Total Pageviews


Time is running out to choose a name

So today I picked out a bunch of baby boy names from Quite a specific url there, huh? There's no question about what you'll find there. Not certain of the authenticity of the definitions, but the ones that I thought were interesting I jotted down.

In somewhat alphabetical order, here is a list of boy names that caught my eye. And some I made up.

Maik (Who is like God?)
Mare (sea of bitterness)
Montgomery (from the hill of the powerful man)
Moss (born of a god)
Nicola (victory of the people)
Norwood (from the north woods)
Orrick (sword ruler)
Osborn (God bear)
Osgood (God Goth)
Oswald (God rule)
Rafe (wolf councel)
Rainer (Army councel)
Ralston (from Ralph’s town)
Ramsay (Raven’s Island)
Rogue (dishonest, savage, or unpredictable)
Stanton (from the stony town)
Terrell (stubborn)
Thackary (dweller by the nook where the reeds for thatching grew)
Townsend (the end of a town)
Trevet (tripod – he’d never forgive me for this one)
Trumble (strong bold)
Tyson (Firebrand or Son of Denis)
Ulric (Wolf ruler)
Wolfgang (Wolf way)
Zenith (the very top)


Twos and teenage 20-somethings

Lucy's birthday will always usurp mine, because it's just under two weeks from mine. But mine's not important. 29. Who cares. My Little Lucille will be turning 2!


The big 2! My little girl! She's hitting growth spurts all the time, getting taller, and she's learned how to say, "No"!

Now all I've heard about the learning of this new word is that they'll say it when you don't want them to. So far, I've noticed something else, something more relieving than anything. Basically, it can be boiled down to: I'm learning not to overhelp her.

I made her a little bowl of cheerios-equivalents, cashews, and raisins and let her watch her Sesame Street dvd. When she had almost finished the cheerios-equivalents, I said, "Do you want more cereal?"


In that little, naturally high, soft voice. I melt. I said, "Oh. Ok."

Events like this happen all the time in my house, where I can't tell if she does or doesn't want something I'm probably being paranoid and overprotective about, but now she can at least tell me when she doesn't want it before I waste my time getting up to get it for her.

As I was just proofing this blog entry, I had to get up to change her diaper and refill my coffee cup and comb her hair and put the dvd away (heavy breathing), and when I sat back down at the computer she was by my side again, falling and leaning on my legs, wanting me to laugh like The Count, again, for the krillionth time, and I picked her up and held her butt up in the air and she was like, "Light!" and pointed to the lights. And then I sorta let her fall back down fast, but with a gentle landing, and I whispered, "Do you wanna go high in the sky again?" in as tempting a voice as I could muster.


"Oh. Ok." Put her down. She doesn't wanna be your rag doll, dad!

Teenage 20-somethings

Some friends suggested I make a Pottery Barn registry for my birthday. Metal. Because it's brutal.

I think this, this, and this would be really liven up my home, and accent my life. Thanx Pottery Barn.

There's really nothing special about turning 29. It's just one more year away from saying goodbye to the 20's. And you know what? I'm glad. Because teenagers piss me off, and when I think of myself as a teenager I cringe, and young-20's people are rarely ever as cool as you want them to be when you're in your late 20s, and I'm ready, willing and able to distance myself from the age groups of teenagers and 20-somethings.

Figuratively, of course. Age ain't nothing but a number.

And I'm not saying this as a way to draw attention away from the fact that I am getting old and there's nothing I can do about it. This conclusion I draw from two recent things I've been noticing about myself.

1. I'm actually starting to fill out in the stomach area with more fat than I've ever had down there. I've always been so skinny, and pasty. And now I'm skinny and pasty, with a bulging stomach. My ass is probably a little more saggy than usual, too, but I haven't checked lately.

2. Wrinkles and bags are appearing on my face that weren't there before.

I think that you're really at your peak when you're between 18 and 22 or so. That should be called middle aged. After that it's all downhill.

No, I jest. I've heard many people say their 30s are much better than their 20s. And in reality, I've always felt one with the earth and nature and I realize my place here. It is what I make it. And life is beautiful, and the older I get, the more easily I'm able to understand the bigger picture, to see all sides of an issue, and to develop more self-confidence as a result.

But Lucy! Hey, she's turning 2! Now that's a milestone.

For me.

she's not gonna remember it....


