Happy fun times continued

As I was saying...
Friday (was it Friday?), I went on a bike ride with this girl I'm aquainted with. It was a casual ride. The mode of transportation was a 60 pound steel cruiser tandem. Our seats were definately not set in the optimal position for efficient power generation. Nevertheless, we managed to turn the pedals over fast enough to find a comfortable yet physically stimulating cruising speed. After 3 short miles, I spotted a coffee shop that I had not yet experienced. ("Me Time Coffee") I decided that a chi tea break was in order. Considering that I had control over the steering component of the tandem, I made that decision for both passengers. Upon entering the establishment, I was instantly impressed by its decor and layout. The tea was worthy of consumption. My bud Jennifer especially enjoyed the periodicals on hand. I too found critiquing the fashion choices and faces of various celebrities highly entertaining. It would have been a perfectly enjoyable activity had it not been for the repeated interruptions of Oldy Olsen sitting across from us. The nerve of this guy! For some reason, he felt impelled to tell us all about his leg, which had recently started acting up, sending bolts of pain throughout his body, making walking long distances impossible. According to gramps, the leg was hit by shrapnel during some wild escapade in Europe at the time of the second World War. Poor, poor gramps! Alright, I'm being silly again. Honestly, I found the World War II vet charming, despite the old man neediness and tendency to ramble on about his life to complete strangers. While we didn't need it, the Rupert, Idaho native granted us yet another reminder of our own mortality in the form of pictures of his deceased wife, which he displayed from his wallet with pride and remorse. As I watched him get a bit teary eyed and shaky, I marveled at how well the man managed to stay alive---to keep such a sharp mind, stable body, and set of truly human emotions. No doubt, he is a hero to many who know him. I just wonder if he is a hero to me. Which is a topic for another time--how much of a normal, conservative life can I allow myself, and am I capable of finding self fullfillment in tradition, conformity, and mediocracy? As great as the old man is, and as full as his life has been, I just don't have much desire to live as he has lived. It seems as if his is a story that's been told a thousand times. As bad as it is to express such a sentiment, his life, to me, approaches something cliche. But the sentiment really has nothing to do with one old man. Its not personal. Its communicating what I've communicated a thousand times: some angst in response to the thought that I'm being led along a particular course in life by factors outside of my control--biology/genes, culture, family, government, religion, etc, etc. In sum, you might call it fate, of which, I am not a die hard believer. Atleast not in any divine sense. But the idea of an imperfect freedom and corrupted free will seems real enough, and bothers me enough from time to time, to draw out some feelings of defiance or rebellion. Blame my reaction on my Yankee blood, if you must (family originating from New England/England/beyond). Sometimes I think my ancestors had to have been in Boston heckling the Redcoats before all hell broke loose. (hmm,.. who rambles now??) So, surprise, surprise, what seems to be a critique of the normal life (the subject of the old man), is really a statement about myself. Like Jennifer, I have a tendency to be self centered in that my thoughts are usually my own, and, more often than not, they have to do with things which concern me.
ANYCOW, the nubile ninja and I left the coffee shop and took the next exit onto the greenbelt. With a stiff tail wind on our backs, we glided past the walls of Mordorf (she's going to kill me if I got that wrong), and arrived safely at the base of Lucky Peak dam, where we tasted wine and danish blue cheese. The temperature dropped with each grey snow cloud passing over our heads. The phenomenon became more frequent and the temperature dropped further as the minutes ticked ever closer to something like dinnertime. So, we straddled our steel stead, put our heads down, and pushed westward with visions of pasta and red sauce dancing in our heads.
And this was just a few hours on Friday.

not a damn thing funny

Steve Carell is talking in my right ear. He's saying some pretty funny things to John Stewart, but I'm not laughing. See, I'm unable to type a blog and watch my favorite TV show at the same time. Call me retarded or say that my priorities are all screwed up, I just sort of feel like writing right now.
Sorry Carell, its not personal.
So, this weekend. This weekend was-how do you say?-good. Friday morning I got enough things done to keep me from thinking about having to do things the whole rest of the weekend. That afternoon, I delivered an avocado n' tomatoe sandwhich to the office of this girl I know. She seemed to enjoy her lunch almost as much as I did. Providing for her was the least I could do, considering that she had visited my place of employment the day before, CrispyKreme donut in hand. By the way, I'm a huge fan of visits from people I care about while I'm at work. There's something about seeing a friendly (and beautiful) face in a place where friendly (and beautiful) faces are rarely seen that's just, well, cool. When it happens, its like recess or a field trip, atleast for a few minutes.
Wow...now I don't feel like writing. I'll continue later... Guess I should've watched the Daily Show.

