A few weeks ago, I met up with some old friends for dinner and beers at the new Deschutes Brewery in Portland. I'm a total fan boy for their beers so I was excited to try the custom-to-the-bar stuff and the food (which I had heard was very good).
Beers with the boyz is good. Problem was, this is what I ordered:
Roasted pear and goat cheese pizza, with local hazelnuts and arugula, with the optional house-made duck prosciutto
That order did not keep it real. But I liked the proscuitto.
I think I just invented something transcendent, but I can't *really* tell because it's late, and well -- I don't really have a good feel for these things anyway. Indulge me:
Yesterday I was rewiring some outlets and I turned off some breakers at 11:30 AM or so. I finished up around noon, flipped the breakers on, and did my testing. There is one digital clock sitting next to my bed and because of the outage it was reset. But now it is, amazingly set correctly (remember -- on around noon).
This clock gives me a strange happy feeling. I look at and :
- Initially react, knowing that I can't trust it
- Quickly remember that it is correct
- Have a sense of pride knowing that I am the only one who will look at that clock and be able to believe it.
It's almost like being in on a B.S. story your friend tells while everyone else gets slowly reeled in. The air of superiority is alluring.
Anyway, I think this may be a new trend. People everywhere could not only have accurate digital clocks, but could have accurate *blinking* digital clocks that aid in their personal chronological sanctimony. In fact, I'll go as far as declaring 'chronological sanctimony' the new black. I'll be up at midnight tonight, just unplugging and replugging the rest of our digital clocks.
Join me my friends and we will start a revolution. <christopher-lloyd>A REVOLUTION IN TIME</christopher-lloyd>
Mrs. ikeepitreal and I went to the Def Cab concert at the Key Arena last night. Let me start off by saying that the show was freaking amazing. After hearing from everyone what a 'hard working' and 'energetic' show they do, I can now confirm that is true, and then some. That performance blew my mind. Just a solid, beautiful, epic rock concert where everything was done right.
Which brings me to my point. We all know Seattle is full of edgy hipsters; indie rockers, the tight t-shirt wearing mafia who supported DCFC on their way up over the last 7 years or so. Based on their attendance last night, this group has totally quit on the most legit independent rock band to make it big in years. The crowd last night was largely full of teenagers, 40-somethings, and the kind of safe, mildly open minded alterna-peeps that you meet on the Eastside. In short, a lot of people like myself. I imagine the real hardcore didn't show for one of the following reasons:
* Too cool for an arena show
* Angry that the band went major label
* Live music should only be enjoyed while ironically sipping on a PBR and nodding appreciatively
* Live music should not be enjoyed in the presence of 12 year old girls
* Live music should not be enjoyed in the presence of *dancing* 12 year old girls
* Totally saw DCFC in Bellingham in 2001, checked them off "list of bands seen in small clubs", no desire to actually enjoy live music
And that, to me, is sad. Here is a chance to see what is arguably the biggest and best band in the world (1), at the end of a big tour, playing in their hometown. You knew this was going to be a good show. And you quit because you are TC. This band is better right now than they ever have been, and they are a legit popular *and* artistic force. Support them! Enjoy them! I'm calling you out, edgy hipsters. Unless I missed you somewhere, you were not keeping it real last night. Sometimes I wonder if you ever are.
(1) Apologies to U2, The Killers, and (cough) Coldplay.
As part of my duties as a real-keeping arbiter, I must come clean when I myself, do not measure up. I hope that you, my readers, can accept these infrequent lapses and move on, as I hope to.
That said, my most recent breakdown was particularly egregious. This morning, I was standing outside the elevator of a Best Western in Seattle with my lovely wife and, in conversation, I recklessly name-checked the New York Times, Death Cab for Cutie, and Top Pot Donuts *before the elevator arrived*. Worse yet, a stranger was within earshot. I'm surprised he even got on the elevator with such an obvious poseur.
