I’m also stubbornly refusing to blame this on the recent break-up. The break-up was a catalyst but I was already broken and lost before we parted ways. The relationship was a comfortable place to hide from my problems and now they’re all staring me in the face. I’m too damn old to still be blaming my problems on one relationship.

So one thing that the ending of a long-term relationship does bring to mind is the temporary nature of things. I’m only coming to realize that our twenties are supposed to be this time of transition and change. One decade ago, I was dependent on my parents for everything and one decade from now, well, I don’t know. Climb the career ladder? Marriage? Paternity leave? Race a hot air balloon around the world?

My point is, things are all very temporary right now. My living arrangements will change every year. My friends will change. My job continues to change whether I like it or not. I might fall out of love with Seattle. People are all moving in their own direction and it’s only through dumb luck that our paths continue to cross. Everyone’s a nomad and it seems that it’s precisely the wrong time to put down roots. Now’s the time to demand a sample of every flavor of ice cream.

It’s been 3 years in Seattle and I think I’m running out of excuses to remain stationary.

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This is one of those things that makes me love the fact that I live in America. I picked up a pair of Tellason raw denim jeans about a month ago from a boutique in Ballard and I’m loving them. I’ve worn them practically every day since I got them.

First things first, what on earth is selvage denim? Basically, it’s denim made in an old-fashioned way and typically presented in its raw state. What does this mean for the wearer? Initially, there will be some inconvenience. The indigo dye will run a little, it has not been pre-shrunk and the fabric will be stiff like a bad Halloween costume. There will be none of the fake wear and tear stuff you see on modern jeans; no striping, no holes, no creases, no fraying.

So why subject myself to these inconveniences? Mostly my geeky curiosity. I’ve been promised that this stuff is rugged. But more than that, after pre-shrinking my pair of jeans and really breaking them in for a week, they feel great. My other cheap jeans feel like sweatpants next to my Tellasons. They do flattering things for my legs, they don’t sag around my ass and I can see the first signs of wear and creases that make this pair of jeans uniquely mine.

More than anything else, I love the story behind them. A story that will make people at dinner parties roll their eyes and wonder why the fuck an idiot like me would pay $200 for a brand of jeans that nobody has ever heard of. These jeans are all-American: the denim is from Greensboro, North Carolina, the leather labels are from Portland, Oregon and it’s put all together in San Francisco. And they’re made in that classic way back when a pair of jeans still meant something: straight leg, rugged as shit and a blank canvas for you to create your own wear patterns. Tellason’s first ever run produced a mere 240 pairs of jeans and I managed to snag #223. I won’t lie, the exclusivity makes me feel a little smug.

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We were pre-gaming at a friend’s apartment. I was kicking back a few gin and tonics and I notice Diana having her palm read by a guy that I had met a few times now but hadn’t really spoken to. I didn’t catch what was said to her but before I knew it, he had grabbed my left hand and was examining my palm.

I learned this from my grandfather, he told me. I was surprised that he was serious. I thought it was a just jokey ploy to grope women’s hands. That’s what I’d do.

According to him, I’ll live a long life and be very lucky. A great career and a great marriage but I’ll eventually put the marriage ahead of the career; I’ll ultimately sacrifice my work for my family. But I’ve never seen anything like this, he says, you’re a lucky motherfucker.

Now, I obviously take this kind of thing with a grain of salt but this just happens to be very flattering, coming from a near-complete stranger and exactly what I wanted to hear after a stressful two months of breaking-up.

For the most part, I agree that I’ve been incredibly blessed with way more than I could ever ask for. Perhaps more than I deserve. I continue to unexpectedly stumble into good fortune in places I never thought to look. My parents didn’t have the rosiest of childhoods and somehow I was born into such a remarkably rich life full of potential. I’ve spent most of my time taking it for granted but in times of sadness, I never have to look very far to realize how good I have it.

And for me, family definitely comes before work. I follow my parents’ example of work being a means to an end; to leverage a paycheck to give their kids every possible opportunity. I have my own dreams of contributing to the world and being recognized for my work but at the end of the day, I see no greater prize than providing for the ones you love. Perhaps it’s too modest of a goal but like I said, I feel like I’ve already been gifted with far more than I could ask for.

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Flashback to 1998: The palpable anticipation to party like it was actually 1999, World Cup fever and Ricky Martin’s Cup of Life, Aero Smith’s epic ballad I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing, and Green Day’s Good Riddance riding on the coattails of Seinfeld’s final episode. Meanwhile, I was trying to fit into my suburban Catholic school without much luck; my report cards always mentioned I needed to participate more in social situations and make more friends.

