Too Legit to Quit...

Big week, much news, not enough words, will try...

Fully licensed, bonded, and insured commercial and residential contractor now...ouch but excited

Seven big jobs on the hook, no employees, never sleep...

Several jobs doing concrete countertops, never done one, will make it up as I go...

Moved into temporary apartment, 3rd floor, overlooking Commencement Bay and downtown Tacoma...kitties anxious, legs tired, excited

Sasquatch last weekend: REM fantastic as always, Michael Franti and Spearhead inspiring, Modest Mouse fuck yeah, Death Cab for Cutie surprisingly awesome live, The Cure disappointing

Will write more when words more easier...

Homeless Is As Homeless Does

I often worry that when I go crazy it will be the flavor of crazy where I wake up in the night and really truly have no idea where I am or how I got there. I'm not talking about your run of the mill I haven't slept in this bed before lost, but seriously lightheadedly disconnected, ungrounded, unhinged...

I already have issues with my spatial placement...I mean, sometimes I am in Washington and I seriously think about just running up to my parents' house for dinner. I'll go so far as to pull my phone out to call my lady and see if she'll go with me to surprise them before I'm like, "holy fucking what the...? You're 2000 miles away, Waldmann..." Or I'll have a hankering for Casey Moore's or Monkeypants or JT's or to see this person or that or go on this hike or whatever-the -fuck-whatever. Vice versa, I'll be in Arizona and decide to take the next day off to go boating on the Puget Sound because fuck it, it's hot or I'll see a show in Seattle and actually buy tickets before I remember I'm nowhere near there...crazy

Its only getting worse, too. Lately I've been revisiting places (in my head) that I've only been to once...not just imagining it either, but seriously trying to remember how to get there by driving. The pauses between thought and realization are getting longer too, and the disappointment is growing more and more poignant as I continue to gather the white in my beard (which, by the way, is out of control these days). I guess it comes with the territory and although I'll admit I'm a little worried, I'm also thinking it might be just another fun adventure, only in my head this time. Either way, I can add teleportation to my list of skills and that's pretty sweet...

In my ongoing struggle to be legit (my ultimate goal is to be so legit as to be unable to quit), I have procured a post office box for myself. This way, no matter how randomly this old body rambles, my mail now has a real home. Did you know that having a PO Box means I have my own zipcode? Well, best believe, my people...and if you want to send everyone that lives in my zipcode (me) a PO Box warming postcard or widget or even a dillsnickity, call, text, or email me and I will supply the digits. Like, you can seriously just address your dillsnickity to my name followed by a series of numbers and it will find me. Maybe you don't find that as amazing as I do, but then, you've probably always had an address...

The above image is a photo of a painting I did of a homeless man in Glenelg, Australia. I painted it, photographed it, and then gave it to him. He was touched and a little confused...

Dance, Monkeys...Dance

http://youtube.com/watch?v=a15KgyXBX24

Our Man BM

This is BM.

OK, he's really not that bad of company (that's not proper grammer and I know it but couldn't care less), unless you are depending on him to get things done in a timely manner or at all, teach you something useful, learn something simple, do you a solid, be honest, or in most ways give two shits about something besides himself without being told to. You should definitely not depend on him not running off into the night while in port and disappearing for three days and when he does return, to not smell like a used condom, have the coke jitters and still not be the slightest bit productive. Just about all you could depend on him to do is massacre the proper pronunciation of Spanish (he actually has quite the Spanish vocab and is a confident conversationalist, but his accent made me cringe), and make this weird pouty face whenever a woman came within 50 yards of him. Woman, in this case, is loosely defined as anyone between the ages of 10 and 85 who might possibly have a vagina or at least one boob...I think he meant the look to be sexy but, at least as far as I could tell, it definitely was not.

Yes, he is wearing a fauxhawk, which we gave him...and when told that it made him look like the douche he is, he took it as a complement.

I was thinking that I would relate a few stories about the overall dillholiness by which his character may be said to be defined, but upon second thought, I shan't. T'would foul my otherwise upbeat reminiscences of this delightful trip, and besides, usually it was more annoying than funny. Suffice to say that if you took all of Shakespeare's pompously self centered and ultimately miserable characters (usually [and unfortunately, because it was a bullshit racist stereotype, which by the way I am in no way invoking here, simply mentioning it because it is true of the character] a swarthy foreigner or covetous "Jew"), mixed them up in a vat along with the addition of 200 years, a dash of sexism, and a pinch of religious intolerance, out would pop our man BM...

