By Sunday, wandering the Fremont Sunday Market and seeing all the same stuff that's always there, I was in quite a weird mood. I hopped a bus downtown to check out the Batman: Dark Knight movie at the Cinerama, thinking that perhaps it would cheer me up.

It did, a little. You know, honestly those seats at Cinerama are of the most uncomfortable kind. Kind of lame for a deluxe movie theater. By the time I left, my back was in knots from having no way to comfortably sit for the whole movie.

I walked out, hungry and in a daze with a small bowl in my pocket to smoke. I wanted a little company for it. So, I went to what's known as 'the stage'... a tiered platform at Westlake Center where the homeless kids hang out. I kind of plopped myself down on one of the steps and people-watched and let everyone sitting there check me out.

Before long, a well-groomed guy with a goatee and nice jeans showed up and started chatting everyone up. He was the only black guy among them, so of course he went by the moniker "whitey". He obviously had a job and a place, but had been among this crowd before and still hung out with them.

Everyone seemed to know him. I watched him greet everyone and trade barbs, and then he said he was bored and wanted to go drink. He called out one of the girls in the group (Heather) and asked if she wanted to come drink with him. She coolly decided to.

Something about Whitey seemed right, so I stepped up to him and said if they wouldn't mind my company for a moment, I'd buy the first round. He nodded, and started to make his goodbyes and arrangements with the denizens of the stage.

We talked for a moment while people were getting their shit together. There had been some promotion in Westlake center for a new shampoo, with some big clear-walled trailer parked on the wide brick surface of the beach, and it was about wrapping up. There was a cute gay guy in a tight striped shirt trying to get rid of the last of the samples so they could leave, begging the homeless kids to take them off their hands so he could leave and go out on some date he had planned.

Whitey said something to me about it being a little strange that I was willing to go to such great lengths just to hang out (ie. buying a round) but I looked at him and said, "It's not a great length really. It's only about this far." and I held up my thumb and forefinger a couple of inches apart. "Sometimes," I said, "I really need to drink with strangers."

"Hm." he said, and that seemed to satisfy his curiosity.

Other people ended up coming with us, and there was a beer-buying strategy discussion that ended with Whitey and I getting beer. I bought a couple of PBR King-Can six packs and we all headed off to Freeway Park. Evidently this is the safe place for homeless kids to drink, and indeed it was quite a little party on Sunday evening.

Our group settled into a choice spot, my bowl was smoked, and many King-Cans were cracked. We were settled by a big cement fountain, at the bottom of two stairways, and it was a fairly secluded and peaceful location with a view of some nice tall buildings.

There were a few different groups in the park, and people came and left our group from time to time. One of the guys went by "Frantic" and it turned out that he didn't even know the meaning of the word. I gave a rough definition and then looked up the exact definition on my iPhone, which duly impressed them. Nobody gave me a hard time for it, or made me feel out of place, even though I was dressed pretty nice.

Whitey himself was quite a character. I guessed correctly that he had been a former homeless person and meth head himself, and that he had rose to his current situation by getting up mornings under a bridge and hauling his ass to the day-labor place every morning.

He seemed to consider himself a bit of a street preacher to this kids, and clearly imagined them to be his flock in some way. We was well-spoken, prideful, actually kinda wise, and proud of his income and situation. He only had a room, but talked about how important a goal it was to him to get a place of his own at some point so he could cook breakfast naked in his kitchen if he wished. Having wanted that once myself and finally attained it I totally understood him. Even though I rarely do any actual naked cooking... it's just too chilly most of the time.

I looked up at him, and I had a realization, even as I spoke it aloud, "Know why I wanted to hang out, Whitey? Because there's this guy I know, that I really love, but I'm having some serious struggles with. I guess I kind of thought that this would help me work it out."

He really did look like the guy, and have the same air of lordly wisdom and arrogance, and addict history behind him. He looked me in the eye.

"Hey, I'm not the guy you're in love with," he said, simply.

I laughed my ass off. "I know, and I'm not trying to make you him. But it helps me somehow."

That seemed to satisfy him some, and he did talk about it again later. He said, "If this guy is anything like me, you just need to get together with him and drink, and what's going on between the two of you will naturally come out."

A small group of us went to subway, and I tried not to insult anyone, but I discretely said to a couple of them, "Hey, do you need to be fed?"

I spent probably $30 the whole night on beer and sandwiches, and I would say it was a pretty awesome use of my entertainment dollar. The core group of four of us or so felt happy and well fed as we went back and drank the last of our beers in the park as it got dark.

At one point, Whitey and someone went on a beer run. I gave him a few bucks in cash, and when he left, I just faded off and took a bus home.

The view from outside:

The lovely kitchen:

View from the deck:

The wee living toom:

I turned 33 and that put some things in perspective. I had some kind of feeling like something was going to go sproing or blow up but it didn't. Some of my girlfriends met each other and my friends, and I drank a lot of rum and helped break Jacob's all-time-hot-tub-capacity-record (old record: 14, new record: 16).

All my old friends from Rockford are my myspace or facebook friends. My mom is like the lone holdout. My mom's going to do bees this year so I'm going back to Rockford in the fall for the honey harvest. Nothing blew up. I just lived a year, and maybe didn't do such a bad job this time. I have few complaints. I give myself like an "Exceeds Expectations". Let's try it again right?

For my upstairs neighbors though, things DID change quite a bit. They've been married for 16 years and just decided to break up. They couldn't handle the planning of the guy's 50th birthday party I guess. That was the final straw.

Ok, some shout outs:

Amanda-K: Damn girl, you've stuck by me. Sure I'll DJ your damn wedding, even if you already have the playlist picked out. Nice owl sketch on your invite.

Amanda-Portland: Karmapa 08! Okay, fine, don't like seafood, even though it's the best thing ever. You're my sangha forever.

Amanda-Work: What a surprise you turned out to be! Glad you're probably gonna get the hell out of dodge. You need a larger ecosystem. Daaamn.

Bri: That's a hell of a boobie cake and I'm down with caramel buttercream from now on. You can hit me with the Alpha Dirty Delta paddle anytime.

Katie Meyer: You got a good man, and you happen to be one of the coolest girls I've ever met. Don't every change. No, I'm kidding, you have to change, but keep being like... an earth-muffin-gone-wild like you are.

Steph: Wow... way to kick up all the old feelings via Facebook. You're old school, right back to goo, pickle. I'm still a fan.

Sodenkamp: Once my partner. Now my friend. It's perfect. I'm glad we make money separately now, cause you're a good friend. Good as in valuable.

Metal Heart: Way to show me the art of mysterious loving. I still don't know what fucking language you're speaking. Is it bearfish? Kittenbear? You still owe me a glass unicorn and some K.B. bling.

David Clees: Hey man, the therapy is pretty funny anyway, even if I'm still a fucker. I hope this is helping, because it's expensive. I think it is.

David T: We invented the Apple Pastorius together and it's still one of my favorite desserts ever. You still listen to Jaco?

L'ellen: Sweet thang. I wish I was as cool as you are when I was 23.

Suki Tsunami: OUUUCHHH. OWWWW.

Lenzini and Wilder: You two help keep my job exciting. I work hard for you! Who else would I bring music, salami and cactuses into work for? I even installed windows live chat on my fricking MAC just so you could draw me a picture of a cactus in a shiny question mark box.

Bougieman: You are the dirtiest man I have ever met. I didn't even know people got so dirty like you. You are bent man. Completely twisted to the core. And yet... you are the sweetest. You make dirty horrible comics forever you beautiful rubberfaced man.

Jesse (James) (With no 'i'): Hug dates rule. I'll tell you how to sell yourself anytime. You are totally salable.

Rachel: Talk about steadfast. I can't come to the fund raiser but I'm damn well coming to the dance.

Blackbraid: You wily man... what did you do with the Daniel we all knew and loved!

Marc from the Dodos: You write real pretty songs.

Okay, that's enough with the shout outs. No one reads this anyway. It's okay, it's just for me. It's actually more private to write on a blog than on Microsoft Word, cause there's so much writing on the web you have anonymity by default. No one cares! Unless they google "dirty comic cactus jaco pastorius earth-muffin-gone-wild" and then I will be the number one hit and they will read with rapt attention.

