SO, given my current state, I was disturbed by the information but mostly just focused on dreaming up a way to have sex with my aforementioned Spanish teacher.
As for the greatest month of my life in Costa Rica, well, it was the greatest month of my life. Yager and I were visiting Barry, Mike, Hunter, and friends, who lived in one of the nicest houses in the town (Puntarenas). We surfed pretty much every day and when we weren't surfing we were usually drinking Cuba Libre (rum and coke in a can!) and smoking Delta Rojos by the fistful (Bryson). There is nothing that compliments a warm Costa Rican breeze like a cold beverage and a dirt-cheap cigarette.
Beer Three
Well here we are at Beer Three and I can already feel it. Why? I'll tell you why: Because I have the tolerance of a 4 year-old girl. At this point the Kokanee doesn't really taste like anything (not that it did in the first place). I am looking around my apartment in hopes of finding something inspirational to write about, only to realize the that my apartment is (mildly) depressing and (completely) uninspirational. The thing that bugs me about my apartment's decor is that there is no real "theme" (I'm light-years away from even thinking about fung-shuei). There is a map of Mexico, 2 paintings given to me by Barry, an Adam Brody poster, some random pieces of paper with Japanese writing, some pictures ripped out of Stuff magazine, and a poster stolen from Earl's on the AVE advertising one of their deadly concoctions (The "Alabama Slamma" (Thursdays)). The counter is strewn with empty beer bottles, some dirty cups, a cutting board that has chocolate all over it (I was cutting up a Power Bar with the intent of feeding it to the baby bird that I heroically saved a few entries back), and a bottle of Vitamin B-12 (Carrera your rad).
So there you have it. Not much to write about eh? I guess its time to find a new song to play and also take my first bathroom break (incidentally the size of my bladder pales in comparison to that of the 4 year-old girl, who can (coincidentally) out-drink me ). The song I have chosen is "The Way We Get By" by Spoon, which in addition to accompanying a really cool Jason Dill part in the Habitat skateboard video, is also probably the greatest song ever made.
Beer Four
I'm giddy right now. To reflect my giddyness I have chosen to play the song "Bizarre Love Triangle" performed by Commercial Breakup (seriously so good). I'm giddy because somewhere during the end of Beer Three I was struck by the outlandish idea of sending this blog entry into Chuck Klosterman. But that is not all. Not only will I send this blog entry to Chuck Klosterman, but I will send him it with a petition asking him to fly me out to New York City for the weekend of July 27-29. I will ask to meet him, proclaiming that I am one of his biggest fans (true statement), saying that I would love to meet him and possibly have a beer with him and maybe go to some kind of uber-cool Esquire party with him and also I could hang out with one of my best friends Scott Leslie, who is an investment banker for Credit-Suisse and has an apartment in downtown Manhattan and whom I have wanted to visit ever since he started working there but have never really had the time or the money. (both statements somewhat untrue but what is true is that I really want to visit him, and that I have never been to New York City besides the airport) The hard part, undoubtedly, will be getting Chuck Klosterman to read it. I assume he gets letters pretty regularly from crazy (crazy in the "I love that guy, he's crazy" sense of the word, of course) people like myself with terrifying regularity. But if he reads it and somehow decides on a whim to fly me out there It would be the coolest thing ever (this last sentence is painful but it might just be my overactive bladder). So, Chuck, if you've gotten this far. Please. Fly me out there. I'd do it myself but I honestly don't have enough money because I'm planning on taking an 8 month trip to Central and South america over land and attempting to write my first book about it. I am asking for a handout. Somewhat. I will not deny that. If a little blatant flattery at the end would help here, the part in Killing Yourself to Live where you describe your first bad drug experience and subsequently having to "piss like a diplodocus" is the greatest thing I have ever read. See you soon!!!!!!!
p.s. im done drinking. sorry. 4 beers coupled with fatigue has me feeling extremely tired. I know i am incredibly ifeminate. Night.
p.s.s. The last song I am listening to in this whole charade is "Caring is Creepy" by The Shins. This is their best song ever and at the risk of sounding extremely trite (I have no idea what that word means) I am playing it because caring actually is creepy. I have to go to the bathroom.
-Boosh Clown
Friday, July 13, 2007
Mark Wetzler, 23, "Sit down and shuttle up," Dies.
