The WinCo parking lot at six in the morning

The sourness of well-traveled shopping carts is replaced with that good, earthy smell as I roll through the automatic doors and inhale the fresh morning.
Tiny wheels are much louder against the asphalt just before six.

The parking lot is a wasteland of empty seats after a long party—all open space and scraps of food and paper. A huge crow looks me in the eye like a Western showdown and continues pecking at a used napkin.

I pack paper bags into the popped trunk and mourn the loss of two bottles of Merlot that could not be purchased before seven. Now, the drunks are still red-eyed and trying to stay on a train that will inevitably crash.

I wonder if grapes really taste different if picked at night. To know, I will have to return during reality. For now, I imagine men wearing pajamas in a vineyard.

Sixty-first and Stark

The quiet morning is interrupted by the clicks of turn signals,
and I take a right onto the cold street.
Waiting for a green light against the hopeful gray-blue sky,
I savor the stillness.
Another day indoors is only miles away. I envy the birds.
My mind flies away with them, disappearing between the trees.
And then I go.

Irony is a green and yellow jacket

It's only been seven months and I already feel like the sad, old Oregon dad. As I stroll across Kincaid, I realize that I've never recognized less faces on this campus. I entertain the possibility that my former classmates decided never to graduate, and I might still catch one crossing the street on their way to Rennies. One day, one of my children or nephews will go to this school and when I visit, I'll tell them stories of when I went here, hoping they assume nothing's changed. But in that moment, looking into the eyes of a true college student, I'll know it isn't mine anymore. The campus is theirs now. They know the faces, the professors, the smell of the EMU--and I'll still think it has Panda Express.

Alas, one familiar face. A theater kid, of course. He stops to hug me on his way back from Barry's, propping his longboard against the fence to free up an arm. I accept the hug halfheartedly, wanting it to be more meaningful. But as he jogs down the path to Villard to catch up with his friends, I feel the same. I realize it's not about recognizing my old friends. It's about recognizing myself. The last time my feet touched these sidewalk squares, they were dismounting from bike pedals. My heart would have been beating fast from an exhilarating ride as I fumbled to click off my iPod shuffle, which undoubtedly was playing the perfect cruising song. Maybe Ben Harper or Otis Redding. And i would stuff the headphones into my Oregon jacket, that at the time, didn't make me feel like the sad old Oregon dad.

Byrnin' Love

I was lucky to hear Talking Heads for the first time when CD shopping was still in fashion. People would buy a CD for the one song they'd heard by the band, and in my case, it was "Burning Down the House." I bought "Best of Talking Heads" and often skipped to track #13, my heart beating in anticipation of the moment where David Byrne would say, "Watch out, you might get what you're after" in that catchy voice of his. By "All wet, yeah you might need a raincoat," I was beside myself.

One of the best things about the CD era was that people were encouraged to get their hands on a tangible product and get their money's worth by listening to the rest. Now we can download one song and disregard the rest of the album. I know this is a shame because "Burning Down the House" is not the best song by Talking Heads. I realized that when #13 was played out and I started getting the other tracks stuck in my head.

The other day, a friend introduced me to "Stop Making Sense," the Talking Heads live performance on DVD. My world was shaken as much as the first time I heard David Byrne's voice, but this time I was captivated by his oddball dancing, which is just as wonderfully weird as the music. He is crazy in the best possible way. And don't even get me started on Tina Weymouth, the bass player. She is so freakin' cool. Anybody who has only heard Talking Heads on the radio needs to expand their horizons, immediately.

The "Life During Wartime" performance is my favorite. I also embedded it below for your viewing pleasure.

I love when companies use marketing projects to benefit the world. Sure, some of it is just romanticized to make companies look good while directing traffic to their website, but Snickers has done a great job with branding. Right now when you buy a Snickers bar, there is a code on the wrapper you can enter into the website to donate meals to "bar hunger." So clever. Plus, who doesn't love feeling good about yourself for buying chocolate? The screenshot is what you see after entering the code. Excellent website design to boot.

Dreaming with the comedians

This morning I woke up wanting Funfetti cupcakes. Delicious, fluffy, sweet rainbow cupcakes. I dreamed that I was at summer camp and went into the bathroom where I found Jonah Hill and a stack of Funfetti cupcakes. Yeah, I ate cupcakes with Jonah Hill. Then I woke up.

Why do I keep having dreams that I befriend comedians? I've already been disappointed to wake up and realize I'm not pals with Bob Saget, Larry David, or Neil Patrick Harris.

Oh, kids.

The other day, riding the bus home, I witnessed a phenomenon. Usually, on the afternoon rides, there's enough space for each person to leave an empty seat next to them, with their bags sitting on it, conveniently keeping others from entering their personal space. As soon as we approached the next stop along 18th, passengers began to look out the windows and realize a large cluster of children, probably between eight and ten years old, ready to board. Everyone on the bus began to glance at each other, smiling awkwardly and shifting their bags, making the seat next to them available. I imagined the bus full of these unlikely pairs--a college student and child in each row of two. Of all people, it seems college students are some of the most detached from the world of children. And even though I shared the apprehension about these kids, I also became excited at the thought of sitting so close to one, observing its mannerisms and maybe even asking about its schoolwork.

Despite my anticipation of this rare encounter, my stop was only two away, and it seemed almost pointless to let a kid sit next to me only to ask it to move so I could get out 60 seconds later. So I retreated to the back, watching the children file in, wide-eyed and bumbling about. Did these children take choosing a seat as seriously as we did, hunting for one as secluded as possible or next to someone we could handle sitting quietly next to for a few minutes? Their chaperones ushered them into seats, and it seemed the filing in of children would never end. Another woman came and sat next to me in the back, where we wouldn't have to make the kids move. "I was actually a little excited to sit next to one," I said, and she told me she felt the same. Suddenly I realized every female college student on that bus was probably suppressing her fascination and repressed adoration for children. After all, we were fighting biology.

A little boy with big brown eyes and long eyelashes sat across me in the back. He returned my stare for what seemed like the brief eternity bull-riders experience before being flung off. I was transfixed. He gave me a wide smile before covering his face and whispering something to the chaperone next to him. I felt ridiculous. Finally the bus stopped and I was struck with a pang of longing as I stood up, taking one last glance at the adorable boy and wishing I could just ruffle his hair or make him a sandwich. I made eye contact with another woman getting off the bus and I could tell by her slight smile and wistful gaze that she felt the exact same way.