What's Up, Hoh?

I have just returned from the forest moon of Endor my friends. Not the friendly home of the Ewoks, but the Endor that might have been if the Empire had been successful in it’s mission to colonize the entire Universe. (I have to pause to catch my breath as our shuttle nearly hit a black beast. The beast turned out to be a big black cow, so lets get out of here.)

As we drove into Hoh Rainforest in Olympic National Park, Highway 101 was lined with re-growth forests. These are feeble attempts that the logging industry makes to justify its clear-cutting deforestation methods. An overly proud sign along the road told us that the last harvest had been in 1984 and replaced with seedlings. Today, these trees stand not too much taller than I do, shadows of the giants they “replace.” They won’t be able to grow to their full potential until well after I am gone, but when is the next harvest planned for? 2036. Oh, how noble of you Pacific Coast Lumber, letting these majestic plants grow to adolescence only to cut them down for your own profit. And what do they do with the slash that is left behind? Burn it, releasing even more carbon dioxide into the atmosphere.


Ironically, this is happening directly across the highway from a massive National Park. I applaud Teddy Roosevelt for establishing the Department of the Interior and the National Park system, but perhaps he didn’t go far enough. Sure, the Parks preserve some of the most beautiful natural parts of our country, but it also introduces humans into these delicate ecosystems. Furthermore, why do humans have the right to set aside this grove for preservation, while the adjacent forest can be abused? What about the millions of organisms that are snuffed out in the process? I’ve seen the other end of the logging industry and it sickens me to think that these plants are going to be mulched and then glued back together and coated with plastic. I would rather have all stainless steel cabinets in my house and brick siding and breathe a little easier.

So, I remind you to keep vigilant Rebels. We may have blown up the Death Star, but we can’t let the Empire win. The fires are still burning and the saws are still running.

The Weather Report

Here I am sitting in a coffee shop (I don't drink coffee) in Seattle (and no it is not Starbucks or Seattle's Best, it's Kaladi Brothers, thanks for asking) to use the internet (a weeks worth of business in a few hours). Dreary. The weather that is. My spirits are high as they can be when I haven't seen the sun in days. I miss you all, especially my sweet Mollypop (guys, snicker if you want to, I don't care). I'm ready to come back. I want to see some snow, it's well past my birthday and I have yet to see those tranquil flakes drop from the clouds. That's all that really makes a good excuse for overcast heavens for days on end for me (of course as far as flakes, California definately has the most of them).

Strangely enough, even though the weather sucks here, the people are really nice. In this case I think Ssack is in good hands. I swear I get more smiles from people walking down the street than I do in Boulder. Perhaps it is because there are a lot of rich, pretentious assholes in Boulder, I don't know (but there are of course plenty of warm, wonderful people too). I guess maybe people in Colorado become spoiled by the sunshine (myself included) and don't feel like they need to brighten anyone's day because our closest star is already doing the job. Either way, many of the people here carry the sun within themselves.

This carries on from a conversation between Ssack, my dad, and I. Ssack had read that Vancouver had the third highest quality of life in the world. We decided that this was true if; you were a multi-millionaire and could afford to have a high quality of life in Vancouver, and weather didn't factor into the equation. It was about the same there as it is here, overcast with constant sprinkles (which are neither rainbow or chocolate as it turns out). I can't imagine what Vancouver has that Denver doesn't (I certainly didn't see it).

Well, whatever, don't let me bring you down, it's just the weather. I'll be back in the sunshine soon to get my color back. Love.

End of the Continent

The Pacific Ocean certainly is humbling. After hacking my way through the Washington rainforest, I stood on the water's edge looking into an infinate stretch of water and fog. The tanker ships floated lost on a horizon of seemingly endless and empty field of tossing water. I stand here at the edge of land and think about how random that it is that I am here today.

Our planet, our "spaceship Earth," as Ssack would call it, is the one inhabitable chunk of iron in our Milky Way galaxy (at least to the extent of our collective human knowledge). The Milky Way is about 100,000 light-years across while the diameter of the Earth is a mere 12,740 kilometers. This planet accounts for far less than 1% of the "stuff" (gases, rocks, other planets) in our immediate galaxy, much less the entire universe.