Yesterday was a sad day for family and friends of Mark Thomas Wetzler, who died at work after allegedly driving his car off of Seattle's University Bridge into Portage Bay. Wetzler, a 4th year Spanish student at the University of Washington, was accompanied by Maud Hawkins, a 45 year-old homemaker who miraculously survived the accident with only a fractured tibia and minor head injuries. Maud, who wept throughout the interview, recalls the incident with amazing clarity: "We were coming down Eastlake Avenue and nearing the University Bridge, but it was being raised for a sail-boat so everyone was slowing down. The driver seemed like a very nice boy. We were just making idle chit-chat, but when I asked him what he was going to do with his Spanish major after college he got a really strange glint in his eye and said, "'Maud, I'm going to be a race car driver.'" What happened next, according to Hawkins, was absolutely terrifying. Wetzler apparently slammed on the accelerator and headed for the rising bridge at speeds reaching upwards of 70 miles per hour. "I was screaming," Hawkins recalls, "but the shuttle driver looked very calm, almost tranquil." In an act that still baffles authorities, Wetzler apparently then reached for the 2002 Eurovan's cigarette lighter and lit his hair on fire. "It was horrible," says Hawkins, "this boy was obviously sick." Hawkins, a Renton native, was using the shuttle service of University Volkswagen/Audi to get home after dropping off her car for a routine 50,000 mile check-up. She had no idea the seemingly swift 15 minute commute to a friend's house on Capitol Hill was about to turn into a nightmare. "I closed my eyes as we broke through the gate and hit the ramp of the bridge. I thought, 'This is it. I am going to die.' Then I looked over at the shuttle driver. His hair was still on fire and he had ripped his shirt off. He was beating his chest like an ape and screaming, "'I'm not crazy. You're crazy.' It was awful."
A memorial service for family and friends to remember the late shuttle driver will be held next Tuesday at Earl's on the AVE.
A memorial service for family and friends to remember the late shuttle driver will be held next Tuesday at Earl's on the AVE.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Hades
I killed a baby bird the other day. I didn't mean to, and in my defense it would have died anyway having strayed so far from the nest at such a young age, but me sort of stepping on it might have helped speed up the process. Various people have told me that I will be attacked by birds in the next few days, especially since the mother bird watched the whole series of events unfold from the adjacent window sill. The worst part is: she didn't scold me or scream at me. She just stared at me with the kind of cold disappointment that can only come from the steely eye of a female Northern Rough-winged Swallow that has just seen one of her offspring trampled by an irresponsible college student that just wanted to sit close to the window so he could steal internet from the coffee shop below. I will never forget the look in her eye.
So that is why I am going to hell aka why it is going to be 120 degrees in Seattle today. Apparently God and the bird community is taking vengeance not only on me, but on the entire Emerald City. If you can go to the beach today it is strongly advised that you do so. If you are over the age of 75 it is strongly advised that you do not. Good luck!
- Boosh Clown
p.s. A reader has brought to my attention that I have left out a very troubling part of the whole "baby bird homicide", and that part is this: after realizing that I had sort of stepped on the bird and leaped up screaming when I felt it squirming I was forced complete the undesirable task of somehow putting this wild animal out of its misery. I went back to my apartment, grabbed some toilet paper, came back and smothered the bird. Then I put it in a Safeway grocery bag, and into my trash. Then I went out drinking. Upon coming back and before going to sleep, I went downstairs to empty the trash, for fear of sleeping with baby bird soul in my room. I am not a criminal.
Song of the Day: Living on Video by Trans X
So that is why I am going to hell aka why it is going to be 120 degrees in Seattle today. Apparently God and the bird community is taking vengeance not only on me, but on the entire Emerald City. If you can go to the beach today it is strongly advised that you do so. If you are over the age of 75 it is strongly advised that you do not. Good luck!
- Boosh Clown
p.s. A reader has brought to my attention that I have left out a very troubling part of the whole "baby bird homicide", and that part is this: after realizing that I had sort of stepped on the bird and leaped up screaming when I felt it squirming I was forced complete the undesirable task of somehow putting this wild animal out of its misery. I went back to my apartment, grabbed some toilet paper, came back and smothered the bird. Then I put it in a Safeway grocery bag, and into my trash. Then I went out drinking. Upon coming back and before going to sleep, I went downstairs to empty the trash, for fear of sleeping with baby bird soul in my room. I am not a criminal.
Song of the Day: Living on Video by Trans X
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