Thursday, December 31, 2009


1- Improve father skills.

2- Depression will not get me.

3- Less talk, more rock.

4- Air out the Colnago.

5- More poetry, less yelling.

6- Air out The Wife.

7- Neck tattoos.

8- Pushups.

9- Mixtapes.

10- I will do better.

Do you have things that you'd you'd like to work on?

Will you tell me about them?

I'm listening to you.


Thursday, December 24, 2009

Sunday, December 20, 2009

Pig Sunday

Keep your football. We makin' bacon. And prosciutto. And loin. And shoulder, butt, and a metric shit ton of sausage.

One of the perks of working in the restaurant business is having access to a proper kitchen, and to the purveyors who can supply you with the goods.

"Cooper" was a beauty. Killed and delivered thursday, and broken down today. 2 inches of fatback and two 24-pound hams. The knives were sharp and we drank some pretty good tempranillo.

Spirits were light. I like to meet my food. I like it a lot.




Thursday, December 17, 2009

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

The Selvedge Yard.


Sunday, December 13, 2009

New Koan

Here Now

Now and again
I am here now
And now is when
I'm here again

Samuel Menashe

Stolen from POETRY magazine. September, 2009.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

Rest Easy, Jack Rose.

There were a lot of cold days where we used to live. I like to think that I remember the two dogwood trees on the shady side of the house and the bees in the quince. But I don't really.

When I think about it hard, there's only January. Sitting with the Ashley Book of Knots and waiting for my sons to come.

Jack Rose was there, too.

February 16, 1971-December 5, 2009


Thursday, December 10, 2009


From Antler



Whitman was a mansexual,
a womansexual,
A grasssexual, a treesexual,
a skysexual, an earthsexual.
Whitman was an oceansexual, a mountainsexual,
a cloudsexual, a prariesexual,
A birdsongsexual, a lilacsmellsexual,
a gallopinghorsesexual.
Whitman was a darknesssexual, a sleepersexual,
a sunrisesexual, a MilkyWaysexual,
A gentlebreezesexual, an openroadsexual,
a wildernesssexual, a democracysexual,
A drumtapssexual, a crossingbrooklynferrysexual,
a sands-at-seventy-sexual.
Whitman was a farewell-my-fancy-sexual,
a luckier-than-was-thought-sexual,
A deathsexual, a corpsewatchsexual,
a compostsexual, a poets-to-come-sexual,
A miracle-sexual, an immortalitysexual,
a cosmos-sexual, a waiting-for-you-sexual.


My friends and I are warning you not to get sucked in.


Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Cyclocross, 1976

This will be my last post of the cx season. Probably.

Oregon: Destroying it, olde timey style.

Monday, December 7, 2009

We're all damn cowboys too.

Hey Berg, Dan Reeder makes his own guitars. He doesn't shoot them first, but he does a pretty good job. You're going to like this.

Whiskey Soda Lounge: Post Mortem


We fucking killed it last night.

Andy Killed it. Nick killed it. Dave killed it. Lindsay killed it. Even the new kids killed it.

House full of Portland's restaurant glitterati, writers and critics, and urchins lured in by the promise of free Wassail.

Some screeching woman accused Gabe Rucker of stealing the credit cards out of her purse. "He's covered with tattoos!"

Yeah, he could also buy and sell you.

I'm in love with loving my job.

All three of them.

Sunday, December 6, 2009

Whiskey Soda

Starting another job today. I am so thankful that, contrary to the thousand other scenarios that I could envision for us this Christmas, I think that we'll have a warm house and full bellies this year.

Take nothing for granted, you.

We're all, every one of us, a misstep, mishap, missed opportunity away from landing right on our asses.

Or our feet. I guess it's all how you play it.

Also, I went and got a tattoo of a shark last night. Well, this morning, actually. But who's keeping track of the time?