Thank You for Riding Sound Transit's Link Light Rail

Please stand clear of the doors and allow passengers to exit the train before boarding. Thank you for riding Sound Transit's Link Light Rail.

I've heard it repeatedly. It seems every five minutes I have to go somewhere. I don't sleep. I don't eat. I don't do anything. I just go. Never stop can't stop.

Please stand clear of the doors and allow passengers to exit the train before boarding. Thank you for riding Sound Transit's Link Light Rail.

The to do list is long. It grows grows is growing. Progress is not being made.

Please stand clear of the doors and allow passengers to exit the train before boarding. Thank you for riding Sound Transit's Link Light Rail.

Work work work. Twelve days this week, eight days the week before that. Never getting further ahead, hardly not getting further behind.

Please stand clear of the doors and allow passengers to exit the train before boarding. Thank you for riding Sound Transit's Link Light Rail.

Need rest. Must rest. Can't rest. Will rest eventually. Need rest. No seriously, need rest. Not want rest. Need rest.

Please stand clear of the doors and allow passengers to exit the train before boarding. Thank you for riding Sound Transit's Link Light Rail.

And then, today. It's Saturday night, and I don't work again until Monday morning. I lose one hour for DST (pointless), but it's still many hours. Rest. Rest. Rest. No doing, only being. Rest. Jesus Jesus Jesus! Rest in him.

I will stand clear of the doors. I will allow passengers to exit the train before boarding.

[Sorry about this - it's just what's been in my head recently. Hopefully I'll be back to my "normal" posting next week, as in back to the old schedule.]

Please stand clear of the doors and allow passengers to exit the train before boarding. Thank you for riding Sound Transit's Link Light Rail.

I've heard it repeatedly. It seems every five minutes I have to go somewhere. I don't sleep. I don't eat. I don't do anything. I just go. Never stop can't stop.

Please stand clear of the doors and allow passengers to exit the train before boarding. Thank you for riding Sound Transit's Link Light Rail.

The to do list is long. It grows grows is growing. Progress is not being made.

Please stand clear of the doors and allow passengers to exit the train before boarding. Thank you for riding Sound Transit's Link Light Rail.

Work work work. Twelve days this week, eight days the week before that. Never getting further ahead, hardly not getting further behind.

Please stand clear of the doors and allow passengers to exit the train before boarding. Thank you for riding Sound Transit's Link Light Rail.

Need rest. Must rest. Can't rest. Will rest eventually. Need rest. No seriously, need rest. Not want rest. Need rest.

Please stand clear of the doors and allow passengers to exit the train before boarding. Thank you for riding Sound Transit's Link Light Rail.

And then, today. It's Saturday night, and I don't work again until Monday morning. I lose one hour for DST (pointless), but it's still many hours. Rest. Rest. Rest. No doing, only being. Rest. Jesus Jesus Jesus! Rest in him.

I will stand clear of the doors. I will allow passengers to exit the train before boarding.

[Sorry about this - it's just what's been in my head recently. Hopefully I'll be back to my "normal" posting next week, as in back to the old schedule.]

Thank You for Riding Sound Transit's Link Light Rail

Eulogy Pt 3: The Day the Music Died

On any given day, a number of things have happened throughout history. On this particular day, 3 February, one such thing is that my mom was born. It was 1958, which leaves me wondering how she is once again turning 37. Perhaps someday I will understand. My mom, like me, does not particularly like to celebrate her birthday. It is, after all, just another day. As such, this is not what I'm writing about (which is good, given the title).

On this day in 1959, my mom turned 1. On this very same day, in a fiery plane crash*, the music died. At least, so states the song describing it. Charles Hardin Holley, known to kids everywhere as Buddy Holly, lay in a cornfield somewhere in Iowa. At the age of 22, he was dead. In his short career he recorded some of the greatest music ever heard by man**, directly influencing such mainstay artists as The Beatles, Eric Clapton, and the Rolling Stones, while indirectly affecting nearly every Western artist. Also on the plane were Richie Valens and The Big Bopper, along with two members of Buddy's band, The Crickets.

Interestingly enough, country music legend Waylon Jennings*** was supposed to have been on the plane as well. However, the heat on the tour bus had went out. Waylon was asked by a sick bandmate to trade places. After all, it was roughly -25°, not weather for the sick. Holly had been particularly looking forward to talking to Jennings on the flight. As such, he was not happy.

"I hope you freeze your ass off in the bus," Holly joked.

