CHBP Mini-shred (A neighborhood review = Z:/£ not another music review)

Yesterday I went to the CHBP for the first time in at least 5 years. I wouldn’t want to start off on a negative note so I won’t. I had an amazing time. It was fantastic. I didn’t lose anything, I didn’t drink so much that I couldn’t skate home, I only spent $80 for the whole day, which is pretty good for a big event.

Now for a little negative. I stopped going years ago because it is pricey. I stopped going years ago because hip hop had really taken a nose dive, and I didn’t like trance-dancing to dubstep (now I do though O.o <=weird). I stopped going, and didn’t miss it because the crowds were way too much, only the first two rows of people danced, and for real though, I was just tapped-out on the f’n scene on Capitol Hill.

I love Seattle. It’s the heart of my art. It’s the soul of my shoes. It’s the cloud in my mind. But sometimes I just need to go to different neighborhoods, or I start to dislike the good things.

Ballard is probably my neighborhood of choice now. I will forever love Georgetown, but it’s a little sleepy for me (maybe I just haven’t fallen in with the right people there?). Fremont is sexy, but it’s not the center of the universe. The big bang is always out in Belltown. I need to explore the CD. I went to The Hop Shop with some friends the other day for the first time, and it was totally chill and reasonable. But for real, when I want a good time, I always go to Shorty’s. It takes me back to places I’ve only read about, like pre-french revolution coffee shops. It’s the place where people go to drink like sailors, play games, talk everything from music to politics to dogwalking, and even though it looks tough, I’ve never seen anyone not-get-in because they were being themselves, smiling, and acting friendly to strangers.

And this brings me back around to the CHBP and the following White Party (a pre-burning-party). I got 86’d from two places I wanted to be for dancing too hard. I didn’t crash into anyone. I did fall over once or twice, but I didn’t make a mess or do any damage to myself or others. And yet, it took the bouncers all of 20 seconds to decide I was wasted, and not just pushing my limits. Two of the other bouncers actually apologized to me for having to 86 me, and quickly retrieved my items from coat check for me. One of them said that he thought it was so they could let more people in and get more money, since they already had mine.

In the end, I’m fine with the whole experience. I had a great skate home on a beautiful night. Or at least as great a skate as is possible in Seattle these days. This city, actually, maybe the whole world is prejudiced against skateboarders. I make the joke, Cyclists hate Cars, Cars hate Cyclists, Pedestrians fear both, but everyone loves Pedestrians (in Seattle that is), and nobody likes a skateboarder except another skateboarder, and skateboarders act like they don’t like anybody. But it’s just a front. It’s not a comment on logic, and it’s not to be taken seriously. Depending on people’s reaction to the joke, I can usually tell if they are in a good mood or not. There’s a lot of ways to disagree or agree with those statements.

Peace and love Seattle,

And a big middle finger to Chris the bouncer at the White Party who sent me packing before I was ready. I don’t think I’ll hurt his feelings saying that; he seems tough enough. But he obviously doesn’t go to festivals, or know how to breakdance, and he better not buy a skateboard. Punk ass ho. JK.

❤ #Seattle #Skate #Ballard

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Signing Mom Up For Facebook

What’s the most difficult job you’ve ever had? Ditch digging? Roofing? Bottom coating boats? Cutting out a brain tumor? Settling a nasty divorce hearing? Embalming bodies? Cleaning toilets at your frat house after a kegger, dude? Just kidding, they don’t clean their toilets 😉 , and that’s not a job; that’s doing a chore in a shitty social club. =/}

Or maybe the most difficult job you’ve ever had was something that doesn’t even sound difficult. Maybe it was taste-testing chocolate bars or beer? Or perhaps, was it catching fish? Or, crunching data? Or possibly, was it watching movies? That was one of my least favorite jobs in my teens at Atom Films here in Seattle.

And maybe after several months, you lost your taste for the very thing you loved. :{ It sucks to get tired of what we love because, HEY, we once loved those things! But it will happen, right? Don’t lie.

Does that make you worry a little? Well, probably. We’re just human. And at the end of the day, I say, “Play it again, Sam.” Cuz that’s just part of our job sometimes. But, we gotta pop back up quick when we get knocked down. Otherwise, we lose the game.

For most of us in the States, work is how we guarantee our daily food, water, and shelter, both for ourselves and for the people we love here.

