bzedan: Cropped image of suspenders worn over collared shirt (me)

I never actually wanted to live in Portland. I just knew it’d be a better choice. Like I knew it was a better choice to wait longer and save more before moving to L.A., even if it meant Chase moved down there a couple years before I did.

I think the last time I was in California I was 16. Maybe even 15. Somewhere around then my dad’s family stopped being my family and there was no reason to go south. If you’ve grown up in Oregon, California is sort of looked down on. That’s where the rich live and they don’t know how to drive and they move up here and steal our land and you can’t bring fruit with you forgodssakes.

Like anything adults looked askance at, California gained an aura of the forbidden. Not that I didn’t shit-talk it, which Chase straightened out pretty quickly. He did it the same way he made me stop making fun of Led Zeppelin: by making me actually listen to them. He told me about where he grew up, south of San Diego, and I added to my childhood memories of Northern California campgrounds and the overwhelming maze of San Francisco. California became a place, instead of an idea.

It’s the opposite of everywhere I’ve ever lived, dense populations, desert and south, beaches not coasts. When Chase and I drive through the country around where we used to live I look at the trees and the dense, black-green coastal range, wondering what life will be like without them. I don’t think I’ll miss the trees. There are plenty of trees.

There’s a lot of hate for Southern California, as though it were a bizzaro-world Pacific Northwest and therefore a nemesis. It’s too different, too crowded, too hot, too expensive (though rent-wise, really, it’s about the same). I have to justify my plans to semi-strangers and hope that they see the deadness in my eyes and stop wondering why I just don’t like it here.

I had a conversation once with someone about why he was in New York and why I wanted to move to L.A. It really came down to wanting to live somewhere you’d like to live when the world ends.


Not that I expect the world/society to cinematically end in the place of my choosing, but really, the thesis is sound. I’d be pretty bummed if it turned out I never got to leave the PNW. Sure, I think it’s a great spot for post-apocalyptic fiction, but not for me.


I lied. California is still an idea. Hasn’t it always been? It’s a world of artifice, but everyone is in on the construction, their imaginations and dreams as much a part of the skeleton as poured concrete and palm trees.

I think there are two kinds of people, at least as far as this exercise goes. There are the ones who read West’s The Day of the Locust and think “god, what a terrible place.” And then others read that short, sharp story and feel a noose tighten around their guts, dragging at them.

Here’s the thing. I could settle comfortably in the PNW or I could push myself and struggle and grow in L.A. I’d rather fail than settle. And—this is crazy—if, after some years I find that I long to once more reside in the verdant, motherly and non-judgemental embrace of where I grew up, I could always move back. It happens.


It probably won’t.

Mirrored from Journal of a Something or Other.

bzedan: Cropped image of suspenders worn over collared shirt (me)

Well, I can admit it. I totally failed at my month of nails. First I decided to extend it through May and about a week ago I realised that there was no way I was going to meet my goals. Lame. But hey, at least I can admit it. No excuses, I just lost the drive during the bleh period of time I am calling Maypril.

Failure happens, and my monthly focus thing is not going to stop because I screwed up one month. There will be a focus for June and I’m so going to do it, not going to fail twice, thank you.

I did totally produce some stuff for this focus, so image dump below. All images link back to their Flickr page, with more info.

Flocked nails: animal print, detail

Flocked nails: shrooms, detail

Gelsey nailz: 25/04/11

Jess nailz: 29/04/11

Test Wheel: stripes and contrast

Mirrored from Journal of a Something or Other.

bzedan: (Default)
posted by [personal profile] bzedan at 08:49am on 31/12/2010 under , ,

One thing I can acknowledge, despite the persistent strands of self-doubt I am slowly cutting away: I can teach myself any art or craft technique and make something halfway decent with it if I want to. I’m not going to be a genius at it, necessarily, but I can do it. Even back when I was just a painter I was interested in the process, which is most likely why I didn’t stay just a painter for long—and I was doing film photography, emphasis on darkroom work, and theatre and whatever else too, anyway, so moot point, I guess. I totally have a kryptonite though, if it involves electricity (like soft circuit work, even), I can’t do it. That stuff is mostly magic and dragon breath to me.