A City Collegian rebirth campaign


Written by The City Collegian's last faculty adviser, Jeb Wyman, this is the beginning of a campaign to bring back Seattle Central's defunct student newspaper.

I worked on the paper during the time the trouble started, and after I left the school, and the paper, to move onto Western Washington University to further study journalism, it didn't take long for Seattle Central administration to ax the Collegian.

The link above takes you to what I consider to be a masterfully written history of the paper. Wyman has been a writer his whole life, and his experience shows. His words flow like butter. The piece may just get your blood roiling. Student journalism is under attack all over the country, which makes this an issue bigger than the Collegian and Seattle Central.

Wyman is my journalistic mentor, and anything he's behind, I'm behind. He's a good man. With all the other journalism professors and administrators I met at Western, Wyman is the one I like the most. He bleeds ink. I worked with him for my four quarters on the paper, and he never did me wrong. The administration, however, did, when they bludgeoned Jeb into resigning and then axed the paper, citing his resignation as the principle reason.

Can we say administrative political manipulation? As if they couldn't find and hire a new adviser over the slow summer quarter. As if job interviews are not possible during that time. Please.

There's a fire starting.

What is that image in my head

It's forming. Swirling. When I let myself relax and breathe deeply, and not worry about how loud it is, i can see it. it's a beach scene, with lots of turquoise water and palm trees and yellow sand and sun. But it's not whole. Maybe that's not what it's supposed to be--what I'm seeing it as. Maybe that's there to put me in some mood to transition me easier to the harder truth that lies beneath it. Or maybe it will get even better. Cause right now it's sorta chaos.

I wish I may
I wish I might
Have this vision ][

It's like in limbo, see. It can't stay like this. Something's gotta be done. Either shit or get off the pot, image. Don't make me think that my mind is stuck in limbous ruts.


Eating and typing

Mm, leftover pasta with asparagus and shrimp meat, those little curly shrimp guys, with garlic and onions, cold, with a warmed up and buttered mini baguette. F yeah.

Speaking of which, oh man I had the worst shart this morning. I was just sitting here, on the couch, enjoying my no-longer-virus-infected computer, drinking coffee and loving it. Lucy was eating in the kitchen. I was reading about my deceased ex-science professor at SCCC, and all of a sudden--shart! Oh man. Immediately I was like, "ok Lucy, dada's gotta go to the bathroom."

Once a friend told me, "My dad always said, 'Don't trust farts. If it feels hot, don't trust it.'" Sage advice.

I waddled over to the bathroom, and took care of the damage. Gross.

Then! Another weird poop thing. I was changing Lucy's diaper and she had this stringy thing sticking out of her rectum. I had to pull it out, like one might do with a dog that ate dental floss.

See, when you become a dada, or a mama, you become used to excrement. It's not a big deal once you have a kid, because you have no choice but to make it a small deal. Allow me some extrapolation text space.

Making poop a big deal when you have a child makes both the child and the parent maladjusted to it. For the parent, if it's a big deal to ya, you're gonna go insane every time you have to change a diaper. Especially when that baby stops eating nothing but breast milk (if you're smart and breast feed instead of using solely formula), and the poop starts taking on more adult qualities (STANK NASTY).

For the kid, if you make it a big deal, in the words of Louis C.K., "You're gonna fuck em up about their shit!" In other words, say hello to poop disorders later in life. Then your kid's gonna curse you the rest of their life.

You can turn your head away, you can turn a fan on to blow the stink away from your nose, but you can't say, "Eww, gross," or whatever. While poop's not pleasant, it is an inescapable part of life and we all have to deal with it. We've all got our own ass wiping techniques, and we don't share them with other people, but we're all awesome at it. And whenever you wipe your own ass, do you ever think, "JEsus! EUK!" ? No, you just avoid looking at it too much and flush it away and WASH YOUR GODDAM HANDS.

Robert Habershan, I miss you man. You touched thousands of lives with your natural, gentle way of explaining the fascinating universe beyond our small globe. Memorial service at Seattle Central, Tuesday the 17th at 2:00 pm, SAM building study lounge.



She's getting older.
      -loves Play-Doh now
      -puts it up to her mouth and looks at me like, "This is gonna make you mad, right?" Every time I laugh at her. Except when she does it w/o realizing.
      -keeps it on the table, and picks it up when it falls to the floor

She can make it all flat, and pull it apart into many, many, many small pieces, but can't ball it up yet.

