Personal Pieces postsMonday August 20, 2012
My Weekend in iPhotos
After work Friday I walked from my office in lower Queen Anne to the new ferris wheel along the Seattle waterfront, envisioned by Hal Griffith, called “the Seattle Great Wheel,” and recently opened for business. Patricia wanted to ride on it for her birthday, which was over a month ago, but it took this long to get a Friday all her friends could attend.
On the way, I encountered more people than I'd anticipated. Lower Queen Anne, Belltown, the waterfront: they were everywhere. They were also ... how shall I say this? ... really stupid-looking. One woman in a bikini was topless. Most eyes were glazed. I assumed a concert was going on so I asked one of the passersby what the what. “Hempfest, dude,” I was told and he encouraged me to come along. It was a spirited crowd. But man did they look dumb. Not the best advertisement for their product. The Associated Press has a good article on the Hempfest crowds, some of whom, believe it or not, are against legalizing marijuana via I-502. I'm in favor of it—the crowds I encountered notwithstanding.
Finally I arrived. P was already there, with surreptitious margaritas, and we were soon joined by her brother and sister-in-law, Alex and Jayne, her brother Jack, his significant other, Tess, along with friends Laura, Paige, Vinny and Ward.
I was actually nervous about the Ferris Wheel. It goes way up and I'm kinda afraid of heights.
It turned out to be completely enclosed and incredibly smooth, and it was a beautiful night for a ride and a view. We had to split up—the max is eight to a compartment, and we had 10—and our group of five (Alex, Jayne, Patricia, Ward, me) enjoyed ourselves, although some thought that along with a HELP button (a red button on the top of the comparment) there should be some kind of ADULT BEVERAGE button. To better toast the city. And ourselves.
Ward and Patricia talking adult beverages.
Alex in his element.
The southern view: Smith Tower, stadia, Rainier, the Bainbridge ferry.
Then we went to Green Leaf in the ID for dinner—the place that is fast becoming my favorite restaurant in Seattle:
The next day, P, Alex, Jayne and I hiked Annette Lake. I did it last year and remember it being a breeze. This year was a little tougher. But it's been a tough year.
That night, my friend Tim and I took in a game at Safeco. The M's won their fourth in a row, 3-2, on a sac fly in the bottom of the ninth. Mid-game I bought some Ivar's fish-n-chips and a beer and realized that it cost the same as my portion of the fantastic meal at Green Leaf.
Sunday, as is the tradition, I rested.
How was your weekend?
AARP Card Minus One
I'm 49. I've run out of room. I'm bumping my head against it. But maybe these minstrels will soothe my jangled nerves.
All week long Seattle has been celebrating with an extra coat of frosting on the city. It's nice what they'll do to make a Minneapolis boy feel at home, but it is beginning to feel a bit like the relatives who overstay their welcome: Initial joy followed by fun followed by “Oh yeah, this” followed by “Really?” followed by “Seriously, dudes.”
Here's to joy and fun.
Seattle University, Sunday, January 15, 2012
Karl Show! (Starring Jason), with Special Guest ... Me
A friend of mine from bookstore days, Jason Lamb, hosts a radio show Friday nights in Portland called “Karl Show! (Starring Jason)”—great name—and Jason, and Karl, were nice enough to invite me on a few Fridays back to talk about movies, reviewing movies, specific movies (mostly “Tree of Life” and “Ides of March”), along with a few excursions into bookstore days. We also listened to music that I provided, including Steve Earle, Pearl Jam, Decemberists, Van Morrison and the Tropicals. (Somehow we never got around to Joe Henry. Bummer.)
The episode is now up on their site. Feel free to listen here.
There's talk about having me back at Oscar time, which would be fun.
The drawing below is one of the few images I have of Jason. It was done by our mutual friend Scott Tolson, who died in 2003. “Lucky Bastard Club,” I believe, was a book coming through the bookstore warehouse, which we unboxed for the store, or boxed to return to the publisher, and the title inspired Scott, who created his own club. Of us. I'm Lungs. Jason is Angry the Kid. Mr. B comments on the site frequently. Tea Time still hasn't been found.
Dreams: Don't Present at the Academy Awards with your Shirt Untucked
A dream last night. Freudians, start your engines.
