Very good times here in Portland. Only way it would be better is if I was actually on some kind of vacation now and could stick around for a few days and see the people (e.g. I don't even get to visit w/my dang sister, let alone any of the ultrahot girls I not-so-secretly admire up this way). It is the way of these things for the time to be compressed, for a half-hour stomping around a gravel yard and bonfire screaming along with The Eastern -- a.k.a. our lovely friend Jess and her giant tattoodled marmite-savoring redbeard hombre Adam from New Zeland -- serving in place of lengthy dinner conversation.

This is human, to engage in such rituals. We are all here together. It's a celebration of life.

Sadly the sun also rises, and yesterday was spent mostly fighting off the blood-thirsty death-panther hangover and then putting in a mild six-hour workday trying to scramble back in front of some deadlines. I assume at some point my life will return to a more equalized state, but for now chugging away the afternoon in Beulahland ain't so bad.

And so I've gotta roll, waiting now for my ride to tearass through town from Tacoma. It's another insane week ahead. I'm planning to make it back here in August, work and time and transport permitting. That'll be good. For now there is but one thing to do: ride the fuckin' lightning, bitches.

There's this concept in my mental toolbox called Dunbar's number (wikipedia), which comes from the research of an anthropologist named Robin Dunbar. Basically his idea is that there's a limit to the number of social connections that can be meaningfully maintained. The rough estimate is about 150.

I generally feel like I'm pushing the envelope there, and I'm starting to drop packets. Lots of social grooming is going undone; emails not returned, events missed, plans left in limbo, etc. If you're one of the unfortunately many folks who I haven't been in touch with, I'm sorry.

The past couple months have been intense. I've logged 534 hours, which is 60 a week. Considering all the hours that get worked that aren't in the log, the lost sleep, etc, that's a pretty heavy load.

I was doing pretty good on the extra-effort front for most of may and the beginning of June, but the past couple weeks I've started wearing down. It's most difficult when I start losing sight of what it's all about. There have been times when it felt overwhelming, like I couldn't do it. Those moments are few and generally pass. It's the "what the hell is this all about" parts that are hard. Tonight I feel like I'm seeing the light again. There's still a hard row to hoe ahead, but I feel confident about it, and I know what it's for.

I've often played with the idea of charting these kinds of feelings, like some kind of spiritual stock-ticker. Maybe there's some correlation with a behavior I can tune. Gotta have data for that.

So the other day I'm down in the little cafe in the basement of the converted warehouse complex where our office is in SF, and I end up doing my cream and sugar right next to this tallish girl who works on the same floor as us. I've seen her around a few times. Once we were alone in the elevator for a floor and a half and her nipples got hard. We smile at one another in the hallway, but have never spoken. I don't know her name.

Getting cream and sugar nothing of consequence transpires, but it's an interesting moment. For me, at least. Charged.

I've come to trust, at this late date, that when I feel like something is going on in that way, it's quite likely that the other person in question feels the same. Just tonight having a little nerd-bike schmooze at Zeitgeist this was incontrovertibly proven -- she doesn't say hi kind of sheepishly on her way out the door unless she really was looking back while you were having that loud conversation. Drupal set message: trust your first impression.

Aaaaaway, the impetus to write is that the whole concept/phenomena of lust is one that's been under wraps for some time. Sublimated and maybe a bit suppressed. It's been a much-lamented state of affairs, as everyone knows. Feels like a change is gonna come, and this is good, but it's also a trip, re-realizing how sex can throw you for a loop, scramble yr brain.

So tonight among other things I half-watched two sequels: Rambo II and Lethal Weapon Dos. Both feature plot turns where the primary (male) character's (re-awakening) love interest is killed by the bad guys. I guess that's how Hollywood rolled in those days.

It's an interesting romantic trope: ultimate possibility (slain interest) coupled with revenge fantasy. "I could have been happy if only..."

Here in the real world, for my part I got in a solid days labor, and am hoping for the same tomorrow. It's not glamorous or the most fun, but it's what needs doing for the moment, and I can live with that.

It was a lovely day though, and being around drinking my coffee as the sun slanted in from the east made me think of Jodie's and Eggs Royston (which no one seems to review, suckas). Overall I might like more excitement and zazz in my average weekend, but I also recognize the sometime necessity of occasionally buckling down and doing Teh Work.

Quickie from Embarcaderro.