I like making things, seeing how things are made and cobbling together ways to do it myself. I collect techniques, so if I ever need a certain thing I can do it myself. The problem is, I like all those things I’ve learned to do, but there’s so much more I want to learn and make. Nor is cluttering my brain up with a million how-tos conducive to being able to focus on one thing. Or weaving it all together into something. Because I still get a niggling feeling left over from ancient days that maybe I should be creating a body of work.

So. What better time than a fresh new year to sort that shit out? As long as I can handle it, I’m going to devote one month to a media or process. Here’s a bulleted breakdown:

  • I’m not planning out beforehand which thing to focus on, so the inevitable urge to Do This Other Thing can guide what the next month’s focus will be.
  • If I haven’t devoted a month to it yet, I don’t do it. So even if I get a crazy hankering for process E, but are only up to B, no luck, it’s got to wait.
  • If I have devoted a month to it, it can work itself into what I’m focusing on that month, in moderation. But it can’t be stand alone, the process has got to flow into the current focus.
  • Nails continue as normal, ditto the airbrush, because I use that on my nails. I’d die of shame if I didn’t do my nails every week.
  • Taking snapshots of things I saw or made continues as normal, because that’s like breathing. Doing specific photography projects is not included in this pass. I can devote a month to that.

The idea of just focusing on one process or media is so freeing. I could dedicate a whole month to learning something new and feel no guilt that I’m not doing five other techniques. I could do this for longer than a year, probably. But I’ve learned never to go crazy with long term plans, because who knows what Thing will rear its head and complicate matters.

Alright then.

January, FYI, is going to be fiction writing (so, no obsessively researched fashion posts, etc). I have some goals which are none of your business, but I do have previously written stories I’ll be posting once a week in the interim. I’m not going to bore you with my personal realisations regarding submitting work for publication, but nobody liked any of the stories except me and Chase. And since this is my blog, that is enough for me.


Mirrored from Journal of a Something or Other.

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posted by [personal profile] bzedan at 12:26pm on 04/09/2010 under , ,

And, as power surged to the stage from black-clad hears, we knew that truly, God Hates Us All.

When you live in the rural suburbs, music is your idol. You sift through the detritus of junk shops masquerading as antique stores for records, paw through clattering suitcases of cassettes from when your parents were young and cool, saving up for trips into the city to buy new music—fingers crossed at a place that isn’t scared of “explicit lyrics or content”.

The internet makes it easier. It’s all there, without waiting for your older brother to discover grunge, or a stray chance introducing you to an album that blows your former Sousa-loving mind. But the internet doesn’t bring concerts to the middle of fucking nowhere. You still have to go to the city for that.

When Slayer and Megadeth were booked at the Washington County Fairgrounds, well outside the teeming urban environs of the city, it was like a gift directly from the gods of metal to the scattered farming and bedroom communities on the western rim of the Portland Metropolitan area. Where thunder eggs and amber had dully gleamed just weeks before at the annual gem show, perfected screams would vibrate the air.

The primary paper for these far edges of Washington County, the Forest Grove News Times, was ready to herald the event as “Slayborday Weekend”, a refreshing change from the rote new-school-year staples and heart-warming, if repetitive, events that make up the bulk of rural suburban news. They secured their press passes and entry to what was, frankly, one of the awesomest events to hit the area for years.

But the News Times, one of (if not the) best performing papers in the community newspapers group that includes the Portland Tribune, didn’t reckon on one thing. It turns out that at a second glance their coverage was considered absolutely not worthy of consideration by Mike Thrasher, the man who is presenting Slayer and Megadeath to the Washington County Fairgrounds and who, apparently, gave out too many press passes.

In the face of this overwhelming quagmire, the day before the show Thrasher revoked the two passes given to the Forest Grove News Times. After extensive emailing by the News Times’ photo editor, who’d been looking forward to shooting the show, Thrasher relented to issuing press credentials—but not the passes. If they wanted to cover the biggest show in their county, the News Times would have to purchase their own tickets to get in. In short, Thrasher was cool with the event being covered, but he wanted to make more money, too.

The photo editor’s off-record reply is unpublishable.