Now bring it down it even closer to home. The surface area of Earth is about 510,065,600 kilometers squared, and 70% of that surface is covered by water. That leaves about 153,019,680 square kilometers for us humans and the land animals we share it with. Even still a huge amount of that land mass cannot be inhabited by our species effectively.

I turn around and look back at the continent that is nearly 10,000 kilometers across (keep in mind that I can really only see about 20 meters of thick underbrush)and think about how small I really am. I pull off a big impact in my everyday life, but that is really only in human terms. My walk through the forest floor will impact billions of organisms, perhaps even end the lives of millions of them, but won't have anything to do with the other 99.9999999% of this continent, even less of the Earth, and won't even touch the thousands of delicate ecosystems hidden beneath the surface of the ocean. If our planet went the way of Alderon, it would have even less of an impact on the universal level.

As we walked back to the road, Ssack mentioned that he felt that these forests were made for the dinosaurs. All the ferns and thick growth in a thick, humid, and rainy climate transported us back to the age of what are now but fossils. These massive creatures went extinct through no fault of their own, whether it was by way of a comet impact or a catclysmic climate change. Today we may be standing on the brink of yet another Earth shattering climate change, but this time it very well may be a climate change percipitated by the planet's dominate species. Six billion and counting. Perhaps it was time that we let those tiny organisms that think that we are massive re-inherit the Earth.

The Transitive Property of Drinking

Recent research on subjects who attend house parties and situations were alcohol is present has yielded an interesting theory. This theory states that when a subject comes into contact with peers who are significantly more intoxicated than themselves, they seem to absorb and internalize the behavior exhibited by these peers. Example, a female subject walks into a party. Her friends, who are on the dance floor' immediately begin screaming when the subject approaches them. The subject who has just arrived, immediately begins mimmicking this behavior, thus the Transitive Property. This theory is in no way gender restricted, but has been observed more commonly amongst females.

In order for the Transitive Property to occur, three criteria must be met:
1. The subject must have consumed at least one alcoholic beverage over the course of the night, but has not exceeded the threshold of intoxication (.08 BAC).
2. The subject's friends must have consumed significantly more alcohol than the subject and must exceed the threshold for intoxication.
3. The venue of observation must be deemed a "good time" or "happening place" by both the subject and the subject's friends.

The Transitive Property mainfests itself in many different ways, but the overall effect is a seeminly heightened state of inebriation on the subject. This may include loss of inhabitions such as: loss over volume control of the voice, excessive dancing, inablitity to control one's verbal and body language. Other side effects include those commonly associated with alcohol consumption: slurred speech, inability to control one's actions, inability to control one's body or to stand up, or blurring of one's vision.

All of these side effects are related to the subject's "feeling" more intoxicated, without actually "being" more intoxicated. It is very important not to confuse this theory with what is known as the "Placebo Effect." In the Placebo Effect, the subject consumes a drug and begins to exhibit the percived behaviors associated with that drug. For example, a party where non-alcoholic beer is served and the subjects all act drunk even though no one is actually impaired. The Transitive Property explicitly implies that no more of the drug is consumed, yet the subject begins to feel and act more effected by that drug, seemingly through osmosis.

From Alcohol Studies in the Modern World
by Dr. Suss Oren

New Zero Kananda

I had always wanted to live in Canada, especially to escape the political turmoil of my own country, but I am beginning to think that maybe I was wrong. I'll start at the beginning.

We drove in to the country yesterday afternoon to stay for a few days. Apart from Ssack's nervousness and stress at the border checkpoint (the string of questions was accompanied by menacing stares that seemed to suggest that we were doing something wrong by coming here), the crossing went well. Immediately we were thrown into the metric system, which I would certainly not complain aboot, because come on, it just makes more sense. After getting over the initial excitement that gas was just over a dollar (a litre it turns out), we headed up to Vancouver. Before we even made it across the bridge into the city traffic came to a dead stop. In their infinate wisdom, the planners of the city neglected to have any freeway access into downtown. So we found ourselves crawling through miles of suburban sprawl to get to the city. To make matters worse, in Canada you can park in the right lane of traffic on weekends. That's right, there is an entire lane that you pretty much can't use on Saturday/Sunday because there are cars parked there (in addition to the increased volume of traffic due to weekend tourism). The nightmare continues through town as the main streets are stopped due to a totally inefficient light system. Instead of synchronizing, the lights turn red as soon as you get to them, after you just waited at the last intersection.