Jennings responded in kind: "I hope your plane crashes." They both laughed, but he was haunted by those words for years. As a matter of fact, he refused to play music for years. When he returned to playing music, he no longer played bass as he had in The Crickets, but instead switched to guitar.

One of Jennings first shows after the hiatus was at an art bar in New York. Andy Warhol was there. Jennings got up to play and said, "I'm here to play some country music. If you don't like that, you can kiss my ass."

"Who are you?" someone from the crowd shouted back.

"I'm Waylon God Damn Jennings." Several years later Jennings actually did an album with the surviving members of The Crickets, which featured several of the songs they had done with Holly.

No one ever forgets Buddy Holly, but his memory inspires many of us, not just Waylon Jennings. Let us not forget such songs as American Pie by Don McLean, Three Stars by Eddie Cochran, or even Buddy Holly by Weezer. Holly was a pioneer in the two guitars/bass/drums sound, as well as one of the first to really bridge the gap between rock and blues. He was one of the few white musicians in this era who were willing to play with black musicians like Little Richie and Chuck Berry. Even Elton John said that in his teens he began wearing his glasses (then much less iconic) as a tribute to Buddy Holly.

Buddy Holly, we miss you. If we must find a good thing, you didn't live long enough to record a single bad song.

Bye bye, Miss American Pie. Drove the chevy to the levy, but the levy was dry. And good ole boys drinking whiskey and rye singing "This'll be the day that I die. Oh, this'll be the day that I die."

*Is there such a thing as a fireless plane crash? I don't know why we always mention that a plane crash is fiery. That is, after all, the nature of a plane crash.
**I can neither confirm nor deny that this is hyperbole.
***If you, like me, live in Beacon Hill, you've doubtless been to The Station. Waylon, the usual morning barista, is named after Waylon Jennings. If you've never seen the picture of Luis, the owner/evening barista with President Obama, ask him to see it.

On any given day, a number of things have happened throughout history. On this particular day, 3 February, one such thing is that my mom was born. It was 1958, which leaves me wondering how she is once again turning 37. Perhaps someday I will understand. My mom, like me, does not particularly like to celebrate her birthday. It is, after all, just another day. As such, this is not what I'm writing about (which is good, given the title).

On this day in 1959, my mom turned 1. On this very same day, in a fiery plane crash*, the music died. At least, so states the song describing it. Charles Hardin Holley, known to kids everywhere as Buddy Holly, lay in a cornfield somewhere in Iowa. At the age of 22, he was dead. In his short career he recorded some of the greatest music ever heard by man**, directly influencing such mainstay artists as The Beatles, Eric Clapton, and the Rolling Stones, while indirectly affecting nearly every Western artist. Also on the plane were Richie Valens and The Big Bopper, along with two members of Buddy's band, The Crickets.

Interestingly enough, country music legend Waylon Jennings*** was supposed to have been on the plane as well. However, the heat on the tour bus had went out. Waylon was asked by a sick bandmate to trade places. After all, it was roughly -25°, not weather for the sick. Holly had been particularly looking forward to talking to Jennings on the flight. As such, he was not happy.

"I hope you freeze your ass off in the bus," Holly joked.

Jennings responded in kind: "I hope your plane crashes." They both laughed, but he was haunted by those words for years. As a matter of fact, he refused to play music for years. When he returned to playing music, he no longer played bass as he had in The Crickets, but instead switched to guitar.

One of Jennings first shows after the hiatus was at an art bar in New York. Andy Warhol was there. Jennings got up to play and said, "I'm here to play some country music. If you don't like that, you can kiss my ass."

"Who are you?" someone from the crowd shouted back.

"I'm Waylon God Damn Jennings." Several years later Jennings actually did an album with the surviving members of The Crickets, which featured several of the songs they had done with Holly.

No one ever forgets Buddy Holly, but his memory inspires many of us, not just Waylon Jennings. Let us not forget such songs as American Pie by Don McLean, Three Stars by Eddie Cochran, or even Buddy Holly by Weezer. Holly was a pioneer in the two guitars/bass/drums sound, as well as one of the first to really bridge the gap between rock and blues. He was one of the few white musicians in this era who were willing to play with black musicians like Little Richie and Chuck Berry. Even Elton John said that in his teens he began wearing his glasses (then much less iconic) as a tribute to Buddy Holly.

Buddy Holly, we miss you. If we must find a good thing, you didn't live long enough to record a single bad song.

Bye bye, Miss American Pie. Drove the chevy to the levy, but the levy was dry. And good ole boys drinking whiskey and rye singing "This'll be the day that I die. Oh, this'll be the day that I die."