Whatever Thrasher’s reasons for cock-blocking the Forest Grove News Times from covering the event, the end result is a hole in next week’s paper, both design-wise and in information. As great as the free alt weeklies in Portland are, they are not necessarily where the board members of the fairgrounds get their news. If a fantastic chance like this concert comes up again, there will be only the most basic paragraph—if that—detailing how Thrasher’s Slayer concert was received. The News Times could dig into their empty pockets to scrape up the money for last minute tickets, but it would be giving publicity and promotion to a man who has proved himself to be unworthy of basic consideration.

Disclosure: I was set to go as the writer for the News Times, to work up an extended caption/mini story to accompany Chase’s pictures. I’m really fucking pissed.

Mirrored from Journal of a Something or Other.

bzedan: (Default)

Remember the guy who broke the window? Well, after trekking into the city for Grand Jury, the trial being rescheduled something like five times, me coming in and spending half the day waiting for trial—only to have the guy sack his lawyer and have the whole thing be rescheduled again—he was found guilty of an obvs misdemeanour and will be sentenced March 23rd.  The date of the incident was November 8th.

I have learned that the wheels of justice/law turn slowly, like so slowly.  Here’s how yesterday went.

6:15a-ish—Got to the bus stop, realised I’d forgot the damn subpoena, booked back home and back to the stop, only to see my bus zoom past before I reached it.  Major lame.  But, since I build paranoid leeway into commuting, I was totally at the courthouse on time to join the jury-duty swollen line.

8:15a—After a quick once-over with the DA I went to wait outside the courtroom.  At first everybody (there were two cases against him, ours and one involving a smashed hatchback window) thought he wasn’t going to show.  But he did, a quarter hour late for court.

9:15a—The DA, the guy and the guy’s court-appointed lawyer (who was adamantly not going to be canned this time), went into the courtroom and us witnesses waited.

10:30a—Though the guy wanted a trial originally, he started to think maybe he wanted to plead.  The DA came out and we all went over the terms she’d set, which were totes basic and nothing to argue with (long probation, mental health stuff/anger management).  She took those to the guy and his long-suffering lawyer.  He rejected them.  So, back to a trial again.  But wait! The lawyers consulted in chambers with the judge, because seriously, just plead.  So then there was deliberation.

And, on our part, more waiting.

11:45a—For realz decision time.  He would plead on the hatchback window smash case and would trial on ours; probs as they had video evidence for the former and just me as witness for the latter.  No pressure, right.

1:20p—Trial begins!  Much waiting.  I guess there is a lot of verbal setup before witness time.  Things to know: it’s like instant drymouth on the witness stand, a combination of the feeling you get when you’re blamed for something you didn’t do and being at a crazy fancy dinner party with all the etiquette and flatware that you never learned about.

Questions I remember:

Guy’s Lawyer: “Have you seen the defendant on TV?”
Me: “No”
GL: “Have you seen his webpage?”
Me: “Not his webpage, but we Googled him after the last cancelled trial and I found some Wikipedia articles he’d edited.”

GL: “You said ‘whoever broke the window,’ do you mean to say you could not identify the defendant?
Me: “Oh, no.  I just was being polite, I didn’t know if I was supposed to be identifying him yet.”

DA: “How certain are you that [the guy] did this?”
Me: “Super certain.”
DA: “How—how certain is super certain?”
Me: “Um, like, so certain that I am sometimes uncomfortable coming in early for work to open up, since I’m there by myself?”
DA: “So—a 100% certain?”
Me: “Yes, totally.”

And so on.

I hate crazy blamey situations and being in the spotlight of authority and trying to remember with detail incidents that are five months old.  I mean, I don’t even occupy the same cubicle any more.  This damned window thing happened a week after Lindsay died and right at the start of busy season.  It feels like a year ago, instead of almost half a year.

My experience from job interviews and meeting new people is that when I feel like a nervous, babbling goose it comes off as quirky and charming.  I guess it held true here

3:30p—The other witnesses have done witnessed and I spent some time chatting about Black Sabbath with the officer, who was reading I am Ozzy.

The guy finished telling his side of the story, which—based on his lawyer’s questions—was an attempt to make it seem like some other person did it. The judge deliberated for about a million years and the DA finally came out to tell us the guy was found guilty.  We waited awkwardly in the hall as the guy took his bags and bad vibes down the elevator and out the building before we go.  Nonetheless, he was still there on the sidewalk when I left in a group of adorable chattering ladies who must have been jurors.  I ignored him and walk to my train.

