Nerdier Than Usual

"It's so stupid. First of all, how do they understand that walking bear they hang around with all the time? It goes '*GRROWWW*' and they're all like 'That's a good point, Bear. Let's try that.'"

- a review of Star Wars from How I Met Your Mother

"Go away. I can't pollinate with you looking at me."

Last weekend was Comic Con, which means that lots of people dressed up as sexy anthropomorphic animals, listened to nerdcore, and watched the trailer for the new Spiderman reboot. The first-person sequence at the end is pretty sweet, right? Well, the world has seen something like that before. In a video game. Mirror's Edge came out in 2008 and presented revolutionary gameplay coupled with gorgeous effects. You play a courrier, running across rooftops parkour-style, delivering illegal goods. Check this out:

I think it's awesome that there's this kind of cinematic cross-over happening with experiential storytelling. Immersive 3D movies like Avatar and the fluid storytelling and cinematic gameplay in video games like Unchartered represent a convergence of media, moving towards virtual reality. It's exciting to watch it happening from both ends and I think too many people refuse to acknowledge that video games are carrying the greater load. In terms of the development of complex, interactive storytelling, games like Mass Effect (which will use vocal cues by the player to steer dialogue) and L.A. Noir (a detective game in which the player must interpret the subtle facial expressions of suspects) are pushing boundaries faster than POV web-slinging. That said, I've never felt anything onscreen as viscerally as Jake in his avatar taking flight for the first time— and I know kung fu.

I said I was writing a song about thunderstorms (one word; look it up!) and I did. I know I posted it to Facebook, meaning you've already had a chance to listen to it, but I'm posting it here for archival purposes. With a little discipline, I should have a more polished version of this and all my other songs up soon.

Summer Thunderstorm by Good for Hummingbirds

Sailing Trains

"She wants to be the center of attention, which is impossible around me because I'm so articulate and funny."
- Bonnie, a sassy hipster friend, sizing up her competition

Here's a riddle: Two young men were on a zip line tour with me today. They looked almost identical. They said they weren't twins, neither identical nor fraternal, but they were brothers born to the same mother and of the same father on the same day. They were born one minute apart. But they weren't twins. So what gives? Here's a BIG hint. They had the rest of us stumped for 20 minutes before they spilled the beans.

Got some disappointing news today. An affaire de couer, as per uzh. You know that feeling when you're leaving the house and you're sure you've forgotten something, but you don't know what?  Like, it wasn't a problem because you were in the house with the thing, but now you're leaving and suddenly it's your last chance. You don't need it, which is why you can't remember what it is, but you know you might and kills you to think you'll be caught unprepared. Like it was something that could have been taken care of— a packed lunch, an overdue book, a special key— but now you're walking out the door and it hasn't been and now it's too late. And, really, what I'm talking about is that moment after you've closed the door, as you're walking to your car bike, when you're waiting for the thing to pop back into your head (always, of course, of it's own volition) and you want to know if it'll be important enough to go back for. Will it be worth being late to work because this nameless thing on the edge of your consciousness is so critical that you're doomed without it? Every second spent continuing to leave grows more excruciating because you know there's something. You're poised, on edge— ready to spring back up the stairs the moment it clicks... but it's hopeless. The thought won't come because there was never anything to remember. All that's left is the sinking fear of a missed opportunity. Well, I had a moment like that the other day getting on train. I just remembered what I forgot.

Someone is going to have to tell me if the new Death Cab for Cutie album is good or bad, or if they've sold out or come back, or what. I've listened to it twice and I don't know what's going on. I think I'm thinking of the Postal Service. Anyway, I kind of like it, which is probably a bad sign for them.

Positive Mental Attitude

"The world is way too small to feel like nothing"

- "Trashcan" by Delta Spirit

It's fucking monsoon season out here. It's 80 degrees at noon, dumps rain from 3 to 7, clears for a gorgeous sunset, then dumps from midnight to 4. I'm writing a song about it.

For all the hardcore bums out here, I've met a few Davis-quality people. One of them is a warm-hearted, Chaco-wearing, queer girl who works for Adaptive Sports (the adventure Non-Profit for disabled bad-asses). She actually hugs me when we say hello and goodbye. No one fucking hugs anybody around here. It's tragic. I was having a shitty day and she gave me a hug and now I feel better. I thanked her again via text just now: "Thanks for the hug. It meant a lot." and she texts back "You mean a lot." And it hit me. Goddamn, I miss physical contact. I'm stoked to be headed back to a place where hugs are like handshakes and handshakes are like rain on your wedding day.