I'm sorry I let you down. Thanks for your patience and understanding everyone.
Today's subject is fashion.
I have this nasty habit of trying to jump in on a clothing fad too early and too extreme, turning my back on it when it goes mainstream, then finally coming around just as it starts to go out of style. I like to call this little problem "keep it real, keep it real, never mind". The most recent example of this is vintage t-shirts.
A few years ago I started looking for some nice shirts that I could wear to prove my edgyness. I picked up an ebay red Mickey Mouse T that is way too tight, a powder blue Expo '86 shirt as a gift (hi Mark) with sleeves that are funky, and a too big and worn out Idaho boys state ringer that I talked a friend (sup Bulldog) into giving me an extra of. Only problem: I'm not an edgy hipster. I feel like a fraud wearing those clothes. I look and feel better in J Crew and (occasionally) the less edgy Urban Outfitters gear.
But after aligning myself so clearly with the 'real' vintage croud, I certainly couldn't buy the good looking faux vintage wear that Gap, UO, and (most notably) Abercrombie started pumping out. The only thing worse than a falling apart "Getting Lucky in Kentucky" shirt is a brand new "Getting Lucky in Kentucky" shirt made to look falling apart. I certainly wasn't about to represent the "Abercrombie Tennis 1956" or some crap like that.
And in the middle of this story, time passes... (If only this were film, so I could set a couple fuzzy lens slow motion clips into a montage with some Hall and Oates).
If you've ever read this site before, you know where I'm going with this Last week at J Crew I broke down. I picked up a couple of faux vintage shirts. In my defense, the shirts fit me well, aren't blatantly cheezy, and they were on sale. On the flip side, 5+ years of ignoring the fad has cast me on the downward spiral of it, and just being a late sellout doesn't make you any less of a sellout. *
Finally, a description of the shirts -- if you care:
1) A navy shirt that says "Gramercy Park restoration 1975"
2) A powder blue pocket-t with a Birmingham logo on it (some sort of hind-legged lion that looks like a cross between the Chelsea and Lowenbrau logos).
* Unless you are the entire Beatles musical catalog, now being covered in a commercial near you. Thanks for buying the catalog then shilling it to all of freaking Madison Ave. Michael Jackson. Boo.
Hey folks,
it is a sad day in keepitrealville. Today is the day I realized I am old. It may also be the day that I *became* old, but that seems unlikely. It's much more likely it happened a while ago (some might suggest March 3rd, 2005) and I have been in denial for some time. Regardless, I accepted this sobering reality today -- October 9th, 2006.
Today I became aware of a Weird al parody sweeping the internet (here on youtube) that is hilarious. Problem is, I've never heard of the song or artist being parodied. A quick scan of the other songs Al has famously parodied finds some pretty culturally relevant material. 'Beat It', 'Smells Like Teen Spirit', and 'Lose Yourself' may not all be masterpieces, but they are songs and artists people know. I am now a part of the oldies that can't say the same about 'Ridin Dirty' or Chamillionaire.
So -- either Weird Al started parodying insignificant songs, or I'm out of touch. I'm leaning towards the latter. Sigh.
You can probably guess by the title and category of this post where I'll begin. Greenlake park goers do not keep it real. Also if you are a frequent reader, you know what is coming next. A quick concession. I had a *great* time at Greenlake this morning. It is a Seattle institution, and the people we saw there were overwhelmingly nice and cool. I always have a fun time there.
But there is one thing that drives me crazy. We'll start with a little context for those who don't live in Seattle. Greenlake is a small body of water in the Northern part of the city with a great running/walking/rollerblading trail around it. There are paddle boats, lots of people playing volleyball, and great stuff for the kinds (we especially liked the wading pool this morning). Your basic nice urban park. The trail, however, has a major problem:
Imagine a 2.8 mile trail around a lake with a ~8 foot paved trail around it. Running/wheel traffic is only allowed to travel counter-clockwise, and walking/stroller traffic is in the other lane, but can travel either direction. There are signs at eye level and on the trail that propose a reasonable traffic flow for this. They look something like this (going counter-clockwise):
WALK | WHEELS (SLOW)
^ | | ^ ^
| V | | |
and this: (clockwise)
WALK | WHEELS (SLOW)
| ^ | XXXX
V | |
Oh man, that ASCII art is bad, but I think you get the point.