*Is there such a thing as a fireless plane crash? I don't know why we always mention that a plane crash is fiery. That is, after all, the nature of a plane crash.
**I can neither confirm nor deny that this is hyperbole.
***If you, like me, live in Beacon Hill, you've doubtless been to The Station. Waylon, the usual morning barista, is named after Waylon Jennings. If you've never seen the picture of Luis, the owner/evening barista with President Obama, ask him to see it.

Eulogy Pt 3: The Day the Music Died

Eulogy Pt 2: Papergirl

[I've sucked pretty bad at updating recently. Hopefully this will be me getting back on track, but I can't guarantee anything]

About sixty years ago the Harrisburg Patriot prided themselves on being the most liberal local newspaper in central Pennsylvania. They were ahead of the curve on all the social issues of the time, as they believed the paper in the state capital should be. But then the unthinkable happened: the Philadelphia Inquirer suddenly became completely unreasonable and hired a woman to write for their paper. Sure it was a figurehead post, but still, a woman on staff? How forward thinking! The Patriot had to respond: not to be outdone, they hired two women.

One of these women indeed stayed in her writer position, submitting her weekly column that no one, not even her fellow women, would read. The other was not so content. She made it very clear that she was here to work, not to be shown off. She submitted her column, followed by badgering the editor for bigger and better assignments, which she eventually received. When the novelty wore off and the smoke cleared, she was still there. And Joan was ready to work.

This is how I remember the story, as Joan told it to me about four years ago. Granted, I editorialized a few details. It's entirely possible that I remember things incorrectly, and very probable that she exaggerated a few details. However, as I knew Joan, she probably exaggerated the story to make herself look less, well, let's be nice and say feisty*. I would not be the least surprised if all of these details were true.

By way of example, the Starbucks that I worked at in Pennsylvania sold the Patriot. Joan was at this point long retired, as I would estimate her age to have been 80. Like nearly everyone who sold the Patriot, our deliveries were inconsistent, leading to us often not having the paper simply because we didn't get it. On one such occasion Joan wanted to buy it. She asked us if we often sold out, at which point we explained that we almost never sell out but had simply not gotten the delivery. "I'll go talk to them," she told us. We all chuckled. We had no idea.

We never again received so much as a late delivery, let alone a missed delivery. Further, several weeks later when I met the editor, he actually apologized that we had been missing deliveries. Missed deliveries remained common everywhere else. We were the only business getting reliable delivery. The newspapers would sometimes sit in the boxes on the street for several days, but we'd have the new edition at Starbucks, all because Joan took care of it.

In her old age Joan was rather lonely. She, after all, lived alone, and most of her friends had already passed away. She would come into Starbucks to buy things for her "friends," though I do have my doubts about the existence of some of the friends for whom she would buy pastries and drinks. Don't get me wrong - I'm sure some of them were real, but not all. She would let us know that our pastries were stale, but she would still buy them. And she would start talking to you while you were cleaning the lobby. And when she started talking, you were not getting away - let's hope there's no line, because she has you for twenty minutes.

About fifty percent of the time Joan carried all her things in a Kate Spade purse - I do believe she was quite a fashionista in her day. Otherwise she kept everything in a grocery bag - every fashionista eventually becomes a crazy old lady, as Joan was proving. And when you spend that much money on one purse, you can't really afford a second.

Joan and I had a very special bond, like a cantankerous old woman and oh-so-handsome grandson. I really did care about her. Joan never discussed anything too serious or personal, so I never knew that much about her, but I always felt like we were close. She apparently felt the same toward me - even when I moved to Seattle, she would frequently ask how I was doing.

Though I don't know any of the details surrounding it, Joan passed away on a Monday in late December of last year. It's amazing how much the death of someone we hardly know can impact us. It's not at all similar to the death of someone we care about. But at our core we know that death was not part of God's original design. Death is scary and ugly and unsettling, but unfortunately inevitable.

*Not many people get the opportunity to text message their sister saying, "What's a good synonym for bitchy?" I got that opportunity today, and she returned an excellent list. Thank you for your help, Hannah.

[I've sucked pretty bad at updating recently. Hopefully this will be me getting back on track, but I can't guarantee anything]

About sixty years ago the Harrisburg Patriot prided themselves on being the most liberal local newspaper in central Pennsylvania. They were ahead of the curve on all the social issues of the time, as they believed the paper in the state capital should be. But then the unthinkable happened: the Philadelphia Inquirer suddenly became completely unreasonable and hired a woman to write for their paper. Sure it was a figurehead post, but still, a woman on staff? How forward thinking! The Patriot had to respond: not to be outdone, they hired two women.