I don't know if this goes for all major cities in Canada, but here in Vancouver it is nearly impossible to get into a bar. We walk down Granville (the main street) and just to get a drink you must either (a) wait for a table as if it was a restaurant, (b) pay an outrageous $15 cover (even at 2, before last call, they were trying to get at least $10 out of us), or (c) wait in line for up to half an our for a bar that doesn't even appear to be at full capacity (by which time your buzz has worn off because of the lack of drinks in your hand). A little frustrating, and we even had a guide who had been to the city a few times before.

So we finally do find a suitable venue for drinking in one of the cheaper parts of town. Let me preface this by saying that Canadian people are really nice, maybe a little too nice. We walk up to the bar and instead of a crowd of people all vying for drinks, there is a single file line to get drinks. There are barstools lining the bar, but in order to get served you have to wait in the line. After the initial confusion of deciphering what $5 double highballs were (Canadian for double wells), we got our drinks and I serenaded the crowd with a thrilling version of Psycho Killer, while totally butchering the French verse.

Every bar we went to we were required to provide two ID's. I hadn't even expected to get carded, being that I am well over the legal age and haven't been carded at a bar in a big city on this whole trip. This brings me to my next observation. It seems to me that when you can drink in a bar at age 19, by age 23 it seems like everyone is pretty much over it. I swear I was by far the oldest patron of the places we went. Maybe the older cats hang out somewhere that you can't see from the street.

Finally, this place is ungodly expensive. I spent my entire budget for this trip to Canada in one night on drinks (about $70 after paying for the hostel). Drinks are all over $4 and domestic cigarettes cost about $10. At least I have a free place to stay for the next two nights. To say the least I wouldn't really recommend Vancouver as a vacation spot. Maybe next time I'll try Montreal...

End of the Road?

We have got to be the sorriest, least efficient road trippers out there. Talk about distractions. We finally arrived in Bellink-ham, Washington on Monday. A meer 1,764 miles from Colorado in 7 days. Judging from our original trek, from Boulder to Reno in 16 hours, you think we would have been here in just under two days. Wrong. Well, hey that's what's fun about a road trip when you are free from the constraints of time. No jobs, no homes, no cares.

After leaving Reno for San Francisco, the real trip began (apart from the various forms of hallucinations caused by driving through Wyoming at night while all Amp-ed up and Rockstar-ed out). According to our friend Mikey (who graciously allowed us to stay in her guest bedroom) the drive is about two and a half to three hours. It took us seven. First inadvertent stop: the California agricultural checkpoint. Apparently this state is so close to becoming its own nation (look for the CA secession sometime in the not so distant future followed by an utterly ridiculous war between blue and red in a theatre of combat near you) that it needs its own customs agency. I'm not sure what they were looking for, but we had a freshly packed bowl sitting in the dash just asking to be smoked just inside the state of Calimania. They didn't find it (probably an agricultural product that leaves the state more often). What they did find was a trunk/backseat packed to the brim with all of Ssack's stuff. The kid in the orange vest that stopped us looked all bug eyed and asked us to open the back window as an avalanche of sleeping materials and backpacks came tumbling out. After nicely putting it back and closing it up, he sent us on our merry way.

The second stop was wholly necessary. Welcome to Loomis, CA. There is an eggplant festival in Loomis. There is an old Japanese woman in Loomis. There is a family barber in Loomis. And as far as we could tell there is only one hot girl in Loomis, but that's all Loomis really needs.



Outside of Sacramento we attempted, on a whim, to attend Six Flags Discovery Kingdom amusement park, but were shunned at the gates to the parking lot. As a substitute I indulged in a bag of Frito's Scoops and some Frito's Bean Dip. Thrilling nonetheless.

Almost there. Berkeley, that fantasy of every nerdy pseudo-neo-hippy. The student body certainly did resemble this crowd. Pretty town, not the mecca it once was (then again neither is Boulder).