It's a lovely day. I'm sweating. Rode a lot last night, encountering some hills on my way to/from the outer Richmond. Good stuff. The Cobra is working out marverlously, and I came home to a clean kitchen. Always a good feeling.

I'm overly busy as always, but I feel my mood coming around. Feel like flirting, getting witty. Being productive.

Wondering what me and my gang should do for Election '08.

Here comes the train again...

Got beat with the drunk stick. Weddings; they'll do that to ya. It was a great one. Champaigne and scotch and dancing with maids. It all gets out of hand so quickly, and then you have to make a questionable bike run to catch the last BART. The real downside was that I didn't go right home, and -- in addition to making the executive decision to stop in at the Albatross and stare mutely at the attractive bartender (weddings; they'll do that to ya) while imbibing even more demon liquor, loosing track of my bike helmet and black suit jacket and some of my dignity in the process -- somewhere along the way I crashed into something and broke my laptop screen.

That scene is missing from my memory-reel, but the forensic evidence is conclusive. Stay classy, KoneZone.

On the upside, a bike ride to Emeryville for an on-demand replacement at the Apple store is a good hangover cure. The weather cooperated with brilliance, there was a cool Sikh parade on the way, and I'll have a new headless computer to muck about with for however long it stays alive.

Still, the whole thing feels childish. Especially the bartender part. That's just un-called-for behavior.

Now is probably as good a time as any to get healthy(er) again. I mean, maybe in advance of the next wedding (a western-themed hodown in Portland, guaranteed bacchanalia) I can abandon my five or six pounds of latent beer-weight. On the other hand, who knows what kind of awful trouble I'd get into if I showed up all lithe and sexy. Still, it's always a good idea to revive Operation Get Real Hot. Decisions, decisions.

Man, I feel like I get beat with a sack full of doorknobs.

Rolled with the Kinetic from 8am to 7pm yesterday, then to the inugural bout of Humboldt Roller Derby, and then the dancy afterparty. Lots of screaming, bike riding, tugging machines up sand dunes, tailgating, screaming some more, jumping around and carrying on.

But hopefully with a couple cups of coffee and some Motrin, I'll get through enough work today to take tomorrow off for the finish-line run of the race. Its good to be out doing things.

I have a delightful memory from last summer, of Friday night at Burning Man, being out and about with two beautiful girls from Portland we met; real underground babes with dynamite style, impeccable festival pedigrees, and at least a decade's worth of world traveling and other bohemia under their belts, all without ever showing taxable income. "Gone chicks," an older generation of beat writer might say. I wrote about this obliquely before, but never told the story itself.

We'd met earlier in the week when they sheltered with us through a dust storm, and bonded over knuckle tats and their delicious lavender vodka cocktails, just a good honest click with the whole group, and so naturally it seemed we should all rendezvous and ramble the night together. Though the whole pack started out as one, the girls and I got separated from Mark and Zya fairly early -- no worries, just the way things flow -- and the three of us ended up making a great convivial loop of the grounds on foot over the course of the night, dance party to dance party to dance party and yon.

Just call me "Uncle Beefcake."

It's 80 degrees in Westhaven! Sort of a miracle even for summer. I'm going out to check out some potential local office spaces.

Things have been good. Work is a little harder when I'm not in the office. There are social dynamics I can't keep spinning when I'm out of town. In the long run these plates need to spin themselves (with the aid of ye olde partners) but in the short term it looks like I'm the secret sauce.

Personally I'm still recovering from a hell of a weekend. Good, but left me feeling a bit dazed and behind on things. I had a real live date though -- a fulfillment of my "power-dating" mandate, even -- which went pretty well, although with schedules being what they are who knows when a second rendezvous might occur.

I have a shit-ton of photos from the party too. If you're on facebook you can peep them there. I'll try and get something up on Flickr too. Lots of excellent knuckle tats.

Anyway, apologies in advance to everything I'm behind on. I will be playing catch-up over the next week/end I'm sure, but you're all in my heart and thoughts.

In brief. I've lived to see the ripe old age of 29. My mom has been having a lovely visit. The Country Soul Carmival Speakeasy was flawless victory (pictures a-plenty, for a change), and they have Jalapino Poppers on the menu at Larrupin, where I took the momster for her special day (poppers wrapped in bacon, natch).

Exhausted now, but in a very good and soul-satisfied way.