There is a story about the fish, but we won't get to that until tomorrow...or maybe the next day.

By the way and in no way in relation, it is fucking gorgeous up here these days...sunny, mid-high 70s...wow.

I Come With The Quickness...

No time to write much...too much to do and whatnot.

Still, you should do as I say and check these sites out:

http://artofpolitics2008.com/gallery.cfm?poster=203&view=pop&r=28
Ha ha, gotcha! Now vote for me dammit!

http://www.videoart.suite.dk/mini-prrints/miniprint-udstilling-2008.htm
http://www.flickr.com/photos/printzerostudios
I am in shows all over the world all the time and I never tell you guys about them...until now. It's no big deal, but the pictures sure look cool. Is that the cultural minister of Denmark? Why yes, yes it is...maybe one of these days I'll actually make it to an opening.

puspa.net
This artist is pretty good, but that's not why you need to see this site. My man Gabe done gone and outdone hisself on this one. It's the shiznizzit, my damie...

And I'm out.

For now.

The Brothers Munson: Wherein I Ramble and Use Many, Many Parentheses

At the top is Captain Destiny, AKA Cody Munson, AKA one half of the brothers Munson. He, technically, was he final authority aboard the Tranquilo on this trip, sometimes to the consternation of the elder half, Buck Munson, pictured below as Special Agent JT Taint, himself also a captain.

Curious about their differences in style? Perhaps not, but you are going to find out anyway. Cody is far quicker, flashier, more willing to put himself in possible harm's way in order to get a particular task completed. For example, rather than wait to be harnessed in order to climb the mast (30 or so feet above the wildly swaying deck), he would scamper up, fix whatever problem, and then scamper back. Yes, scamper. Wiry and tough, he drank far less than either myself or his brother, woke early, was constantly occupied with some sort of project or chart or engine, and ate at least double his own weight in a given day.

Buck is far more deliberate but no less effective, more rigorously safe, and far more able to put aside his responsibilities in order to enjoy fully the immediate moment (though this may be due to the fact that he, technically, had less responsibilities in general than Captain Kid[d]). Closer in age and temperament to myself (read; prone to grumpy sarcasm, slight overindulgence, and flashes of frustrated bursts of effectiveness [?]), Buck was, more often than the others, my date into town.

Both are genius sailors and artists, and as handy and innovative with the tools as any monkey I have ever worked alongside. Plus, there is a certain distinct charm about them both (Cody more boyish, Buck more gruff) that draws the ladies like flies to shit and makes the fellers just kinda want to hang out and stuff. I think, and told the both of them (when, from time to time, they had an inevitable brotherly scuffle), that I would have trusted either one of them to safely lead the crew but that I felt particularly lucky that both were there, as they complement one another incredibly well, and plus in order to get to know either one fully, you gots to sort of get to know the other (they have been brothers for at least as long as Cody has been alive and have shared way more rambunctious adventures than any other pair of brothers of the same mother I have ever met or heard of [except in myth and/or legend]).

I will introduce you to Doucious Mcgee (not his real name but I would rather not have him able to possibly search for himself online [something we all do but probably not nearly as often or with as much gusto as I would bet he does...with his pants off] and be forced to read some of the kinds of things I have to say about him. DM, or BM, as I will call him (because I have a childish sense of humor and therefore find it hilarious) was the fourth member of our party.

One last word about the Cody and Buck, whom most of those of you who may or may not read this have never met (along with other awesomely named adventure partners of mine like Beauvais Debonair, Buttonhole Clockwise, and He-Who-Has-No-Name), you should meet them and will someday. They are kicknards.

El Nino Cumpleano...

Too bad you can't write a tilde, an ene, or an accent on an American keyboard...or those killer upside-down exclamation points that signify not only a point that needs to be made but the saucy fact that the writer has access to a more culturally diverse keyboard than you do, gringo! Verily unto American keyboards I say boo...anyway, I decided that rather than try to cohesively string together some stories from this most recent trip I would post things as they came up, and as I took a shiteload of photos and videos (some underwater...bet you can't even wait!) and as captioning is somewhat quicker than full stories (especially when you obsessively edit the way I do), we're going to be starting with those.