So if I’m going to blog about awesome workers in Seattle, I feel I need to qualify my blog from the very start. Here it goes.

I’m calling my shots – trust me – my experience isn’t unique – this is just my experience that I want to share – this is my Tardis – this is how I get to travel back in time, even if it’s only my life; AND FOR MY NERDS!!! At least I don’t create a paradox and blackhole us out of existence by doing this.

None of us here in the states are working as hard as some of the folks I met in Guatemala. In Guatemala, especially outside of the city, a job was a godsend. For many, to work was to have found the grace of a higher being. To speak English was nearly to guarantee finding work. Someone might argue with me on this point. But this is what I saw. I wish I had taken more pictures, but many Mayans believe it steals their soul. And yet again, I digress, so let me truly digress. *Aside* Some of the best pictures I saw of working conditions in Guatemala were shown at the Spanish Embassy in Antigua, Guatemala. If anyone remembers the exhibit there, Jan. 2011, I’d love to hear from you. *Aside /*

There were families that walked into the market center of Antigua every day, except the days where their goods fetched better prices at another market, I think it was Tuesdays & Thursdays. Watching them, I saw truly hard work, and gained perspective. Let’s say the youngest worker helping carry items was 6 years old, while the oldest appeared to be seventy or maybe older. They all carried at least their weight in goods to the daily market from what I could tell. The slope they traversed (up, and down, not side to side) to get to El Mercado would be the envy of any Washington ski resort in both pitch and length. The tools they carried and the wares they sold engulfed them, and bent them at knee, back, wrist, and neck. It was clear they would get injured eventually, disabled eventually, and at the same time, you knew there was no vacation except maybe Sunday. How did I know? Because I would go buy fresh avocados or papayas from them at my leisure, for little more expense than a one block walk and a silver dollar.

Or let me talk about a specific family, which was dear to us at our Hostel, La Terraza (The Terrace). This was the local family of recyclers. The matriarch came by a couple times a week for our empties with her two young sons in tow. Her one son, who was seriously ill and physically disabled, lay strapped to her chest as she worked. Her other son, probably nine years old, helped her by carrying cement bags filled with cans too, almost no bottles, because they fetched a higher return and went right back to the the beer companies in their delivery crates. At least she still had a smile, and he still had a hand to fist bump, that is, if it wan’t already filled with bags of our garbage. Then we’d bump elbows. *aside* Paola, can you remember their names for me please? They deserve some credit, as do you for supplementing their hard work with some free baby food and medicine. *aside /*

Digressing terribly, I will apologize for my knock earlier against fraternities because some people join frats to improve their chances to find work that they love, which I think is honorable. I’ll continue this apology — since I really did detest frat-life at Trinity College after just one semester as an attendee not even as a brother– by saying, that some people do it to make friends, find housing, get connections and other reasons that I can’t fathom. And all of this helps them get closer to doing what they truly want to do. Having work we love, makes life not feel like work at all.

I’m tempted to end this discordant post (did I really just apologize for frat-life after talking about how hard some Guatemalan’s have it). There’s something sick in my brain, but I admit it, unlike so many other people. And for this, I give love to all my friends, my mom, Dr. Tom Semper, the rest of my family too, and I’ll tell you the reason why I single out Mom & Tom.

Tom helped me understand the condition (don’t call it a disease), the medication options (a leetle scary but useful), and he gave me the clarity of thought to step back from the emotional roller-coaster and find myself again.

However, Mom has given me a safe location (her house), where I can be myself, get judged daily by smart people, and still hold my head up. She’s taken very good care of me while I’ve tried to find a way back to a more productive life.  And finally, she’s living proof that someone with a disease (diabetes), can manage this condition (insulin & diet), and beat the fuckin odds. My mom was supposed to die before she turned 50. She celebrated her 65th birthday this year. Why I envy my mom’s disease, and loathe my condition, we could possibly cure diabetes, but people don’t seem to believe there’s a way to cure a condition like bipolarity. I hope they’re wrong for me, and right for her. So what do you do after you have a little cry? I listen to tunes I love, and I write down a quote I’ve heard before.

So tell me, “How do you eat an elephant?” (pause1), (pause2), (pause3), “One bite at a time. And sometimes with a knife, fork, and napkin round your neck just for posterity.” ~Credit Chris Bromwell from The Yard for teaching me this expression.

~Listening to @Macklemore, “Ten Thousand Hours” via Grooveshark