In eleven days, we will celebrate the summer Moldstice here in the Willamette Valley, where chronic trenchfoot has made Crocs
and Birkenstocks the king and queen of footwear. It just rains and rains, with Decemberish weather lasting forever. This weekend is supposed to blaze, though.
Two good Facebook question/posts: “what’s a good breakfast joint in Eugene?” and “how many books do you like to read at one time?” Tons of interesting answers. I have settled back into one-book-at-a-time mode after getting spread out between four and bogging down. The one I finished first was Coming Home to Eat, by Gary Paul Nabhan. It’s about his year commitment to eating only local, indigenous foods, throwing out all his chocolate cake mix, and hanging out with people in the know. Part foody walkabout, part polemic, part sermon—it has me eating fresh chard and beet greens from Farmer’s Market. (What would a no-proselytizing slow food Cooking Channel show look like?) Farmer’s Market is starting to have a big town feel to it—high quality, diverse, energetic, more and more good food booths. As for the breakfast question, we’re gonna try that new place @ 18th and Chambers, where the old Jamie’s used to be. We had an off-campus breakfast excursion this weekend that made going out to breakfast in Eugene seem like a really bad idea, so we must get back in the saddle.
Golden Motors praks w/ Scott K have been a blast and new material is coming out of that in a really fun way. It rocks really hard. There are still some of the new t-shirts available here. We have three shows booked this summer.
What is on the turntable, let’s see…got Thin Lizzy’s “Johnny the Fox” record at the library and wonder how I got this far without knowing the song “fool’s gold.” Maybe because I was chasing fool’s gold. “Jailbreak” is a fantastic record, but pretty worn in my universe, so this one is jolting me good. This isn’t a record, per se, but I did dream about a Fugazi show last night. Ian and Guy were both playing gigantic, shiny gold Gibson Thunderbirds. Link Wray and the Wraymen are damn fun to listen to, and that first Big Boys anthology, “the skinny elvis” (I think) is super awesome and makes me want to cover my entire body with pads and helmets and finally learn to skate, on a rubberized surface, with spotters. Speaking of which, I commuted my way into an assault on the w. 11th bike path yesterday. A man had apparently run into some kids who wouldn’t get out of the way, who then broke a bottle on his face. That stretch of the path has been kooky for a while. Serious cyclists in corny shorts need to chill out and remember it is not a race track, but an ambush is an ambush. The city says police will be increasing their presence there. Why not bike police?