So, the guy who ruined my nerves and a window, pissing everyone off, succeeded in wasting 16+ hours of my time over five months (each time I had to trek into the city was my day off, too), which I guess isn’t too bad.  But man was it tiring and dang did my butt hurt from sitting on a wooden bench outside a courtroom all damn day.

Mirrored from Journal of a Something or Other.

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So, I ordered from Bliss Soaps during their big sale this winter, and it took forever to get here, etc.  Now, because I use the soap I got regularly, and have an object-cued memory, I remember the crap customer service I got whenever I shower.  But, because it is during my shower, I never remember outside the curtain, since shower time is also time for imagining how poised one would be during magazine interviews and whatnot.

But! Finally remembered.  Here is the email I sent after receiving my order.


As I also work for an thriving online business, I understand how difficult it can be when unexpectedly slammed with orders and the problems with balancing customer service, quality and not going crazy.  However, I was pretty disappointed overall with my recent Bliss Soap experience.

The word I’ve heard is that you all were overwhelmed with responses to your recent sale, which is wonderful in a way, as I realise how finacialy boned you were after dealing with that large client order that didn’t pay.   This made me give some leniency to the surprising distance in time between seeing my order go from processed to shipped.  I will admit to becoming rather worried, then annoyed, as the time after my order was marked “shipped” (I first noticed it November 17th) stretched to a week, then two weeks.  As I’m in Portland, just south of Seattle, a straight shot mailing-wise, I expected the order to arrive much more quickly, especially as it you ship flat-rate priority.

It wasn’t until hunting around on your main site, that I found the small link and notice to the delay in shipping that could take about two weeks.  I’d been keeping an eye on your actual store site (, as not only was that where I ordered and expected online store related updates to be posted, but the basic backend of that site design is clearly more easy to update with important notices than the graphics-heavy, crowded “About Us” and brick-and-mortar info page that is  Though my order was listed as “shipped” by November 17, the shipping label was printed (or dated) November 25, I’m just going to note that I think I would have been happier overall to have not seen my order marked as “Shipped” until it actually was.

However, I did get my order, yesterday, November 30.  I was bummed to open the mailer and see the Styrofoam container one item came in jammed and broken and open (luckily all soap arrived whole!), the receipt completely crumpled.  Whatever, it’s soap.  I have attached an image of one item, as I’m not sure if it is in fact the Tea Tree Shampoo Bar I ordered or something else.  There was, after some searching in the corners of the mailer, a paper slip that explained how to use a solid shampoo bar, so I’m guessing this is the right item?  Unlike the other soap, which was very nicely labelled and wrapped (though none of the bars were dated, how long before they’re off date?) this is the one that had broken free of its container, which wasn’t labelled anyway.

So, I don’t think I’ll order from you guys online again, but I do want to visit your storefront sometime, as I am happy with the products I got, I just don’t want to deal with the way you handle your online business.

There was also an attached picture of the soap in question.  This is the email I got back:

B. Zedan,

I am [redacted], Phils partner in Bliss-Soaps.  I’m over the production and shipping dept.  I take care of 95% of the shipping orders for our company.  When I send packages to our customers, I can assure you that I give the utmost care and concern that the order I’m dealing with each time is checked off, wrapped properly, packaged securely, and I send with the product a note telling the customer how appreciative I am for their support and love of our product.  No matter what I read, I care more than the majority about the customer and their experiences with our product and customer service. I will defend this whether it be the wrong or right thing to do in the seller & buyer relationship, or if it sounds like I’m to sensitive and overreacting.  It is the way I feel and I only know how to be honest with my customers and anyone I come in contact with. We all have different personalities and this is mine. It just is how it is with me and this is a good thing in my life.\
I am extremely impressed with your thorough and very well explicit and direct comments on your experience with us. I am very saddened by what I read.  This is in no way exceptable to me and I am not happy about it.  I would like to ask if you could please try to find time out of your busy schedule and call me to discuss this further.  My cell number is [redacted].  If you would rather e-mail a phone number where I may reach you so that the phone call isnt at your expense, that probably be better.  I am extremely concerned with what I have read and I will get down to the bottlom of this and correct those areas which you have indicated right away. This is unacceptable to me and you didn’t need compounding issues on top of the length of time it took to get your order.  I would rather explain to you my feelings actually with you on the phone.  If you feel this is acceptable to you, then I will be anxiously waiting on your phone call or e-mail with a contact number.
I do sincerely appreciate your honest straight & forward critiqueing and the professionalism it radiates.  I also feel concern and desire for the growth of Bliss-Soaps.
I know we will be able to recify this issue, besides learning & growing from this unfortunate situation.
Thanks so much for your e-mail.  I really hope to hear from you.

