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Hair Pride
What’s up with Judy Dench’s period ‘fro in Pride & Prejudice? I love it. You could hide a whole battalion of soldiers in that coiffure. She should have won an Oscar for the hair alone. I wish I could go back in time and make a ‘short’ staring Judy Dench and Klaus Kinski. I would have them just standing in some field yelling insults at one another until all hell breaks loose and Judy punches Klaus right in the kisser. It would win many awards.

Question: Why do television news ‘reporters’, when doing a piece on boxing or a particular boxer, feel the need to step in the ring and ‘go a round’ with their news subject? This adds to the story how? Usually the fighter just toys with the reporter and perhaps lands one weak punch before the reporter laughs and throws in the towel. Just once I’d like to see the boxer pull no punches and ludicrously pummel and knock out one of these reporters.

Slash And Burn
An active but relaxing weekend which included: veggie barbecuing, some delirious Xbox killing, watching the NFL draft through sleepy morning eyes (AJ Hawk was a good pick up for the Packers), a visit to the Japanese Gardens, plant purchasing, outdoor patio furniture purchasing, and a heap of yard maintenance.

When we moved into the Ranch, it became apparent that the outdoor estate had not been cared for much in the previous years. Everything was overgrown, trees were hugging other trees, bushes were sick, and weeds were happily in command of the terra. Thus, our main landscaping priority has been removal. Cut it. Slash it. Dig it up. Trim it down. My deforestation scorecard reads ‘four’ but could well reach eight to ten by Summers end. Holly trees are my new enemy and a formidable one at that; their stabbing pointed leaves bring forth fresh cascading strings of expletives. They make me wish I owned a backhoe equipped with twin front-mounted flame-throwers. And, while we are on the subject of pointy stabbing flora, can I just say: fuck roses. I hate roses. They’re ugly, gangly, gothic bushes that look pathetic most of the year and inflict way more damage than they are worth. Fortunately, we got tons of ’em. And, with zen-like patience, I will enjoy ripping apart each and everyone of them. The misses, single-handedly destroyed two yesterday. The bastards got deep roots tho. I wonder if I can get that backhoe on Craigslist.

Someday we actually hope to start planting something.

To The Battlestations
Oi. Too much W-O-R-muthafuckin’-K. I’m dreaming of a calmer time when I can sip cold beverages in the Hammock and listen to Twins games. Although the hammock can be a dangerous place these days. My neighbor’s kid has an arsenal of high powered ‘Water Canons’ that would make Donald Rumsfeld blush. This kid is partial to his new gun which houses a special chamber that keeps water at bone chilling temperatures. I’ve told him time and again that he doesn’t want to start this war but he seems determined to escalate things. I predict a complete ‘Shock & Awe’ overreaction on my part followed by a swift rebuke from the neighborhood council. Hoses are at the ready…

The Arrival of Baby Quinn
My brother became a daddy this last Friday and I became an uncle. Baby Quinn arrived in all her glory Friday at 4:30pm. She came into the world weighing seven pounds and nine ounces. She was 19.25 inches long. The new Aunt and Uncle are very excited. The misses was a tad disappointed tho that the baby didn’t hold out until Saturday as Saturday was the misses’ birthday and she wanted to share the date with baby Quinn.

So much to celebrate.

Typo Detective
When it comes to finding typos, the misses has extraordinary mutant powers. She doesn’t read. She proofreads. I admire her skill, mostly because I lack it. Lack it completely. I used to fear her reading this blog because of my penchant for typos. If it wasn’t for the invention of in-line spellcheck, I don’t think I would have written one bloody word after High School. Still, I need the technology to be way smarter. I constantly use words that, although spelled correctly, are not the words I was really after. For example, ‘courtroom trail’ instead of ‘courtroom trial’. My brain just sees the two words as one in the same.

Unfortunately, Donald L. DuPay did not hire my wife as a campaign proof reader before he went to print with the above. The Oregon Primary Election Voters Pamphlet arrived in the mail yesterday. Over 60 pages of information on candidates and statewide measures. It didn’t take the misses more than 30 seconds of paging through the pamphlet before she said with a chuckle, “Look here, Donald DuPay used to be a Homocide Detective!” Ouch. My guess is Donald’s going to get some shit from his old police buddies for that one. But I feel your pain Donald. I shan’t cast any stones least I get buried underneath an avalanche of broken glass.

Mr. Dupay has a blog! My Favorite line (taken completely out of context): “All my talk about alcohol has made me thirsty. Think I’ll go get a Jello shot!!”

Indeed.

Portland At-A-Glance
A Brilliant and spot on little diorama of life in Stumptown: “A dirty Carhartt jacket, a barking dachshund, a German station wagon, a little craftsman pad, the mean streets of Sandy, all with a sunset Portland backdrop.” (via Coudal).

Last night the misses and I brought home a bag of frozen Salmon Burgers from Costco. Then said bag was left on the kitchen counter overnight. When I discovered our mistake this morning it had turned into a smelly, mushy, warm salmon log. The cats were circling it like vultures.