* * *

After walking about 20 miles on Thursday, we depart from San Francisco slightly hungover and adjusting to the lack of altitude. Chex Mix and chocolate milk for breakfast. Once across the Golden Gate bridge, we decide to hop on the Pacific Coast Highway to finally gaze upon the majestic Pacific Ocean. After wading in the shallows of the beach and soaking our jeans (Susan! Pay attention) we observe a sign declaring: Contact with the water is not recommended. The State of California has found levels of bacteria that may be harmful to the human organism. So now they tell us (hey maybe it will kill the scabes, or at least challenge them to a no holds barred battle). We check for signs of infection, find none, and move on. The PCH was beautiful, miles of coastline, cliffs, beaches, and tourists. We ate the most amazing crabcake sandwiches and payed $3.35 a gallon for gas. We glanced at our watches and decided that it was time to head for the more direct route to Portland, OR. We find a path over the mountains (hills) to the 101 on a map at a local gas station, and it was on to Booneville. As it turns out, road maps neglect to show altitudes and the 27 mile trek turns into an hour long ascent of 16% grades and tried not to imagine what this road would be like with snow on it. After a brief cigarette stop to let the brakes cool, we finally made it to the highway. I wish I had taken a photo of it, because just before entering the freeway we saw a sign showing that we were only 111 miles from San Francisco. We had travelled these 111 miles in just about six hours. So much for the scenic route. Needless to say, we didn't make anymore unnecessary pit stops and decided to truck on to Porkland non-stop.

The redwoods were gorgeous outlines of black on black. At one point, while winding through a sketchy part of the 101 with these massive trees literally two and a half feet from the side mirror I decided that Mike Patton needs his own haunted house. This was around dusk while Mr. Bungle blasted the speakers and I wound around thousand foot trees at dusk. These creepy little tourist traps lined the road and beckoned us to stop and have our heads lopped off by a chainsaw. Hey Mike, if you're reading this, think about it and get back to me, perhaps we can get something together for Halloween 2008.

After dropping down into Crescent City, CA the fun really begins. According to our route we are all set to hop over to the Interstate in Reedsport, OR. As it turns out the state of Oregon strongly discourages travelling across their state through the night. Apparently it is against the law in this backward state to pump your own gas. As we roll into the sleepy little town of Reedsport at 2 AM on empty, this brutal realization is brought to our attention. Nothing is open and the pumps are inevitably locked down. A friendly night stocker at the local Safeway tells us that there may or may not be a 24 hour gas station 22 miles in the direction we came from. So we head back South on the 101 praying to the Lord of Fossil Fuels that the little orange light on the gas gauge will hold out for a little bit longer. We barely crest the top of the bridge that brings us into Coos Bay and coast the rest of the way to the gas station, where the attendant cheerfully tops off our fumes and helps us add some oil to the tune of a three dollar tip. If I was a resident of this fucking place, I would write my state Representative and tell them how inconvenient this law is for me.

After sleeping in the car in some parking lot in Portland and being woken up by Earth Intruders (you guys know what I'm talking about when I say Savland, right?), we head up to Mt. Saint Helens. This mountain reportedly discharged its hot lava goo all over the Pac Northwest. I wouldn't know, we drove around for a few hours and never actually saw the mountain. We did however see Ape's Cave. Well I guess see is too strong of a word, apparently you need a flashlight to go spelunking. Who knew?

So here I am. Day 10 (almost). Ssack doesn't have a place and I'm ready to go to Kanada. Wish us luck because I'm not sure how much longer the back axle on the 4Runner is going to last with his entire life back there. Peace Love Happiness to you all.

I Know I’m a Little Late but…

I feel like I have come out of my shell in the last year when it comes to musical taste. What your friends listen to seems to have a huge impact on what most people listen to these days (myself included). All it really comes down to is exposure. What your ear hears on a day to day basis will naturally have some impact on your life and your interaction with music (unless you are one of those people who has the uncanny ability to tune out the world). Therefore, my musical journey began with what my parents gave me: The Wee-Sing series of tapes. I spent hours in my room listening and singing with my monophonic boom box (with I subsequently brought with me on all family road trips until I got my first Walkman for Christmas). Eventually I moved on to radio to seek out some more serious music. As I lived in Texas for elementary school, the selection was limited and I went through my first and only country phase (unless you count Bluegrass to be country, and I don’t). That’s what was there for me to listen to and I loved the hell out of it. The radio was on all the time; in my bedroom, while I was on the computer (yes I started my geekdom quite early on), in the driveway, I couldn’t get enough.