One of these women indeed stayed in her writer position, submitting her weekly column that no one, not even her fellow women, would read. The other was not so content. She made it very clear that she was here to work, not to be shown off. She submitted her column, followed by badgering the editor for bigger and better assignments, which she eventually received. When the novelty wore off and the smoke cleared, she was still there. And Joan was ready to work.

This is how I remember the story, as Joan told it to me about four years ago. Granted, I editorialized a few details. It's entirely possible that I remember things incorrectly, and very probable that she exaggerated a few details. However, as I knew Joan, she probably exaggerated the story to make herself look less, well, let's be nice and say feisty*. I would not be the least surprised if all of these details were true.

By way of example, the Starbucks that I worked at in Pennsylvania sold the Patriot. Joan was at this point long retired, as I would estimate her age to have been 80. Like nearly everyone who sold the Patriot, our deliveries were inconsistent, leading to us often not having the paper simply because we didn't get it. On one such occasion Joan wanted to buy it. She asked us if we often sold out, at which point we explained that we almost never sell out but had simply not gotten the delivery. "I'll go talk to them," she told us. We all chuckled. We had no idea.

We never again received so much as a late delivery, let alone a missed delivery. Further, several weeks later when I met the editor, he actually apologized that we had been missing deliveries. Missed deliveries remained common everywhere else. We were the only business getting reliable delivery. The newspapers would sometimes sit in the boxes on the street for several days, but we'd have the new edition at Starbucks, all because Joan took care of it.

In her old age Joan was rather lonely. She, after all, lived alone, and most of her friends had already passed away. She would come into Starbucks to buy things for her "friends," though I do have my doubts about the existence of some of the friends for whom she would buy pastries and drinks. Don't get me wrong - I'm sure some of them were real, but not all. She would let us know that our pastries were stale, but she would still buy them. And she would start talking to you while you were cleaning the lobby. And when she started talking, you were not getting away - let's hope there's no line, because she has you for twenty minutes.

About fifty percent of the time Joan carried all her things in a Kate Spade purse - I do believe she was quite a fashionista in her day. Otherwise she kept everything in a grocery bag - every fashionista eventually becomes a crazy old lady, as Joan was proving. And when you spend that much money on one purse, you can't really afford a second.

Joan and I had a very special bond, like a cantankerous old woman and oh-so-handsome grandson. I really did care about her. Joan never discussed anything too serious or personal, so I never knew that much about her, but I always felt like we were close. She apparently felt the same toward me - even when I moved to Seattle, she would frequently ask how I was doing.

Though I don't know any of the details surrounding it, Joan passed away on a Monday in late December of last year. It's amazing how much the death of someone we hardly know can impact us. It's not at all similar to the death of someone we care about. But at our core we know that death was not part of God's original design. Death is scary and ugly and unsettling, but unfortunately inevitable.

*Not many people get the opportunity to text message their sister saying, "What's a good synonym for bitchy?" I got that opportunity today, and she returned an excellent list. Thank you for your help, Hannah.

Eulogy Pt 2: Papergirl

Eulogy Pt 1: I Still Believe in Santa Claus

I can never remember being told explicitly about Santa Claus as myth or reality. I always had questions about things like how he is everywhere at the exact same time (midnight) and why when they would show his location on the weather radar he was obviously planning his entire trip around central PA. This being said, I still believed, seeing as he was culturally everywhere: TV, malls, the local community center...and my living room.

Every year Santa would visit me on Christmas Eve. I would sit on his lap, and he would give me one gift a day early - not from a giant, mythical black bag, but from a standard plastic grocery bag. Minutes after he left my Uncle Bud would show up, consistently JUST missing him, a la Clark Kent and Superman.

When I was 13-years-old* we moved to a house a few miles away from where we had previously been living. Uncle Bud always lived nest door, but now he was about five miles away. Every year on Christmas Eve my two oldest (though still younger than me) sisters, my brother, and I would less-than-patiently wait for his car to pull up, then scamper away from the front door. Two minutes later Santa would knock at the door. Santa was obviously not a frequent visitor, or else he would know that no one uses that door. My sister, nine years younger than me, would answer the door. She would get excited, and I would sit on his lap to get my early gift. Uncle Bud would come through the back door, as everyone did, still just missing Santa Claus. Why did he sit in his car in the driveway for so long before coming inside, we would always joke.