Now, my questions were answered regarding the off dates for the soap and if that was the shampoo bar were not answered.  I’ve got a paranoia about phones and strangers, and combined with the 12+ hours I was away from home, working longer days during holiday rush, there was no way I was going to call this guy.  Also? My phone number is accessible from my customer account on their site.  So my response, sent on the 6th of December:


I apologise for the delay in reply, the rush of the holiday season has me either at work or commuting to it for most of the day.

I am much easier to get ahold of my email, if you have any further questions or an answer to my query if the soap I attached a picture of is the Tea Tree Shampoo Bar, please let me know.

And, a little over a month later, nothing back.

As far as the soap goes, I love, LOVE the smell of “Dragon’s Blood”.  And Chase is digging the soap with silk in that I got him.  The unknown soap that may be a shampoo bar has not been tried yet.  Both of us are disappointed with the body of the soaps, they’re very soft and have worn out quickly, sometimes dropping clumps off while scrubbing, like rotting zombies.  While we’ve been using the Bliss Soaps a bar of our regular stuff from FG Soap has been sitting next to them, getting just as much showerhead run-off and not shrinking.

So, overall a lame experience, but it fired up our love of fancy soaps, so I’ll be looking to Vilainess next.

Mirrored from Journal of a Something or Other.

bzedan: (Default)