I discovered music was one way in. The cool kids in class listened to Metallica, Nirvana, Korn, Foo Fighers, Marilyn Manson, Sepultura and some other names long evicted from my memory. I picked up on a few songs, borrowed a few CDs and pretty soon I was… still a lonely kid. But at least now I had music as an outlet.

For all the criticisms of their academic standards, this high school did have a well-staffed music program. Surprisingly so, now that I think back on it. Some very patient guitar and drum teachers that tolerated a never-ending stream of angsty teenagers halfheartedly picking up instruments in the hope that they’d finally get noticed and/or laid. My classmate was taking guitar lessons and I signed up with him. My parents were surprisingly ok with this idea; they always wanted me to learn an instrument, they just couldn’t get me excited about one.

I shared weekly lessons with my classmate for 6 months. During that time, I learned a few chords, I passed the entrance exam for a better high school, I developed a crush on a blonde girl with freckles. The first instrument they rented to me was an electric guitar that was more of a mauve abomination. It played well enough for my beginner lessons but it weighed a ton and I managed to break two of the machine heads when it slid off the wall it was leaning against and collided into the floor. The replacement they gave me was a much more modern white-on-red Stratocaster. Played like a dream and I felt like a rock star.

I left that school behind and said my goodbye to the guitar and to the blonde girl with freckles. Like all teenagers, I was ready to give up on my instrument. I was headed to an elitist school full of music scholars and I wasn’t interested in learning about theory and classical style. But my parents insisted I should at least own a guitar. So it was with typical teenage reluctance that they dragged me into a music store and asked to be pointed to the beginner guitars. It was there I picked out a starter kit — a white-on-black Squier Stratocaster with a gig bag and a small amp. It’s spent most of its life propped against my closet door.

Over the many intervening years, I’ve picked it up for short spurts. Learning to sing sad breakup songs as my fingers toyed with the metal strings. Sometimes I’d pick it up and imagine playing on an intimate little stage in a old-fashioned coffee house. Other times, I’d imagine some enchanting girl that would just sit on my bed and listen to me play my saddest songs that I wrote just for her. But most of the time, it remained propped against a wall. I brought it with me to Seattle and it enjoyed being propped against a wall on an entirely different continent.

Well, yesterday was momentous because I finally got my Strat a $10 guitar stand.

My black and white Squier Strat on the left and my new Taylor Big Baby on the right.

Also, I bought him a sibling, another guitar that was probably built in Mexico. I forked out $450 for a Big Baby and it’s a guitar that is so much more suited to me. The Strat is cheap and worn, a symbol of teenage rebellion that never quite lived up to its expectations. The Taylor is smaller but warm, round and surprisingly loud. He’s that plain-looking boy that doesn’t say much but sings like an angel. All he needs now is a name, any suggestions?

I’d be lying if I said I’ve never kissed my guitars. *cough*

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I continue to have a crush on Nataly Dawn of YouTube music duo, Pomplamoose. I don’t think her voice is necessarily suited to some of the covers she does but when it works, it really scratches a certain music itch for me. A little bit Feisty, Cat Powery, jazzy? I’m not sure how to describe it. Somebody on Reddit says she looks like a female Michael Cera. I say that actually sounds kind of cute.

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Virgin Blue’s check-in counter at Melbourne Airport is ridiculously understaffed today. Two open counters for a line of maybe 30 people for bag drop-off. Three open counters for a line of 100 for full check-in. Full service check in is reserved for two types of travelers: those that are too stupid to use the self check-in kiosks and those that booked connecting international flights are are not allowed to use the kiosks.

As an aside, it’s this frustration that leads me to think they should invent a new class of ticket: Help Me. First, Business, Economy and Help Me. These special tickets demand that you arrive at the airport 5 hours before departure and you wait in a long line but at the end, there is a human being that walks you through everything. They print out your boarding pass and give you a special wallet filled with instructions that you wear around your neck. They walk you to a special security line that is filled with other Help Me members and instead of passing through one metal detector, they pass through a gauntlet of three, each time given the opportunity to further empty their pockets. Because it is very hard to understand that shit like $15 in pocket change, oversize belt buckles and gaudy necklaces are all metal. Then there is a human at the other end that walks them to their gate and sits their ass down.