(Speaking of irony) Discussion topic of the day: Is Hipsterporn actually porn? (NSFW, unless you're killing time at your Portland bike kitchen shift, in which case go for it.) Is it, in fact, a social commentary on modern sexuality and media? Is it Art if it's not generating income because everyone's coke habits are already fully supported by trust funds? Or is it just porn for people who find Playboy too mainstream?

Reblogged from FenestraVitae 
(who has more suggested reading for hipsterporn enthusiasts in the comments section)

I've been giving a lot of high-fives, but no one seems as interested in leveraging their thund'rous power for enthusiasm and camaraderie as I do. My boss gave me one once out of acute gratitude, but he did it the way a Texan might say "grah-see-ahs" to a waiter at a mexican restaurant. Like, "This is how you show appreciation where you're from, right?" I'm amazed at how Californian— how socially frivolous and ideologically irresponsible— I feel out here.

LISTEN. You'll be happy you did.

Hwirlwind

"According to Peter, you should only ride the zip line if you're prepared to stare a tiger in the eyes and slap it in the face."
-Trippe, my coworker, after I suggested to a guest that the zip line required the same athletic ability as jumping off a trashcan

The Red Lady Quartet performs in a poorly lit room. (quality of photo is somewhat intentional)

Woah. Crazy busy 10 days:

I spent four 10-hour days training to be a Zip Line guide. It was super sketchy to be working out the kinks in the 5-zip course as we learned how to navigate it and guide people through. The longest zip is 400 ft. long and you clock in at 30 mph. It's safe (...now). Basically, I have to catch people as they come in to land without getting knocked off a platform 40 ft. off the ground. I'm tied in on a safety rope, but still.

The 4th of July is a mad house here. Like Picnic Day, things go from mellow to absolute pande-fucking-monium for a day and a half. Crowds of clueless goobers— tourists— (supercomma!) flood the town and throw money around. Friends made $200 busking with a banjo and mandolin on Sunday and Monday. All the locals work double shifts and party the night before instead.

Danica's family visited for the weekend so I went couch surfing to give them their space. On the third day of being out of the house, I came in to the coffee shop to hang out before going to work on the mountain and Arvin informed me that I wasn't "clicking" at the shop and that it would be best if I just worked full time at the Zip Line. I'll rephrase that in case it was too passively worded: they fired me. I'm fired from the coffee shop I came back to CB to work at. To be fair, I was showing up late and asking for days off to work more on the mountain (they're short-staffed and it pays better). I've gleaned that this lead Danica to question my "loyalty and attention to detail". That's like having Stephen Colbert question your Patriotism. But it is for the best. I'm super happy as a guide and I wasn't stoked on my coffee shop shifts. I served coffee for 2 hours, did nothing for 4, then cleaned for 2. I will totally admit to not being a good janitor. So fuck it. Don't tell anybody, but I'm looking at coming home a smidge early. There's a change in the wind and it's blowing West.

For now, the Zip Line gig is fucking awesome. I lead three trips over the course of each day and the last big zip always gets my adrenalin up. Catching people, especially kids who barely make it, is exhilarating. The daily rush has definitely upped my mood and makes me giddy in the evenings. It might be addicting, we'll see. I'm making good money and I've got great coworkers. It's a blast and I love it, but work isn't everything and I'm feeling a little thin in every other department, if only for a lack of free time. I'm going on a wildflower hike on Tuesday (with a girl!), so we'll see how that goes.

Also, I know that Deathly Hallows pt. 2 is coming out and we're all excited or whatever but, Jesus people, pull yourselves together!

The Essence of Style

"I like my coffee the way I like my women— sweet and complicated."
- Me, inadvertently christening my new specialty drink, the Sweet and Complicated. A triple-shot soy mochachino with a shot of hazelnut and whipped cream suspended in the foam and dusted with cinnamon.

Chains (and bottom brackets) are for wussies.

I've been keeping track of this blog's traffic and it seems that people aren't clicking on the links I sprinkle around. Some of them are just for reference, but some of them are there to make you chuckle. I'll tell you what I'm gonna do: I'll just underline the referential links, but I'll leave the entertaining links highlighted turquoise (which I encourage you to click on because you never know what you might find).