zomething different

I have no idea what I'm about to write. Its more fun this way, I've decided. Keep it spontaneous. Off the cuff. Flowing. Like a freestyle rapper. Eminem' s got nothing on me. I mean it. He really doesn't. Except, for, perhaps, a few mill... So, other than everything that money can by, Eminem's got nothing on me.
Alright. How about this. Have you ever driven by a dingy restaurant and been strangly drawn to its smoke stained curtains and flickering neon placard? I could ask the same sort of question regarding dive bars or strange off-the-main-road hick towns. I suspect that this strange attraction to the dark side of the service industry, or white America in general, can be explained by the excitement that comes from the potential of discovery.
Let me explain. If you're like me, you might think of yourself as a member of an elite group. And, if your like me, you're right. This group is educated; has an interest in learning; appreciates art and music; has impecable taste regarding visual art, music, and fashion; is not saved by Jesus; did not vote for Bush; and doesn't have an American flag in its car window. I'm a member of this group, or species, if you will. We live in our own little elitist, enlightened world (either in the north end or down town). We surround ourselves with good art, good food, intelligent people, musicians, and quality alcoholic beverages. We live in tastefully dense, well-planned neighborhoods. Outside our neighborhoods and surrounding habitat (cities, wilderness), other creatures live and work. Being educated liberals, we understand that these other animals are human and, thus, not really THAT different from us (atleast we share 99% of our genetic code). Therefore, they deserve respect and equal treatment from our government. Still, we can't help but feel as if we exist a world apart. Every now and then, members of my species feel the need to embark upon daring adventures deep into the world of the "others." Many of us have heard tales about amazing ethnic food, antique hard wood booths in dimly lit bars, mom and pop hospitality, stunningly original recipies, and the so on all waiting to be discovered on the "other" side. There is nothing that pleases us more than the thought of discovering a quaint, downhome restaurant smack dab in the middle of the most unassuming trailor park, and then telling all of our elitist friends about the place. If we carried flags with us, we would claim our discoveries in the name of quality and/or style. I suppose our goal is to find all things of a heightened quality and take possession of them. Gradually, we will make inroads into the world of the others, and perhaps one day, Boise will be transformed into something Portland-esque; with excellent coffee, bagels, books, music, and gardens around every corner.
So, today, this girl I know and I drove up out of the safety of downtown, onto the bench, and as deep into the world of the others as the Vista Shopping Center. We saw a sign that said "Chinese Buffet." We instantly turned into its parking lot and hopped out, all a'flutter over the prospect of discovering some amazing cuisine under the buffet's heat lamps. Walking past the restaurant's obese golden Budda, we figured that our chances of experiencing a gem of quality within its shabby confines were quite good, considering that there was a multitude of MSG laden nuggets of goodness glistening under recessed spotlights.
Long story short...our hopes dwindeled, our faith in making a discovery evaporated with the kungpow chicken's sickly sweet marinade, with each new peck of dry, luke warm, chunk o' mystery meat. Only the fried rice was fit for consumption. Apparently, the cooks were awake for the first week of training, when they were shown how to take rice and fry it up in oil and soy sauce. Apparently, they were capable of this operation. Which is a good thing. Because, I suspect that providing edible fried rice is the minimum requirement for keeping the others from noticing that everything else sucks. anygoat, the end.