Here goes:

This young boy's mother approached me in a marketplace in Cartagena and shyly asked me to remove my hat. As I did, I naturally asked why, to which she replied that her son had never seen a grown man with blonde hair before and that for his birthday she wanted to give him something he would never forget. Flattered, I shoved her aside and put my hat on the child's head, stuck an edify sticker in his hand, and squeezed off several photos. Unfortunately, he dropped the stickers without me noticing so all I was left with was this shitty picture of him in my stupid hat with stupid balloons. No, you all know I'm kidding...it sort of happened like that but without any sort of ridiculosity or shoving. Isn't he darling? And isn't my hat badass? Too bad I left it on the Tranquilo...hopefully one of the brothers Munson will retrieve it for me...

As for the video below, it was shot near where I encountered the birthday boy. It is of Bolivar Square inside the old walled portion of the city. The square is named after Simon Bolivar, the famed Colombian leader of the South American rebellion against the Spanish. The large white building is the city's center of government. I took a couple of movies of other, possibly more interesting areas inside Cartagena, most notably the market (super vibrant, lots of color), we'll see if I get around to posting them.

I Started A Joke...

...I think that song is by the BeeGees? Maybe not, but it was the number one song for the year of 1976, which is the year I was born. Appropriate? Methinks perchance...

I know I have been promising to write stories and whatnot, but seriously, this blogging thing can be a pain in the arse. Kudos to those who are able to post more often than I (which is just about everybody with a blog)...

Some news for those who care to know:

Sarah Jean just bought her first home. It is (purposefully) a piece of shit shaped like a box with soooooo much potential. We have been designing and redesigning how we're going to fix her up and it has come down to a temporary fix wherein we rip out the entire interior and rebuild it with quality materials to be a snazzy studio apartment with all the trimmings in which we will reside for a couple of years...long term we will refinance and use the scrilly to pull off the roof, add a couple of stories and another wing and make history with the finest completely sustainable urban home ever created. One of the best things about the house is its location (within 20 yards or so there are 4 kickass bars, 3 fine restaurants, 2 clubs, a tattoo parlor, a veterinarian, a palm reader, and, this being the Northwest, about 15 coffee shops). As always, I shall post photos as I take them and we will all keep track of our progress together...

I am a couple of short steps away from finally obtaining my contractor's license (commercial and residential). While this may sound like an accomplishment, it truly is not. The fine state of Washington requires no test and no proven experience for general contractors, only proof of insurance and a business license (we all know I would have blolwn the test apart anyway though...). What this means is that, although I will be a legitimate businessman and therefore able to charge more for my services, I also will be required to pay taxes...an even break so long as I stay busy enough to warrant the cost (which I will, at least for 5 months a year)...

I hate the San Antonio Spurs as much as anyone can hate a professional sports team. Not because they constantly dash the hopes of Suns fans (that is truly the Suns' own fault) but because they have the skills to win cleanly every time they hit the floor and yet rely so heavily on dirty defense and a petulant, self pitying rapport with the referees (who buy into it...what?). I personally blame it on soccer. Follow me now...the Spurs are the most international team in the NBA, and whereas in these United States soccer is all but irrelevant professionally, in the world at large it is the one true game...as anyone who has seen soccer played in Europe especially will testify, the floppingest prima donnas in all sports anywhere flourish there alongside some of the dirtiest players and for sure the most corrupt referees...the international players on the Spurs, having grown up in an atmosphere where petulance and unsportsmanlike conduct are winning strategies in sports, have applied these basic lessons to basketball and validated that approach by winning what, 4 championships in the last 6 years or something? Basically, I blame the French...

I recently entered 3 designs into an online political poster contest. The above piece is my favorite of my entries. To see my other 2 pieces and the rest of the competition and to vote for your favorites (don't feel obligated to vote for mine), visit artofpolitics2008.com...

My sister's cat just recently died, as did my brother's mom. Now, I know that it sounds strange to say, but I barely knew my brother's mother and was good friends with my sister's cat. Also, whereas my brother had nothing but disrespect and disgust for his old lady (fallout from ancient issues that I wish to god he'd been able to address before her death for the sake of his kids if not his own), my sister nothing but admiration for and a heartfelt partnership with her fallen feline companion. So I am left thinking that if the sum total of the human/non-love, animal/love equation determines that they will equally miss their lost loved ones, then that negates the third party requirements for me and I am free to mourn that entity who's passing most deeply affects me. I choose the cat. This, in turn, has sparked a philosophical debate in my own head where feelings of primordial motherguilt rage against an army of small, furry, loveable creatures...with claws.

That is all you need know for now...