She had diarrhea twice this morning. Ew.

We're watching Fraggle Rock now. I used to have a No TV B4 Nap rule, but now I just.... don't care. As much. I realized that the stuff that'll damage her most is violence and such, and she's just watching children's programming, and responds to it. So like... fuck it. Tv's not bad for you unless you watch bad tv.

"There it is again! Gobo Fraggle. Why are we always getting postcards for a guy named Gobo Fraggle?"

She can also ask to be carried ("cawy"), and to get down off the swing ("Dah"), and "Up," and she said "Uncle" and "Aunt" the other day....

Okay Play-Doh's gettin outta hand. Go time.


I cut myself

Kitchen lesson 1: don't be an idiot

So I'm at work and I'm cooking and shit and I run out of jalapenos on the line, so whatdoIdo? I go get a big ol' can of jalapenos and try to open it with this shitty old can opener. And it's busy so I don't really have time to think about how that can's getting cut, I just need jalapenos out of there, NOW! Customers are waiting for their "Irish" nacho that needs the jalapenos with its tomatoes, black olives and scallions. (red, green, black, green, always with scallions on top cause they look all nice and delicate)

So later when the rush dies down I go back to the can to get it flattened and recycled. It's empty and rinsed out and the bottom is still intact. The top circular lid is still connected to two points at like either end of the circumference. Shitty can opener.

So what do I do? I try to rip the lid off with my bare hands. Stupid. Bullshit. I'm thinking back on it now and kicking my inner self for such a dumb move. I'm pulling on this fucker as hard as I can, and then Khara walks in and says hi and that's when the lid came off, and I didn't see the exact point that sliced my palm, but my palm got sliced.

What does Khara do? She helps me out with bandaging up my wound in the bathroom. It was awesome. If you're reading this, Khara, you were a lifesaver. Thank you.

The lower pic shows a part of my upper thumb that got cut off, but didn't really bleed. It was just this red dot that also was a new addition (or subtraction) to my hand.

Ah, gad.

So after that, I go back to cooking with some extreme bandaging on my hand with a glove over it. The bleeding stopped quickly. Believe me, people, I've given much thought to food contamination. I wouldn't have gone back to cooking if I thought there was any chance of any bodily fluids interacting with the food.

You see where that cut is? Right near the webbing of my right hand, my good hand. Every time I would grab something even slightly heavy, like the fry bowl for example, I could feel the hot shooting pain rockets of my hand trying to heal itself amid this stupid body controlled by a boy who tries to rip jagged metal lids off of big metal cans, trying to lift stuff with said hand. That's my cutting hand, too. I hold the knife with that hand. Trying to slice 11 slices off a baguette had never been slower or more painful.

That's what you get if you cut yourself, though. You've got pain, and you've got to deal with it. When I got back to the line to resume cooking, I called my coworker and got his voice mail. My cell battery was dying, so I just put the phone aside and didn't hear when he called back. I was too busy trying to cook with a pain thunderstorm in my brain. So when he called the restaurant to tell me he would close for me, I was instantly relieved.

He couldn't get there for another few hours, so for however long that was (felt like for-fucking-ever), I was constantly looking at the door to see if he happened to be walking in when I happened to be looking at the door. And every time I did it, I told myself, "Stop it. Stop torturing yourself. Cook. Wash dishes. Work. You've dug your own hole, now climb out. He'll get here when he gets here."

I had finished cooking all the food for the time being, and moved on to the dish pile that was steadily growing. My head was full of pain noise. The dirty dishes were laughing at me as I wrestled them onto the dish tray. Then behind me I hear, "Hey, man."

It was him. Joel St. John. Suited up and ready to go. Saint be praised. I offered to stay and help him with the dishes, but he said I could just leave, and I was like, ok I'm gonna leave, and he was like, ok, and I was like, cool, and then he was like, bye.

There's a small consolation I can take away from this. The act I was engaging in, the act that got me cut, is one I can easily avoid in the future. Now if it were a knife cut, I'd feel stupider. Knife use is necessary for my work, and if using a knife gets me cut, then what the fuck am I doing in a kitchen? My knife use is responsible and I don't often cut myself with knives. The last time I did I had to have eight stitches in my left thumb knuckle. I now cut using the left-hand claw and it's treating me well.

Thank fuck I didn't have to go to the hospital.