I was in a conclave of tables off to the side at an awards ceremony—backstage yet onstage—and was about to announce one of the awards. Was Ben Stiller there somewhere? I wasn't thinking anything of the task, figured it would be a breeze, but when I stood up I had problems with the flap of my fly—it was turning out, exposing the metal teeth—and trying to fix it I wound up pulling out my tucked-in shirt, even as I was being pulled toward the stage. Introductory music was playing and I was walking with Patricia and my name was announced in grand fashion. It was the Academy Awards and I was walking onstage with my white dress shirt untucked and slightly wrinkled. Would that look cool? Wouldn't that look...disrespectful? Worse, I couldn't remember what award I was presenting. What was it again? And where were my glasses? I couldn't read the cue cards! I whispered all this to Patricia in a panic and she calmed me and said we would get through it, but the walk to the lectern seemed to take so long that by the time we arrived we felt we were behind. The music stopped and everyone waited and I glanced hurriedly over the lectern, which was electronic, flashing different kinds of data, including something in the upper right corner about ... was that the award?
“And now, the award for ... ” I stumbled. “...sexiest...”
“... new male lead,” Patricia finished.
There was silence. It seemed wrong, what I'd said, but I clutched onto the hope that it was right. Then a film clip started, an older woman being interviewed about a tragic event, possibly the Holocaust, and it was over and we were backstage and I'd been wrong, and I was trying to both justify myself and sort through the enormity of just how wrong I'd been.
Someone else's Oscar nightmare.
The Steve Jobs Speech; the Kurt Vonnegut Lesson
Steve Jobs' 2005 commencement address at Stanford University spread pretty fast around the Internet yesterday—the day after his death. My friend Jim posted it to Facebook in the morning, I put it on this blog shortly thereafter, beating Andrew Sullivan to the punch by a few hours. Wil Wheaton blogged about the same portion of the speech I did. Other friends on Facebook posted their favorite moments. Good for them. It's a worthy speech.
Jobs talks about dropping out of college and following his dream. Among the things he says is this:
Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it.
He also says this:
When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: “If you live each day as if it was your last, someday you'll most certainly be right.” It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: “If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?” And whenever the answer has been “No” for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.
Words of wisdom. At the same time, I felt slightly guilty hearing them. I certainly like doing what I'm doing—writing and editing what I write and edit—but it's not necessarily what I'd be doing if it were the last day of my life. So, listening to Jobs' speech yesterday morning, some part of me thought, “I wish I hadn't settled. I wish I'd been like Steve Jobs and followed my dream so that I could love what I did.”
It took a few hours before the other shoe dropped: “Wait a minute. I did follow my dream. I just failed at it.”
I wanted to be a writer of fiction. In the early 1990s I quit grad school and got a job at a Seattle bookstore, first as a cashier then in its warehouse, and did this for several years to support myself, while, with what free time I had, I wrote short stories, novellas, attempts at novels. None of it ever panned out. I could line the walls of my office with the rejection notices I received. Most were form rejections, but every once in a while I'd get an encouraging, personal rejection notice—once even from The New Yorker—saying that while the story I'd sent was good, it didn't fit in with their current plans, etc., etc., but please send something else. But the subsequent stories were never good enough, either. For a time, I even considered writing a story called “Something Else.” You wanted something else? Here it is.
So I failed. I think I failed for several reasons. One, my goals were high. Two, my talent was limited. And three, I was attempting to prosper in a dying industry.
By the early 1990s, few general interest magazines published short stories. There were certainly literary quarterlies everywhere, associated with universities, but the stuff I wrote was a bit too general, or silly, or straightfoward for this crowd. I wasn't doing anything new with language or form. I was just telling my stories with my minimal talent.
In 1999, several years after I stopped writing fiction (without really realizing it), I head the pleasure of interviewing Kurt Vonnegut for The Seattle Times. Vonnegut had just released “Bagombo Snuff Box: Uncollected Short Fiction,” his short stories from the late 1940s and '50s, and we talked about his early literary career. In a foreword to “Bagombo,” he writes about TV killing the short story culture that allowed him to flourish and become the novelist he became, and I asked whether he had foreseen this. This was his answer:
You saw TV coming in almost like a stormfront. Suddenly everyone was buying TVs, and the entertainment was on quite a high level, too. TV was a much better buy for advertisers than the magazines. The magazines had been very rich at one time, because they were the way to get ads inside a person's front door.
[But] what TV does, which we ink-and-paper people could never do, is give people artificial friends and relatives. Right inside the house. ... Peter Jennings really is a relative, and a charming one. Please come into my home any time, Peter.
The culture I needed to flourish, in other words, died before I was even born.
I mention all of this in case anyone else felt guilty listening to Steve Jobs' 2005 commencement address. Steve Jobs didn't settle. He did what he loved. Every morning in the mirror he asked himself, “If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?” And he usually answered “Yes.”
Steve Jobs was talented, and tough, and he took the road less traveled. But he was also very, very lucky. The thing he loved to do was just beginning.