life like sex

For some reason, when I was 10 years old, I felt wise. I thought myself capable of rebutting any argument which challenged my religious convictions. Divine wisdom and Spoc-like reasoning where sources of false pride for a socially inept 10 year-old Josh. Still, it took me 14 years to understand the irony of claiming to be logical and Mormon at the same time. When that finally happened, my pride, my self confidence, was virtually destroyed. Ever since, its been hard to trust any fleeting conviction I might have about anything. I've not only lost faith in my own ability to KNOW with certainty, but I've become extremely antagonistic towards outside claims regarding "truth" or even reality. Despite being fiercely agnostic, there are still bits of "wisdom" that I can't help but feel are important enough to discuss...for example...
If you could go back and ask a10 year-old Josh for some words of advice, he'd probally recite the golden rule. If you asked me now for some advice, or wisdom, I'd say something like, "life is like sex" and continue:
The key to living is knowing yourself. More specifically, what turns you on? See, the goal for life, like sex, is to FEEL as alive as possible. This means knowing yourself so well that you know exactly what it is which makes you feel the most joy or pleasure. Its not as easy as it sounds. I often don't know what it is I really want at any particular moment. Sometimes its hard not zoning out in front of the TV or computer. Those activities only offer shallow comfort with little mental/physical stimulation. And, while reading can be a desireable, stimulating activity, spending all of my time immersed in fantasy is not what I'd call experiencing life as intensely, as passionately, as I want to experience it. Also, consider, we all have to survive...we must allocate a large amount of time to activities which may feel less like living than is ideal. So, no, its not easy to overcome laziness, survival, routine, fate, etc in order to discover what it is that will make us feel the most alive at any given moment. There are a lot of factors to consider...sometimes I feel like a mathematical equation is in order...what ever...
I'm aware that "carpe diem" is an age-old, overused tenet. I know how cliche it is to say that we've got to live life to the fullest. Recognizing the urgency to LIVE is nothing new. So why is it that so few people seem to have mastered the art of living? Look at how many Americans are obese and innactive. Look at how many slave away at jobs that cause them nothing but stress. I wonder, how many create art? How many write? How many enjoy sex/love-making on a regular basis? How many have quality relationships? How many have rewarding social experiences? How many are locked into lives that they never intended on living? How many Americans wake up happy to face a new day and go to bed content? Do I not have reason to think that life can be lived so much more and so much better? I often feel as if the quality of our lives, on average, is much less than an ideal, yet easily attainable, higher quality of life. Personally, my own life has seen dramatic quality increases lately. But, even taking into account my great health, job, place of residence, hobbies, money, and romantic life, I know that things can and will become much better. Because, I intend to treat life like sex in general. I will, over time, find what is more and more pleasurable and rewarding for me, enhance and increase those things, and abandon details about my life that do not lend themselves to any sort of joy, pleasure, or contentment. In a sense, I'll whittle away all the things about my life that I don't care about, or don't find pleasure in, in order to increase the time I have for other, more quality experiences. Hopefully, this will allow me to feel with greater sensitivity the pleasure/joy I experience, coming to know myself better in the process, and fine tune/ehance the overall joy I take in. so there. the end.

poo and like substances

Its 11:55 in the pm. The night is almost over. I'm almost asleep...asleep at the computer. You see, earlier this evening, I engaged in some quality physical activity in my personal quarters. The sort of activity that goes well with post-activity sleep. But instead of going right to sleep, my "training partner" and I mozied on down to Penguilies for a beer. Which was fine, because I knew exacty what that beer and extra hour awake would do for me--make me wonderfully drowsy. So, here I am, back from the bar, just about to float upstairs and drift off into perfect sleep. Before I let that happen, I wanted to be sure to post a little something. For myself, and for this girl I know. Hi snukums! (still working on a pet-name...) I need to get comfortable posting poo and like substances on this blog. Poo, aka crap, aka shit--something neither perfect nor fit to read. Normally, I put too much pressure on myself to right non-crap, and as a result, I write nothing. Like momma always said: "If you don't have anything to write thats not shit, don't write anything at all." Usually, I listen to momma. But, I'm beginning to think that its entirely possible that there's some intrinsic value in worthless ramblings such as this. Hey, I've got a random question: Does every sentence I write begin with a introductory phrase or what?? (like, "Usually", "But", "So", "Normally", etc, etc) Oh well. Anyshaft, I'm looking forward to getting my heart rate up above 150 for atleast an hour or two this weekend. And I can't wait to eat some post-humping (hiking up humps) pasta, and relax vigorously. Time for intense sleep. gnight.

Portland, OR

"Well Portland Oregon and sloe gin fizz
If that ain't love then tell me what is...
Well I lost my heart it didn't take no time
But that aint all. I lost my mind in Oregon..."

Maybe Loretta Lynn and I lost our hearts in Portland, Oregon. Maybe we fell in love with the town. Its too soon to tell for sure. A little time will have to pass before I can guage my fondness for its silly garden fetish, monster houses, mini-nyc downtown, labrynth-style bookstores, and largely hipter-free tourist-free districts. All in all, it was a beautiful place..and I only saw a fraction of it. I can't wait to go back and cruise its streets on a two-wheeled, humanpowered form of transportation. The city is huge. Getting "lost" in its neighborhoods is a must-do activity. A coffee shop, music store, beautiful park, hole-in-the-wall used book store, or second-hand clothing shop, is never too far away. Anydorrito, I didn't mean to write a tourist's guide of the town. I meant to write a little about what I did, how I did it, who I did it with, and what great fun was had by all involved. That will have to wait as I'm dead tired. 15 or so hours of quality REM in 4 days will do that to ya. Oh, and too much coffee. Oh, and shuffling over miles of city sidewalks. And, too much good food--like good sex, it puts you to sleep. Driving. Lets not forget the driving. Goodnight. I bet I sleep better than you...