Open on Sundays, sorry if that’s a problem

    I am, by most counts, a great transit commuter.  I have TriMet on my RSS, so I catch announcements.  I pay attention to reader boards in case of sudden changes.  I’ve built a 20-30 minute cushion into my commute in case of total WTFs.  So, when I saw that the west side MAX line was being worked on I was not concerned about probable 15-20 minute delays.  I had my cushion.
    However, it is TriMet.  So, instead of arriving at 8:00a to play hardcore catch-up (I normally get in at 9:00a on Sundays) I got there a little before 8:30a.  I’d noticed, as my bus brought me over the Ross Island Bridge, that there was a guy asleep directly in front of Sock Dreams HQ.  Like, directly in front of the doors.  I was totally “DAMMIT,” ’cause I was going to have to wake him to get inside.
    As I walked up to the building I checked the time, hoping TriMet had made me late enough that the other employee due in at nine would be arriving soon.  No luck.
    See, I’d recognised the guy and his shopping cart.  He’d hung around SDHQ before and sometimes his cart would stand lonely for a week until he was able to come back to get it.  And the guy was a dick.  Sometimes he was cool, but most of the time he was a little bitch about moving to the side of the building so our customers (when the store was at HQ) could use the sidewalk.  He’d leave messes of rags and he’d been known to snarl random shit at one of our employees.  But whatever, I would be polite, so he wouldn’t be a jerk-ass.
    I took a breath, because I hate confrontation of any form, walked up and asked if he could please move out of the way enough that I could open the door to get in.  I was polite, because he was sleeping and I am secretly a nice person.  So I waited while he gathered his blankets and things and shoved them with increasing agitation into his cart.  I had not asked him to leave, just to give me enough room to get to the door, but whatever.
    Thanking him, I let myself in, made sure the door was shut and went to turn off the alarm (the door has to be shut for the alarm to turn off).  I could hear him bitching about how fucking stupid it is that we’re open on Sundays and “who do you think you are!”
    And I am all sighs about this as I go to my cubicle to put away my things.  It is sort of the 21st century and shit does not turn to the Monday-Friday wheel as tightly any more.  I listened as he wheeled his cart along the front of the building, working himself up into a lather.  The entire curved front corner of the building is glass, so if he’d been enunciating I would have heard his building tirade clearly.  A little worried, because crazy and anger are unpredictable, I turn on my computer, hear a ‘thunk’ sound and think “You stupid fucker don’t hit the windows.”  Then, as his bitching escalates he does hit the windows, loudly and clearly.
    I could see the rest of the glass rattle in sympathy at the impact.  Knowing full well what comes next, my hand drifts to the phone on my desk.  And there, with a cry of “Fucking WHOORES!” the guy slams into the window again, kind of like a rearing bear.  Very logically, the window shatters.  Also logically, I pick the phone up and call 911.  As it rings I hear the sound of tinkling glass, muttering and shopping cart wheels scurrying away.
    The 911 lady was awesomely competent. I called my office manager who is equally awesome and competent.  I had to reassure her that I was find and thank GOD I had half a cinnamon roll left from the day before.  Then, with little to do about the window besides wait for the police officer to show up, I warmed up some coffee and answered some sock questions.
    Now, I’m not saying I was all super chill, because there is nothing you can do about adrenaline, but I did need to catch up on work.  Work is also nice and distracting, I’ve found as of late.
    Police cars circled the building a couple of times, looking for the dumbass.  I spoke on the phone with the adorable Officer Parks, confirming my (rockingly detailed, in my opinion) description of said dumbass.  It turned out they’d probably found him.  I explained that I had to wait for the other employee to show up before I could leave, thanked him and went back—albeit distractedly—to work.
    Officer Parks came by, took my statement and asked me about socks.  Which, y’know, glad to oblige.  When my co-worker showed up I explained things, called my office manager again to let her know all was cool and that I’d be stepping out to ID the shitheel.
    Then I got to ride in a police car (in front)!  Dude, those things are crammed to the gills with gadgets.  We drove a whole three blocks away from SDHQ, pulling up less than half a block from where another black-and-white was parked.  Before I even saw the guy in question I recognised his cart.  The other officer had the guy stand up and move forward to where we could see him from the car.  I positivly ID’d him, sort of in awe that he thought a couple of streets down was far enough away to hide.
    Back at SDHQ Officer Parks gave me the info needed for us to press charges and I went back to work.  Because the sock mines call and we’ve got orders to get out.  Even if that makes us “fucking whoores”

Mirrored from Journal of a Something or Other.

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We had this couch.  It was a great fucking couch.  Chase could stretch his full six-foot-plus length on it.  It loved when you napped on it, but was just uncomfortable enough to stop you from sacking out too long.  The nap couch.

We tried to get it up the stairs to our new place, but the stairs had too many sharp turns (a side effect of an old house being split into apartments), so we had to find it a new home.  So, like most people in the Portland metro area we took it to Goodwill.

First, a little back-story: Most of our favourite furniture and clothing came from a place called Saint Vincent De Paul.  They were like Salvation Army, big on helping in the community, they took most donations, decently priced things, had a great system of price lowering things that had been there too long, etc.  That one store in Hillsboro probably supplied most of the working poor, students and really pretty much everybody with clothes, furniture and whatnots for at least a generation or two.  It’s where the nap couch came from, in the beginning.  But it went out of business years ago.  It was such a big part of most folks’ lives that you still hear people bitching about it.  All there is now in the FG-Cornelius-Hillsboro area is Goodwill.

So, the couch is in pretty good shape.  There is one tear in the back cushion, it looks used and no longer has the liner on the bottom, because it tore years ago and was since removed, since the vacuum liked to eat the liner bits that hung down.  Other than that, the same condition it was bought for ten dollars in.

Onto the truck it goes and we pulled up to the donations area.  A little bell goes off as we pull up, like at a gas station.  We wait.  And wait.  And finally I saw a woman coming up through the windows in the swinging doors.  Already her face was beginning to screw up into practice denial expressions.  She’s barely out the door when she tells us they cannot accept something in this condition.  All she had seen and will see of the couch was the underside, with the liner missing, the two cushions tucked next to it under a rope.  She gives us no reasons beyond its “condition”.  Chase and I, innumerable swears and curses boiling below a layer of shocked silence, climbed into the truck and gunned out of there.