Anyway, I finally make it to a check-in counter and we dance the dance that is expected of us. Passport, itinerary, here is your pass, here is your luggage tag, your luggage is going here, you will need papers here, have a nice day. Alas, our dance is interrupted by a petite Vietnamese girl that bubbles up to me with an adorably thick Australian accent. You see, her father speaks very little English and he’s going to have a hard time transferring to his international flight. I’m on the same flight so it would be great if I could help out. Despite all the paranoid ramblings from my mother about the dangers of doing favours for anyone at an airport and the fact that she is standing right beside me sizing up this girl, I just nod. “Not a problem!” I bubble back at her. God damn it.

I see them again at the gate. She thanks me again and her father gives me that mixed look of gratitude and apology; a look that I’ve worn on more than one occasion. Only now am I realizing that a) we don’t have much time to transfer b) he’s got a foreign passport and c) he probably isn’t able to answer any questions about immigration or customs. Too late, we’re up in the air and on our way to Brisbane.

Off the plane and the first step is getting to the Transfer Desk to get boarding passes for the Brisbane to Los Angeles flight. It’s quite a long walk and this guy is overweight and overdressed for the hot Brisbane summer. He’s wearing a jacket and an old backpack and he’s dragging around a large shopping bag and a suit bag. The corollary to old people being slow at airports is that they carry far too much stuff with them.

After a long hike to the transfer desk, I get my new boarding pass and an Express Card that lets me take the faster lines. The lady said it was because there’s only 90 minutes before scheduled arrival but I get the feeling it’s because I’m good looking. The old man gets to the counter and I hang back. I’m ok with leading him around but I’m not comfortable with speaking on his behalf. He fumbles through the exchange and then the lady tells him to stand aside and wait for assistance. Turns out, they can’t read his passport and somebody needs to walk him to the better-equipped International Terminal. So, off we go.

Leave the secure area, exit the domestic check-in area, walk outside, climb up the escalator, board the train, wait for 10 minutes, exit the train, give the Virgin Blue transfer ticket to the train guy, go up another escalator and here we are at the international check-in desk. I send him into line and I wait nervously; there’s 20 minutes until boarding begins.

Eliza and Kelly, the girls at the V-Australia Transfer Desk and my personal guardian angels, appear out of nowhere and swoop into the line. They pull the confused old man to the front and walk him to the next available counter. They walk past me and give me a few gentle reassurances. I am once again thankful for my good looks and also grateful for the old man’s charming ability to act like an adorable pet that’s lost its owner.

Thankfully, we were now out of the weeds. Passport control was a breeze; they just let him through after realizing he spoke no English. There was an extremely long walk to Gate 75 and a long line for a final series of carry-on inspections and humiliating pat-downs and shoe inspections. Finally we were at our gate and boarding was delayed anyway due to a late connecting flight from Auckland. I pointed at the gate and told him this is it and he told me he never would have made it on his own.

I was happy that I stuck to it and helped out but I was drained from all this. I didn’t see him after we parted ways at the gate. I hope he made it to whatever crazy connecting flights he had from LA.

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The actual movie? Wow. What a rude awakening. Right away, you’re slapped in the face. The opening scene is Max in his wolf suit screaming like a animal and chasing after his dog. The next couple of scenes show how Max is this angry, destructive kid that just wants attention but seems to only get hurt. It’s painful and hard to watch this kid get hurt and hurt the people around him. And it only gets more painful.

He ends up in the land of the Wild Things and these creatures, being figments of Max’s imagination, are just as flawed as he is. They’re children that don’t understand their strength and they continue to hurt each other through misguided social interaction. In his thirst for attention and power, Max becomes their king and the pattern continues: things are fun until somebody gets hurt and then all these raw feelings come up.

This film pulls you in to the disturbed psyche of an angry little boy. It constantly walks that line where everything is fun but we’re always an inch away from somebody getting hurt. Tumbling through the forest and throwing dirt at each other, everyone is laughing and playing but as the audience you just sit there and wait for it to all go to shit. It’s an incredibly challenging film to watch.

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So soft and wilting and musical on its own. All this great nostalgia framed in a new way. So delicious.

As a bonus, here is Jimmy Fallon pretending to be Neil Young. May not be available to people outside the US.

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It looks fine in Firefox 3.6, Safari 4.0.4 and Internet Explorer 8. It’s probably made this site a little harder to read on the iPhone but I can work on that.

The next step might be to switch out the header for some sweet faux-handdrawn sketches that look like they came out of a high school notebook. And stripes. And handdrawn block letters. Give it that real indie appeal. Also, it should star Michael Cera.

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Instead, I’m going to be tweaking this current look and fucking about with the fonts. Right now, I have to leave the cafe and head home before the caffeine takes hold and I’m without access to a bathroom.

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