On paper his name was Stanley, but I never once heard anyone call him that. He was certainly no Stanley. To absolutely everyone he was Bud. And Bud lived up to his name: he was one of the most compassionate and giving men I've ever met. If you needed help, Bud was there. I have never heard anyone say anything bad about him - good thing, because if you did someone would be ready to fight you.

I wore his Santa costume once, I believe in fourth grade. I was playing Santa Claus in a school play. After a few years, my mom told me it was his costume. She then told me never to tell my grandma - though she knew, she could never know that I knew. I can't help wondering these days why he owned a Santa costume.

On the morning of 31 August, 2000, Bud slept in. My grandma, his mom, with whom he was living, went in to wake him for breakfast. There she found him cold, dead. During the night he had a fatal heart attack at the age of 43.

I miss him often, but especially this time of year. Every time I see Santa Claus I feel like Buddy the Elf: that's not the real Santa Claus! Santa does have a giant beard, but 364 days a year he's wearing blue jeans and a brown flannel** that smells of hand-rolled cigarettes, dancing around the living room, holding his dog's front paws and singing La Cucuracha. And we all miss him every day.

*More correctly, I was only 12-years-old when we moved, but I had had my thirteenth birthday by Christmas.
**I realize this description of his appearance is reminiscent of my own. Every time I go back to Pennsylvania I hear how much I look like him from people I can't even recall ever meeting. Usually they know I'm his nephew. The last time I was there I had a fear my grandfather (rather senile at times) would call me Bud. I had a constant debate whether or not to correct him if he did. Fortunately he didn't.

I can never remember being told explicitly about Santa Claus as myth or reality. I always had questions about things like how he is everywhere at the exact same time (midnight) and why when they would show his location on the weather radar he was obviously planning his entire trip around central PA. This being said, I still believed, seeing as he was culturally everywhere: TV, malls, the local community center...and my living room.

Every year Santa would visit me on Christmas Eve. I would sit on his lap, and he would give me one gift a day early - not from a giant, mythical black bag, but from a standard plastic grocery bag. Minutes after he left my Uncle Bud would show up, consistently JUST missing him, a la Clark Kent and Superman.

When I was 13-years-old* we moved to a house a few miles away from where we had previously been living. Uncle Bud always lived nest door, but now he was about five miles away. Every year on Christmas Eve my two oldest (though still younger than me) sisters, my brother, and I would less-than-patiently wait for his car to pull up, then scamper away from the front door. Two minutes later Santa would knock at the door. Santa was obviously not a frequent visitor, or else he would know that no one uses that door. My sister, nine years younger than me, would answer the door. She would get excited, and I would sit on his lap to get my early gift. Uncle Bud would come through the back door, as everyone did, still just missing Santa Claus. Why did he sit in his car in the driveway for so long before coming inside, we would always joke.

On paper his name was Stanley, but I never once heard anyone call him that. He was certainly no Stanley. To absolutely everyone he was Bud. And Bud lived up to his name: he was one of the most compassionate and giving men I've ever met. If you needed help, Bud was there. I have never heard anyone say anything bad about him - good thing, because if you did someone would be ready to fight you.

I wore his Santa costume once, I believe in fourth grade. I was playing Santa Claus in a school play. After a few years, my mom told me it was his costume. She then told me never to tell my grandma - though she knew, she could never know that I knew. I can't help wondering these days why he owned a Santa costume.

On the morning of 31 August, 2000, Bud slept in. My grandma, his mom, with whom he was living, went in to wake him for breakfast. There she found him cold, dead. During the night he had a fatal heart attack at the age of 43.

I miss him often, but especially this time of year. Every time I see Santa Claus I feel like Buddy the Elf: that's not the real Santa Claus! Santa does have a giant beard, but 364 days a year he's wearing blue jeans and a brown flannel** that smells of hand-rolled cigarettes, dancing around the living room, holding his dog's front paws and singing La Cucuracha. And we all miss him every day.

*More correctly, I was only 12-years-old when we moved, but I had had my thirteenth birthday by Christmas.
**I realize this description of his appearance is reminiscent of my own. Every time I go back to Pennsylvania I hear how much I look like him from people I can't even recall ever meeting. Usually they know I'm his nephew. The last time I was there I had a fear my grandfather (rather senile at times) would call me Bud. I had a constant debate whether or not to correct him if he did. Fortunately he didn't.

Eulogy Pt 1: I Still Believe in Santa Claus

I Haven't Forgotten

I can't stop thinking about how much I need to update. I have a post written an mostly typed to be posted very very soon. But I am sorry.

I can't stop thinking about how much I need to update. I have a post written an mostly typed to be posted very very soon. But I am sorry.

I Haven't Forgotten