For those of you that don't know me, I have moved on. Phase after phase, my tastes have changed, but one thing has seemed to keep in common. I listen to the same shit my friends do. Not because it’s cool or fresh or I need to fit in, but because that’s what is available. Obviously my ear has developed and I’m not going to love everything you put in front of me, but I am willing to give it a try. (Yesterday, Zack and I stumbled upon a free festival of music in Golden Gate Park. As we were walking up behind the stage my cohort turns and says, “Hmm, they sound pretty good.” In hindsight what he should have said was, “Hmm, they sound pretty tight.” And they did. We find a place to sit because at this point we had been walking around for close to five hours and needed a nap. We sat there for three songs (and I had my suspicions earlier), when “We are America” kicked us in the nuts. That’s right we sat through as much as 10 minutes of the “Coug” before leaving. But hey, we gave it a chance. I’m not trying to dog on the guy or anything because your ear is not my ear, but mine were bleeding.)

Anyway, back to the point (you know, that semi-thesis up at the top). I have finally started serving my own music from the seemingly endless Vegas buffet (the MGM Grand comes to mind). I feel like I am finally free from the whole Jamband thing (don’t get me wrong, the Dead, Phish, Cheese, will always hold a special place in my heart, it just isn’t what I need to hear anymore). I know what I am looking for and I’m figuring out how to find it on my own. I guess I must have come to this realization as I settled into my fourth metal stage. There must be some reason that I keep coming back to the comfort of these heavy fucking riffs, why my favorite touring band of 2004 was Umphrey’s McGee, and why Metallica not only holds a nostalgic value but continues to make me rock out. (…And Justice For All being my favorite because I think they hit their most mature stage while still retaining their excessively heavy background. Some might argue that the Black Album was the perfect balance between metal and melody. Say what you will, if you care.) Most of my favorite music today still retains that heavy element in it whether it be Battles of GY!BE.

Symbolically, and this is why I’m writing this now, an album I bought at Bart’s is my graduation into musical self-discovery. I learned of the band because they are on Constellation, one of my favorite labels, and just had to hear them (experimental buying I guess?). Either way, I’m really happy with my purchase, and I’ve learned that I don’t have to rely on the hard drives of my friends all the time. However, what you are all listening to I’ll always hear and I’m always open to suggestion. Thanks to all my friends past, present, and future. Check out Feu Therese!

Tahoe

You really have to see it to know the meaning of "Keep Tahoe Blue." The colors are incredible and at points you would swear that there was a reef in the shallows. It is a deeper blue than I have seen in any ocean. The mountains climb above its surface to impossible heights while creating an incredible shelf into the depths of the lake. Ski resorts sweep down the hills as if they were naturally carved by the paths of avalanches. Coming from Colorado, this recognition stuns even me. These lift operated playgrounds range from the Vail owned Heavenly on the Nevada side to tiny mom and pop outfits on the West shore. A die hard skier could spend a week here without even seeing all the mountains, much less ride them.

Quite a trip when you can go from such serene nature in California to the most gaudy, neon-infused hotels that house the Nevada side's casinos. There is a street that runs along the state line and on that corner is the first of these money traps. I'll try not to be too bitter, though they did suck over ten dollars from my wallet (but I drank for free). While I explored Harrah's hotel, I discovered a basement eatery called, American River Restaurant. No buffet here, but it was themed like the American wilderness. Yes, plastic versions of the very trees that could be seen less than a mile away from the hotel itself. I found myself wondering if patrons here had ever heard of a picnic in nature where you can hear nothing but the chirp of birds and the snap of twigs under your feet as opposed to the recording piped in through the in-ceiling speaker system. To make matters worse, this restaurant was located directly next to the video arcade, where eager gamblers can stuff twenty bucks into their kids' pockets and not see them for the rest of the day. Besides training young gamblers (the tickets with which kids use to buy worthless crap with actually resemble money), but it keeps them inside in front of video games instead of on the beach, on a hike, or at least horseback riding.

I find it hard to believe that people would go to such a beautiful place just to sit inside all day. Maybe the coming ski season will bring more hope, but until then, stay in California.