Last weekend I participated in a fundraising event for Adaptive Sports, a local guide company for the handicapped. Bridges of the Butte is a 24-hour bike marathon where teams sponsored by local businesses make as many 2.4-mile laps around town as they can from 3pm Saturday to 3pm Sunday. Through my connections at the bike co-op, I was invited to join Team Space Camp. This Burning Man-style crew of hippies has historically completed the most laps of any team between 10pm and 6am. Despite being in the middle of four days of Zip Line Guide training, I rose to the occasion and got swept up in the team spirit. Using tinfoil and cardboard, I built Arvin's cruiser into a spaceship complete with rockets— tragically simplistic compared to the flagship recumbent light-bike that flickered like a neon cocoon when its bell rang. The event proved to be the psychedelic, nocturnal cousin of the Tour de Davis.


My favorite punctuation mark is the em dash: "—". It turns out— when using the em dash as I do— it can be called a super comma. Super Comma is totally the name of my nu-metal indietronica jam band.

What a Wonderful Phrase

"Women in Crested Butte are like parking spaces; they're either taken, handicapped, or way-the-fuck out there."
- on the bathroom wall of the Eldo bar

Something for everyone... except illiterate rednecks.

I really like the movie The Rocketeer. It's one of those movies I saw as a kid back when watching a movie and all of its sequels overandover again endlessly all weekend was deeply comforting (there was always that hope that the 100th playthrough would reveal some new scene or missed joke). This repetition, at such an early age, meant that any lines of dialogue that were beyond my understanding were nevertheless memorized permanently, if only phonetically. So it was with the original Star Wars trilogy, which means that phrases like "hive of scum and villainy" and "Chespo kutata kreesta krenko, nyakoska!" are in my head at the same depth as "hakuna matata" might be for someone else. Ultimately, this leaves me with the ability to quote the gibberish on screen, which some people* mistake for actually speaking a fake language. Anyway, the Rocketeer and Star Wars. Great movies, great characters, great crossover:

This is the beat poetry of my generation. I'm sure you've seen this, but take a moment and consider this medium as art— poignant snapshots of a culture. Breathtaking.

So I have this game that I play that I thought everybody played, but I guess not. It goes like this: somebody speaks a phrase in the course of a conversation that, in context, is unremarkable, but taken on its own has an enigmatic poetry to it. The challenge is to notice these phrases, determine if the phrase is the name of a band, a song title, or an album title, and then assign to it the appropriate genre of music. For example, I was joking with a friend about being fated to work in a cubicle and she said something about having a cube-shaped soul. I then stopped the conversation to announce that "Cube-Shaped Soul" is totally the name of the debut album of my neo-new wave folk shoegaze band. "Thunder and Lightning and Jazz" is totally the name of my post-mariachi prog rock band. And so on. Can you guess my all-time favorite phrase to have been plucked from a conversation?

*I was kind of seeing this girl. We watched Jedi with some friends and I knew Jabba's lines. She thought I could speak Jabbanese or whatever and gave me shit for it for days. E chu ta, what a stoopa!

Missed Connection

You: Gorgeous, dramatic features. Lush, grand curves with steep, fun lines.
Me: Just a stranger passing through.
We crossed paths this past winter and I find myself in your area again. I've tried to make myself approachable, hoping you would notice me, but I guess I can't keep up. I just want to share an adventure or two and I thought you would be more inviting now that you're dressed for summer, all flirty and flowery. It's clear now that I'm not going to catch your attention unless I get more aggressive. I know I'm just one of a hundred dudes trying to have a little fun, but could you give me a sign before it's too late?

There are a lot of Christian summer camps in this part of the Rockies and, on the days between camps, the guides all come into the coffee shop to get their Facebook fix and load up on mochas and pastries. I've asked these kids about their programs and they keep it pretty vague (lots of knowing looks and pregnant pauses). There seems to be this expectation that I know what goes on out there ...and maybe nothing really goes on. Maybe they hike and camp and climb and pray and that's the end of it. I wonder if people react the same way when I say I've lived in a co-op. I know what that entails, but I guess I've never had anyone really ask me for details. Have you heard the word of Kord?

So it turns out that shopping on Zappos.com has given me key work experience for my shipping and receiving job. I can pack up and tape boxes, and print and attach UPS labels like a pro. Scott Frye would be proud.

Theme song for the summer: