"has very low kitchen"

...so I call this nice lady today to ask her about her house for rent, and the first thing she asks is when we want to move in. Of course I tell her we're ready to move in right now. And then, naturally, she asks, "Are you over six feet tall?"

Huh?

Turns out, the place "has very low kitchen," according to craigslist. In my hurry, I had overlooked that detail, or simply didn't understand what that meant. She explains to me that there are low ceilings involved, and with my height, I might be uncomfortable in this place, but I should come check it out anyway (which the wifie and I will be doing tomorrow at noon), particularly because of the other words used to describe the place: "funky" and "charming." Now to those who knew our Oceano house, it might certainly be described as both funky and charming, so I'm already feeling really comfortable with the thought of this place. Aside from the possible height limit, of course.

//

(...oh, and check out that little thingy on the right, next to my picture. That changed!)

goodbye California soil, for a while

I think this humble heap of crap represents the sum of my earthly possessions. Or at least the part that will accompany me to Hawaii.

Oh, and in case you didn't know, moving sucks.

Reason #497 not to move

Chacho's!

This luscious Mexican take-out is a mere stone's throw away (or burrito's throw, if you prefer) from our house. I can suggest the carne asada burrito with everything -- beans, rice, guacamole, sour cream, enchilada salsa and cheese melted on top.

Sweet, sweet unemployment

How do you end your last day of work? Stay out late cavorting with these kids, of course!!

(see? big Anna, little Wiens)

Damon & Naomi / weeds

Always happy to find threads of inspiration and beauty leading away from or toward Luna, my favorite band of 2003-2004 (and one of the most underrated bands of all time), I was was very pleased indeed to spot Damon & Naomi, formerly the drummer and bassist, respectively, of Galaxie 500, which until 1991 was fronted by Luna guitarist, vocalist, and songwriter Dean Wareham. Anyway, sure enough, barely visible, slumped low on the lowest shelf of the listening station, it caught my eye in the record store today, the re-release of the 1992 More Sad Hits, apparently a tribute of sorts to the breakup of Galaxie 500. I'm totally biased, and I imagine for someone unacquainted with G5, it might seem totally pedantic and unmemorable, but for me it is a psychedelic breath of fresh air. Mmmmm....

//

I have TWO DAYS of work left. That means I have almost nothing left to do. My cubicle is nearly empty, nobody's stuffing my inbox with impossible-to-review reports, and I surf the net a lot, while gently deriding my cubie-neighbors with insults that they take all too well. Honestly, I'd like to have more time to spend at home pulling weeds:

Catch-up! 30! Tropicalia! Sigur Ros!

I guess somewhere between selling all our furniture on Craigslist, deep-cleaning the house and yard, and trying to squeeze in all sorts of quality time with our peeps, I've wandered away from my posting obligations. So in an effort to catch up, I offer three tiny glimpses:

1: I turned 30! My wifie and friends did a killer job of making it a memorable weekend. Tsurugi and Frog & Peach one night, barbecue the next day. Naturally, these crazy kids were there:

See that? That's home-made ice cream!

2: Fourth of July, we rented a giant pickup, loaded up the contents of the garage along with Arlo and big and little Wiens, and drove up to the parents' place, where Corr and Brian and Kev and Krissy were waiting for a weekend of revelry. And we wore our swimsuits the whole time. It was, of course, a balmy three hundred degrees and there was much pool time, wii-bowling, barbecue, etc. Kev got baptized and Brian and I got to dunk him!

3: After years of living a stone's throw from the beach, we knew we were long overdue for a beach bonfire. This one came complete with cloves, and was preceded by wine in the backyard (of course), more wine on the patio....er....fence in front of Mamma's Meatball, and a scrumptious Italian meal.

//

On the drive back from the 4th weekend, music-man extraordinaire Arlo shared with us Tropicália: ou Panis et Circenses, the amazing Brazilian collaboration album from 1968 that I wish I had discovered long ago. Having had barely one good listen to it, I'll go out on a limb and say that at worst it's in the running for my favorite discovery-album of the year, and at best it's a work of genius, and perhaps the single most exciting chunk of music I'll hear in my lifetime (aside, of course, from Glenn Gould's 1981 rendering of the Goldberg Variations).

And speaking of genius, I'll just go ahead and hit you with a double. I was in Boo Boo Records yesterday, and came across the new Sigur Rós album Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust. Knowing next-to-nothing about the band, I had almost no expectations. As it turns out, it's absolutely epic. This album shows the band equally adept at minimalist piano lullabies, gigantic neo-classical orchestrations, and ear-pounding rock jams. And those Vonlenska lyrics? Who cares. They're beautiful, whatever they are. Jónsi Birgisson could sing you the Thursday morning paper in that voice and it would be mind-blowing. Yep, my babies are going to grow up Sigur Rós fans. Just have a listen to "Festival" and you'll know what I mean.

Let's get it over with already

As I officially launch into the very last month that I'll perhaps ever live in SLO-town, I realize the emotional roller-coaster is starting to kick into high gear. I simply love this place too much. An evening spent at Spike's, for instance, is almost enough to bring me to tears. I'm excited to leave (who wouldn't be?) and still all twisted up inside because I absolutely hate that I'm going. What's wrong with me?

To make matters worse, close on the heels of this insoluble dilemma is another pet problem I can't shake: somehow I'm compelled to constantly wrack my brain itemizing every last possible thing that I want to do, see, or eat before I leave this place. And woe is me if I leave something out.

Here's the thing: I usually think of myself as a guy who's pretty okay with just about everything, and certainly not subject to fits of neurosis. It's at times like this that I find myself alternately clinging to that guy and wanting to curl up on the floor and have a good bawl.