Dear Diary

I wonder, can a man have a diary? I think Webster said something about diaries being objects possessed by the female sex only. Or maybe not.
So, dear journal....OH! I just thought of something! What if I called this my "log"? You know, like "Captain's log, stardate, 2359." That would be so cool. Of course, I'm not a captain....although,, I aspire to be. Hmm, maybe someday... Anyway, just because I'm not a captain doesn't mean I can't have a log...damnit! One more query: Is there any connection between the terms "blog" and "log"? Is blog short for bslog, as in, "bull shit log," given that so much bloggage really amounts to a lot of bullshit. Like, for example, this particular blog...I mean...entry in my log. Whatever.
Ok, so I've been wondering how to approach this blog thing. There are so many ways I could write...so many voices or styles I could adopt. There's a spectrum stretching from nonsense to reason to choose from. From writing in a completely abstract, ridiculous way, to analyzing every "problem" and "issue" that seem to involve themselves in my life--or life in general--in a completely logical, methodical way. In these blogs, I could reveal nothing of myself. Or, instead, I could reveal things even my mother doesn't know about me. Actually, I've become good at writing as exploring. --Exploring my own nature. So, when I write, and when you read my writing, I am actually finding things out about myself on the spot. I write in order to think in a disciplined, structured, or even "higher" way. I've found that sort of writing to be the best method for coming to any new, grand realization/revelation about myself or the world. Of course, I've got to be in the mood for such realizations/revelations. hmm... Tonight, I think I'll keep things simple and write a log entry:
[Josh's Log; 3.6.2005] I woke up today before my alarm went off, as usual; and I swore, which is not that unusual. See, I'm not a big fan of waking up. Waking up sucks. Sleep--now that's more like it. I can really get it on with some good sleep. So, upon waking, I said something like "fuck." I suppose that if I didn't have such a nice bed and teddy bear (actually a stuffed koala bear--damn that Teddy Roosevelt for his monopoly on anything brown, cuddly, and bear-like) I'd not hate leaving them so much. I went to work. Work was busy. Very busy. I sold bikes. I sold tubes. I worked a cash register. I ran around a lot. I never yelled at anyone. I'm a good employee. In fact, I'd go so far as say that I'm an asset to my company. I made my bosses some money and went home. I went straight away to cleaning my upstairs bathroom. The full bathroom. Not the halfabathroom. The one with the bath in it. Which was the focus of the whole cleaning thing I took up. I don't know about you, but I like to think of a bath as a place you can lay down and sort of role around in... My bath, before I got silly with the AJAX and green brillow pad, wasn't a place I'd like to stretch out in and splish splash. Before the cleansing, soap scum and mildew were really chapping my hide. So, I got in there and didn't stop getting silly with the AJAX and green brillow pad until all that soap scum and mildew were obliterated. Fuckin soap scum....teach you!
Then the fun began. This girl I know stopped by and wanted to do some things. Things are what we did. We went for a walk down Warm Springs Avenue and talked about death and suicide. I told her about a dream I had about a recently deceased friend in which the friend had to bang and yell inside his coffin so that someone would discover that he was still alive. She told me about how someone told her once that he wished he would have offed himself a long time ago. It was a lighthearted conversation, to say the least. As we walked, we talked more. We actually talked about politics. We totally did it! And we didn't even throw up in our mouths a little! Quite the accomplishment, huh? Perhaps it was because we were talking about the community politics of Portland, Oregon; which is a much more tasteful subject than the politics of Washington D.C. or Idaho. So, pretty soon we started going up. The trail took us to a rocky bluff that looks nothing like a castle. But it did have some decent sitting spots among the rocks---spots perfect for "scoping" and sipping wine....with our pal, Vern, the Dorittos Killer. Really folks, if you take a nighttime hike by yourself and come upon a couple sipping wine on a scenic bluff, do everyone a favor and don't sit five feet off to their right, light up a cigarette, and insert random comments into their conversation. Vern, I appreciate the insight about the still air and all, but common dude... Anyway, this girl I know and I had a lovely time, in spite of the strange life form entity sitting nearby which fed off of our romantic energy. After heightening our senses on Castle Rock (listening, looking, tasting, and feeling), we did some snooping. Quick everyone!: Where is the perfect place to go snooping in Boise? Well, we went there, and it was hella fun. We hid in the shadows in and around the old pen'. The authorities were definitely out to get us, but we were determined to not let them take us alive. We moved like ninjas from shadow to shadow, methodically advancing towards freedom. The greatest part of it all was the tresspassing. We actually slid under an iron fence and entered the botanical gardens. We could have totally made off with like one million dollars worth of rose bushes and garden benches! The garden was ours, and we romped through it with zeal. Finally, we decided that our luck was probably getting pushed, so we shimmied back under the iron fence and walked through the pen' on our way back home. Along the way, we were able to deduce who the Dorittos killer was--several little tiny flags that happened to make crunching sounds (like someone eating Dorittos or walking over gravel) when they whipped around in the slight breeze. Weeeird! We walked home. I forced this girl I know to watch an XTREME! mountain biking video. Then this girl left me all alone. the end.