Bonus: Are You Hot Enough To Play With Journey? (thanks Brian).

Sorry, I Can’t Come Out To Play
Fear not gentle readers this blogging lull is only temporary. For good and ill the work hours have been long and crushing. It’s a big mountain. The summit is still far off above the cloud line and my Sherpas are in desperate need of some social tact and enduring material discipline.

Obviously, the last thing I want to do with afforded downtime is continue typing on keys and further sizzle my retinas on the blaze from monitors. So until someone develops Teleblogging ™, where I can just slap a stylesheet on my thoughts, the blog does suffer.

For some totally unexplainable reason, the home Hi-Fi seems to be stuck on a constant rotation of Journey’s Greatest Hits and a celebration of the entire Tangerine Dream catalog. Weird times.

Getting Lost on The Street of Dreams
Spent Saturday slogging through the rain in order to spy on other peoples homes. Luckily, this was sanctioned spying. It was sanctioned by the organizers of The Street of Eames, a home tour highlighting Northwest regional modern architecture and design. The misses and I are still getting our geographic bearings in this fair city, and we are completely unfamiliar with the Northwest quadrant of the city (we just don’t get invited to those parties). So we killed a lot of the day “Exploring” our new city. But we did end up making it to all the homes. At each home we had to put on those little blue hospital booties so as not to scratch and sully the nice floors. Which was funny cause all the owners had spit shined their wood or (even better) concrete floors. The combination of cloth booties and slick floors turned living rooms into dangerous ice skating rinks. I had visions of guests going double axel before face-planting into a Noguchi coffee table.

Our favorite was the Joss House, built by Pietro Belluschi in 1942. The house, which had a Norwegian Country vibe to it, was cozy to the core and decidedly modern. But not showy or pretentious. No cameras were allowed inside the homes or I would have taken a bunch of snaps. The whole tour had a look but don’t touch vibe to it. At the Joss house, I wanted to take some wood and build a little fire. Then I’d grab a book off one of the built-ins and just cozy up in one of the big chairs.

Surprisingly, the super modern penthouse condo owned by Ann Sacks had very little tile in it. And the tile that was in it was very mellow. I suppose tho, maybe after a long day at the studio/office, the last thing you want to look at is a bathroom full of your own funky tile.

Also, saw the movie Brick this weekend. As a fan of all things Noir, I enjoyed it immensely.

Everyday Style Stealing
That damn Rachel Ray is totally biting my Spring Nederland Style. She’s got no love for the World Cup. She couldn’t tell the difference between a hot maple Stroopwafel and a dirty ash tray at the Pannekoeken Huis. I hear, she doesn’t even like the color orange (*gasp*). And yet, there she is on the cover of the April edition of EveryDay, flying the Dutch voetbal colors while holding a baseball glove and baseball. Oh. I get it. You’re sooooo fucking international Rach’.

OK. Truth be told. I’m not jumping on the ‘Hate Rachel’ bandwagon. I dig her. Just look at what’s inside the latest issue. Foolproof recipes? I need ’em. Backyard Wine Party? I’m drunk just thinking about it. Girl’s Weekend? I’m so there. We can all wear the same orange jackets!

I actually bought my Adidas Dutch World Cup jacket this last Friday as part of a uniform requirement for watching Sunday night Sopranos. Last night I saw it on Rachel in the magazine racks at Barnes & Noble. When I finally walked up to the cashier, I was purchasing the EveryDay magazine and a book called ‘American Hardcore: A Tribal History‘. American Hardcore is a history of the HardCore music movement between 1980 and 1986. The front cover depicts Danny Spira of ‘Wasted Youth‘ bleeding all over himself. At the point when I reached the cashier, I thought to myself, “this has to be one of the most discordant purchases I have ever made”. I defy anybody to top that combination.

I stayed up way too late last night reading the HardCore book. There’s a pretty good history of Black Flag with commentary from all the key players. However, like any shared history, I was disappointed by who got left out and who remained a minor footnote. I don’t care what anyone says, Naked Raygun was the best HardCore band ever! I bet Rachel Ray is totally into them.

Where I Become the Self-Appointed President of The Minnesota Twins Fan Club – West Coast Division.
Dust off the bobbleheads and oil up the glove, it’s time for Baseball. The Magnolia tree is in full bloom, the Japanese maple is glowing a young green, and I got a cupboard full of Speckled Malted Milk Robin Eggs. It must be spring. It must be time for baseball.

I think I like this part of the baseball season the best. The pre-honeymoon part. The part where your team hasn’t even played one inning. It’s just all possibility and promise at this point.

This will be a different kind of season for me as I no longer live in the same state as my home team. Luckily, there’s MLB.TV. God bless the internet for this technological addition. I’m looking forward to getting it all set up on my Pocket PC so I can weed the garden, lord over the BBQ, or simply lie in the hammock while listening to the Twins disembowel and bleed their opponents to death.