You know, I still get a lot of hits for "girls arm wrestling" which is evidently a very erotic experience. It wasn't very erotic for me when a girl from my work many years ago beat me armwrestling at a Redmond Azteca and saw me on TV naked except for a rabbit skin jacket.

On the University of Washington campus grounds, there is a work of art known as "The Department of Forensic Morphology Annex". The work basically looks like a large sheet metal igloo, and where an entryway would be, there is a complex latticework skeleton of interlocking circles. Through these holes, semi-retarded university students toss empty bottles of Mountain Dew and discarded roaches.

I've always loved the work, and one day, while bored and stoned, walking around with Jessetastic, I began hitting the sculpture with the palm of my hand. It made a variety of sounds, and before long I was feverishly playing a little musical composition with my heels and hands.

I got a little dream in my heart that I would invite people I knew in the spring, and play a whole concert at the piece, and it never left me. I didn't know the name of the piece and couldn't find it mentioned on any description of the campus' public art.

Eventually I contacted the campus and found Kurt Kiefer, the director of public art on campus, and he was incredibly nice. I put together a letter for Kurt. Sadly, I got the following response:

Hi Daniel,

Well, it appears that Cris Bruch is very much opposed to this because of the possibility of damage to the work. I think I need to go with his wishes and not allow the concert. Thanks for asking.

Kurt

Ross is one of them though. I was friends with Lauren Beth Yockey for awhile before I met Ross Yockey. She had told me about her parents, and then abrubtly they moved to Seattle and I got to know them. Joanne with her quiet southern dignity, and Ross with his enthusiastic lust for life, and intense curiousity.

I was a writer and so we gravitated together. His curiousity was insatiable and he would always ask a million questions of me. He could not be satisfied by shallow answers,

When I wrote a book of poetry as an elaborate Christmas card, and gave it to people as a Christmas gift, he stopped there in Beth's living room and read it, in its entirety. He looked at me with a devilish look and read a poem aloud for me, as if it were an imperative.

One time, when I was talking to him about marraige. (I was engaged and asking for advice.) He told me, "It's best to just do whatever your wife wants. It works out better that way." I chuckled at him, but he was right. Joanne said, "You just have to keep talking."

Ross has been on the way out for awhile. The last 3 parties I saw him at, he had a tank of O2 in tow, and it hurt me to see him, swollen and dying. I asked Beth if I should call Joanne, and she said I should call Ross and see him. But I fucked up. I missed my chance to spend a moment with him, and soak up what he had to say one last time. Or provide a moment of comfort to him. Whichever.

Shit. Now I have someone to pour out Chardonnay for. Ross, thanks man, you raised up a good woman, and you left two good women behind. I miss you so much already.

This sat on my hard drive for quite some time, since the first 30 seconds of it really turned me off. Seriously, I was like, "What kind of emo crap is this?" But, you know, pitchfork gave it a really good review and I'm a sucker for that. Good thing I am, though, because this album is truly beautiful. Even that first emo song.

The Stage Names sets the stage in that first song by comparing life to a movie. Not a brand new theme, right? Life is not a movie, or perhaps, right? I wasn't too impressed.

But then, in the second song, Okkervil River makes it clear how they're gonna roll:

What gives this mess some grace unless it's kicks, man
Unless it's fiction
Unless it's sweat or it's songs

What hits against this chest unless it's a sick man's hand
From some midlevel band
He's been driving too long

Then, he hits his stride for real in Plus Ones, where he talks about the limits to numbered things like tears, luftballoons, and ways to leave your lover:

No one wants to hear about your 97th tear
So dry your eyes or let it go uncried, my dear
I am all out of love to mouth and to your ear
And not above letting a love song disappear before it's written

Let fall your soft and swaying skirt
Let fall your shoes
Let fall your shirt
I'm not the ladykilling sort
Enough to hurt
A girl in port

There's something special about this one... it's been probably since Iron and Wine dropped Shepherd's Dog that I've heard something so lyrically rich and sincere. The music's not bad either. ;)

Now that I'm in the stride of Vampire Weekend's debut album: Vampire Weekend, I can listen to it almost ceaselessly, kind of like many people can Paul Simon's Graceland, which is practically this album's spiritual father.