We’re pissed, because it’s a decent couch.  We don’t shop at Goodwill, because despite their cause, they’re still a big corporation that prices things with name brands higher, like assholes.  However, we went there because we want someone else to get some use out of the couch.  We don’t really have time or space to list the couch on Craigslist (for free, because we just want it to go to a home), so we turn to the dump.

They’ve raised the prices at the dump.  It is now $50 for our size vehicle.  We are not going to pay half a hundred dollars to waste something that is still useful.

Luckily, Chase remembers something as we drive away.  The ReStore.  The one in FG* just moved to a better spot and Chase had covered the story, so it was in his mind.  All we had to say to the guy was that we’d tried to move the couch into our new place and it didn’t fit.  That was the pedigree it needed.  So our couch gets to go help somebody else take awesome naps.

Super bonus level:  Later last night when looking for ice cream we turned around in a parking lot of what used to be this super sketch things-that-fell-off-the-truck warehouse.  It is now a Salvation Army!  Or will be on June 4th.  I know nothing will be as great as St Vincent De Paul at taking donations and pricing things as they should be, but I don’t think the Salvation Army is as mercenary as Goodwill. Which, in an area like this, really will help the people that live around it.

* PDX folks, the one in your area is a feeding frenzy.  If you can handle the frightening forty minute drive into the ‘burbs, it is worth coming to the one in FG, because not as many people go.

Mirrored from Journal of a Something or Other.

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posted by [personal profile] bzedan at 08:22pm on 20/12/2008 under , , ,

First off, I guess somehow it is Saturday (how that happened, I don’t know), and so Slow Build has updated. Racing, in which we meet a new person.

More importantly. This was my bus stop this morning. It is not much, but it has been there a while and is getting really weird and compacted:
My bus stop at 6:25am

But Forest Grove is always grosser, weather-wise, than Portland. However, the snow remained persistent and steady all damn day. My fantastic employer encouraged me to leave early, because I live out in the suburbs and Tri-Met’s alerts kept showing more and more routes closed. So I left at 1:45. And got home at 5:45 (twice the normal time), narrowly avoiding frostbite and having made two new friends: the lady who was in jail once and let me use her cell to tell Chase I was not dead and the guy who got out of prison three weeks ago and talked to me about embroidery and crocheting stuffed animals.*

I’d really rather that the precipitation not be frozen and that we were dealing with floods. I know floods. I can handle them. Nonetheless, the snow was pretty, my favourite busker had a buddy playing with him today and I got to see a wheel dozer scooping snow off the train tracks at the HTC.

The Fern abides

*To avoid the kind-hearted but super annoying girl who talked about smuggling drugs by strapping them under her huge boobs. I am not being crude, these are the words she used. Also, I do not think being in prison is like being an ethnicity or whatever**, where you know everyone who also shares your trait, so that is probably why he did not know her uncle who killed somebody.

**JOKE, duh.

Mirrored from Journal of a Something or Other.

bzedan: (Default)
posted by [personal profile] bzedan at 12:42pm on 16/12/2008 under , , , ,

An email from Chase (footnotes and hyperlinks mine):

A woman’s life is derailed en route to a potentially lucrative summer job. When her car breaks down, and her dog is taken to the pound, the thin fabric of her financial situation comes apart, and she is led through a series of increasingly dire economic decisions.

Two old pals reunite for a camping trip in Oregon’s Cascade Mountains.

both from kelly reichardt films. The one I watched which sucked (you made fun of plot1) and the one we saw a trailer for at let the right one in. These are hilarious.

My reply:

People finding themselves through bad situations in life: I KNOW WHO I AM NOW BECAUSE I HAVE BEEN THROUGH THE FIRE.2



People discover themselves in ways they always thought they would. I am a huge fan of existential dilemma. But she has a way of making me not give a fuck. It’s like the metamorphosis . . . but instead of waking up as a bug you wake up with a better complexion and a longer pinky toe. You are inconsequentially different and no one cares.

1I did make fun of the plot. I actually made the guy feel bad for renting it, by reading the little Netflix summary in the meanest voice possible and extrapolating on the possible meaning and thesis of the film.
2This is a continuation of one of our ever-present discussions, obvious metaphor for character development: quests, paths, etc.

Mirrored from Journal of a Something or Other.


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