Babe Roof

So this job i have takes me to all sorts of "glamorous" locations most recently up on the roof.  To be specific multiple studio roofs, some many stories high.

Being acrophobic its not exactly the career i would have chosen for myself but its an honest living and it is forcing me to confront some of my demons including the one that taunts me about my life choices...plus i get to wear some super hot lace up work boots and a hard hat...bonus!



The Roofwalker
By Adrienne Rich

Over the half-finished houses
night comes. The builders
stand on the roof. It is
quiet after the hammers,
the pulleys hang slack.
Giants, the roofwalkers,
on a listing deck, the wave
of darkness about to break
on their heads. The sky
is a torn sail where figures
pass magnified, shadows
on a burning deck.

I feel like them up there:
exposed, larger than life,
and due to break my neck.

Was it worthwhile to lay—
with infinite exertion—
a roof I can’t live under?
—All those blueprints,
closings of gaps
measurings, calculations?
A life I didn’t choose
chose me: even
my tools are the wrong ones
for what I have to do.
I’m naked, ignorant,
a naked man fleeing
across the roofs
who could with a shade of difference
be sitting in the lamplight
against the cream wallpaper
reading—not with indifference—
about a naked man
fleeing across the roofs.

No Brown M&Ms

My parrot's rider is as follows: "NO RED FOOD"

It doesn't matter if it is animal, vegetable or mineral she will either eat around it, scoop it out to litter the bottom of her cage or on the rare occasion she actually gets something red in her beak she goes through the elaborate process of dunking it into her water dish (creating a viscous au jus) mashing it up and flinging it onto the wall. 

In her defense it a fabulous representation of Abstract Expressionism and far be it for me to ever question the inner workings of an artistic mind. 

Truckin

T.I.P*

Augustus Owsley "Bear" Stanley III

1935-2011

Southern blue-blood, engineer, ballet dancer, broadcaster, alchemist, carnivore, jewelry maker, cancer survivor, artist, great-grandfather, muse, genius
...all the colors of the rainbow await you.


*Trip in Peace

Wait, what?

One of my favorite things in the history of ever is catching snippets of conversations...it's like beat poetry or found art and i cant help but wonder at its interpretation.

Scene: Orange County Swap Meet
Cast: 20-something man and woman

Woman - If we are going to do a thing then we need to do it the right way.
Man - Nobody drinks their own pee.

Were these people having two different conversations or do they need to fire their wedding planner? 

License to Carry

Concealed Waffles

You feelin lucky punk?

um...uh...

Dear Diary,
Today we had beef stew for dinner.  It is raining.

excuses, excuses

The reason i never create anything is because i don't know where to start..or maybe I'm just lazy. 

Take this blog for example...pretty sure this will be the only thing i ever post. 

As a kid i would receive gifts of those little books with the lock and key and "Diary" stamped on the front in gold foil. And because my head is a crazy place I would always think to myself "diary" equals "diarrhea" and therefore you were to empty yourself onto its pages.  Yeah, i know...i should have been medicated.

So I would crack it open, feel unsettled that it wasn't January 1st and one of two things would happen.  I would either set it aside vowing to save it until the next new year rolled around (and would immediately forget the plan and lose the book) or I would push past the OCD, open the book and start on the appropriate date.

Dear Diary,

I'm going to write in you everyday so that when I'm old and famous people will find you and know that i was a child prodigy and sell this for a million dollars.

Okay, so that is what would go on in my head but really the little lined page would look something like this:

Dear Diary,
Today we had tacos.

And a week later:

Dear Diary,
Today we had meatloaf. It is raining.

then maybe 4 or 5 months would go by:

Dear Diary,
Mommy is mean and i hate her.

No explanation but it probably had something to do with not letting me get my ears pierced or making me eat Spam. 

And that would be it...362 blank pages with crisp gold edges still pressed tight.
 
This would replay itself throughout my life...as a teen the entries would revolve around boys and the usual angst of the young and frustrated but still never more than two or three lines a year. 

Maybe i was too busy living to write about it, maybe i was just overwhelmed by those blank pages and my lack of anything meaningful to say...probably i was just lazy.