In Graceland, though, Paul Simon hired a bunch of African musicians to accompany his band. Vampire Weekend's percussionist, Chris Tomson, does a great job of African pop drumming all by himself.

It's not really African music though, any more than The Police was really reggae music. (Vampire Weekend's song "The Kids Don't Stand a Chance" could easily be a Police song, if The Police could write such smart, snappy lyrics.)

It is good though, if all pop music were like this, I would listen to more pop music. I almost wanted to dislike it, since I got the impression it was some kind of teeny bopper sensation. It's pretty difficult to dislike, though. Even though I figured it was going to be arrogant college kids overstating the importance of their own worldview, eventually I realized that they make fun of it as much as they explain it.

Can you really hate a band that writes a song ("I Stand Corrected") about sincerely admitting a mistake? When it all comes down, it's just a sweet, smart album with fine musicianship that makes you want to just leave it in the CD player again after it's done.

Of course people have been lauding this album for a dozen years, dirty is long dead, and there's a rap on the new Wu-Tang album lamenting his death (shoulda taken it easy on the Tramadol and coke, dirty), but for me it's a sudden revelation.

For those who have no idea who Russell Tyrone Jones aka. Ol' Dirty Bastard aka. Ol' Dirty Doggie aka. Dirt McGirt aka. Sweet Baby Jesus aka. Freeloading Rusty aka. a bunch of other things even is, he is one of the rappers of the famous Wu-Tang Clan, one of the most famous rap groups of all kinds.

I've heard him rap before, on Wu Tang albums, but it wasn't until I really started listening to Return to the 36 Chambers that I really got the idea of the explosion of madness he really creates.

Method Man, another Wu Tang rapper, once said that Dirty's style had "no father", but I have to disagree. There is a clear father to his style in the crazy howling and singing of Screamin' Jay Hawkins. Even if you're not familiar with Hawkins you've probably at least heard his insane version of "I Put A Spell on You". He sings the standard and deconstructs it into a raw series of howls and growls.

Dirty keeps this tradition, but adds his own strange rapping into the mix. His subject matter is often sexual or mildly, playfully violent, but more often is just his own strange free association on any topic. But no line is ever just spoken straightforwardly. Dirty keeps you guessing with sudden changes of tone, volume and delivery.

In any one song he alternately gurgles, growls, sings like a drunkard, howls in surprise as if the situation he's rapping about is totally new to him, shouts, whispers, makes up new words, does impromptu scat... in short... it's never boring.

That aside, the album itself is great. He sets the tone by pretending to introduce himself on stage, as Russell Jones trying to fauningly introduce Ol' Dirty Bastard, showering him with compliments, but then at the last second forgetting his name and instead introducing James Brown. Finally he remembers who he's introducing, and finally finishes with "I love that guy!"

Then, he takes the stage as ODB himself and begins what sounds like it's going to be a touching ballad with a confessional gone wrong, talking about a girl who gave him gonorrhea twice that he knew for ten minutes. He begins to sing his horrible crooner song about oral sex, and then finally says, "Just kidding, listen to the album, because it's bangin'"

And it is bangin'. RZA is the producer and does it in a simple, amazingly mellow way. ODB clowns and sings in a way that sounds accidental, but with a few repeat listens it's clear that his strange patter and singing is pretty crafted.

Such a strange, confusing, beautiful album. If you ever liked it, give it another listen.

I know, I know what you're thinking. What kind of fabulous photos have you been taking Daniel... if you don't show me, I'll die.

Don't worry... I wouldn't let you die like that. Here's some little sets:

Georgetown in Ruins
Couch Colleen... approved photos only!
Shelley Price, the big trouble.
Oh Strudel, my love.
Boys Night Drinking
Miscelleny in February

Pretty good, I must say... although I wish he would have kept more of the song's natural quirkiness in. He makes it almost as close to like a regular indie rock song as he possibly can, which is kind of cool, but sometimes he misses out on some easy opportunities to bring up the intensity a notch in the way Joanna does so effortlessly.

