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