It's still an amazing song, and I hope some people can listen to it and vibe with it in a way that they wouldn't otherwise be able to because they just can't get over Newsom's voice.

God knows I've gingerly put Joanna Newsom's unreal masterpiece of an album into the hands of many. A couple have totally felt it, but many more have not. Its often the sound of her voice that's the challenge. It's challenging, to be sure, and there's no use talking about it anymore.

I almost hoped that someone would do a magnificent cover of a Ys song I could use to demonstrate the astoundingness of her storytelling and wordplay, but alas, when people cover her, they generally attack the shorter, more coverable songs on Milk-Eyed Mender: Some guy does a pretty good job of The Sprout and the Bean, Some guy does a passable and kinda sweet job of Sadie, and the band Final Fantasy does a cool electronic / violin version of Peach, Plum, Pear.

I pulled out the album the other day and just dove in right at its middle act, at Sawdust and Diamonds. It's such a pleasurable part of the album, and it occurred to me that maybe new or reluctant listeners should try this, skipping the enthusiastic Emily and the over played and over discussed Monkey and Bear.

The story that begins with Sawdust and ends with the final howls of Cosmia is a story all its own. And people... oh ye of little patience, it's not like she's writing music for Mensa members only. Sure there's the little Shakespeare reference here and there, but this is not James Joyce.

It is genuinely sweet and funny, and as you listen to it a few times, just let its little phrases, jokes and turns of phrase come to you in tiny bits. It's more accessible than it first appears. C'mon... Give Joanna Newsom another chance. She's worth it.

Note: I did found an aussie singing this kind of sweet Emily and this somewhat more talented performer doing a fairly impressive cover of Sawdust and Diamonds. These really illustrate how difficult it is to adapt and perform these songs.

I finally decided to buy the CD at the coffee shop counter that was created by one of my everyday baristas at Fremont Coffee. I hoped it didn't suck too badly, because then I'd have to think of something nice to say about it and then never speak of it again. Parker's a sweet-faced guy and I hoped it wasn't so.

Well, thank god it didn't turn out like that. Parker's album (as Prkr), The Felt City, is way better than I expected. Even more impressive is that Prkr made the album in 29 days as a part of the RPM challenge. It could have just been some gentle guitar music, but Parker nests the guitar sounds in his many layers of intricate polyrhythms and crunchy, Matmos-y electronic music.

This mix of real instruments and electronic music, along with themes of human warmth in the face of the coldness of the world, easily reminds me of some Radiohead, including their current and lovely In Rainbows. The other thing The Felt City evokes is The Postal Service, but thankfully Prkr isn't trying to be as completely precious as Ben Gibbons Gibbard. The singing, the lyrics, and the sonic landscapes, are tougher, rougher, and warmer than The Postal Service.

My favorite song is the joyful and clever opener, “G.P.S. Kids.” Of course Prkr wouldn't be the first person to poke fun at these kids today, but you can tell he actually considers himself one of them, liable to "text me your sex / let's see how close we can physically get / and check just how accurate the G.P.S. is".

In “Personnel" and "Intelligensia,” Prkr droningly lists the things you'll encounter as you walk through The Felt City: "Convention centers, escalators, skyscrapers, infiltrators, perpetrators..." among other things. Prkr maps out an impersonal city, darkly referring to plastic flesh and biotech. It's pretty clear that The Felt City is grounded in the real city of Seattle. In the one instrumental track, the throbbing, undulating "Let's Make Out", Parker uses humming, soft choral tones to make his case. Along with “G.P.S. Kids,” Prkr shows that even in the midst of all these skyscrapers there's still room to be sexy and human.

In the song, "Digital Vestiges", Prkr sighingly notices that "When we look close with our microscopes we can see the formulas of life / Does it blow your mind when you find that we are coded in binary / Everything we value so greatly is made the same as machinery." But it's okay... Prkr thinks you should make out anyway.