Going counterclockwise, this is counter-intuitive (pun intended). It is hard to walk in the left portion of the left lane. But it makes sense if you figure that you can see the wheel traffic coming before it mows you over. Problem is, NO ONE FOLLOWS THE RULES. AT ALL. I don't mean that there is a small percentage of people walking in the wrong side of the walking area, there is fewer people following the rules than you would expect given a random distribution of traffic. The trail would be more usable if it was a free-for-all. I don't get it. Every time we go, I try at first to stick to the left side of the left lane and let people go around, but after running into people (literally) I give it up and join the chaos. And I do mean chaos. On a given weekend morning, there is as much traffic as your average Monday at 8:00 AM urban sidewalk. Especially with the stroller, you have to constantly be on your game. Dodging left, dodging right, running off the trail on the left. You name it -- I had to do it today.
So I ask you this. Why would people disregard the rules like this? I'm not one of those drive-the-speed-limit-always-come-to-a-complete-stop-types, but I understand that a civilized society can't function without some reasonable rules. I'm just a cog in the engine of our fair city and I get that we'll all be better off if I take less than 15 items into the supermarket express lane. Utter disregard for the rules at Greenlake really bugs me.
So I leave you with this. Park goers of Seattle -- please keep it real. Begin obeying the signs. We'll all enjoy our trail more. Thank you. That is all.
Still catching up from the last month or so. This picture is from a recent visit to Boise, where my folks found this shirt on the clearance rack at the department store.
Three things I love about this picture:
1) Taken in one of the final days I was rockin the awesome spring beard.
2) The shirt was on a hanger so long, it has permanent bumps in the shoulders.
3) Yep, the black sleeves are part of the shirt. If that isn't the opposite of keeping it real, I don't know what is.
Have you seen this commercial for the yogurt that keeps you regular -- "Activa"? One young female woman doesn't want to go out (implication -- clubbing or whatever the kids are calling it these days) because she is "bloated". Roomie, of course, is regular -- because she eats Activa. EVERY DAY.
Then they show one of those medical looking pictures. It looks a little something like this:
Then this:
Oh, I see! Some yellow balls will move around, then form an arrow in (on?) my stomach pointing down. Right. That makes perfect sense.
Unless... wait, I think they mean it'll make you poop! That arrow means poop. Come on Dannon -- quit skirting the issue. Keep it real. It's poop you are talking about. POOP POOP POOP!
Also funny -- the bacteria "only found in Activa" is called Bifidous Regularis (TM). They trademarked the bacteria, and called it "Bifidous Regularis".
Fellow real keepers,
3 years ago, Mrs Ikeepitreal and I bought a house on the Eastside of Seattle. Right in the heart of the 'burbs. One of the worst things about this house was the neighborhood we moved into. Well, actually, the neighborhood itself is great -- nice houses, good schools, tidy landscaping. But the name of the subdivision is horrible. I won't name it specifically here -- I hate even writing it, and I'm slightly afraid of some lurking online predator waiting to come steal my Spice Girls CDs or, worse yet, the keys to my SUV (gasp). But suffice it to say, the name isn't pretty. It's one of those nonsensical two-nature-words-meshed-together subdivison names that were so popular in the mid-80's (not that names are much better now, just often a little more simple or edgy).
ANYWAY, I have had long standing plans to join the homeowners association of our subdivision on the platform of changing our name. Hasn't happened yet. One year we couldn't make the meeting, the next it was in a house with a cat and I spent most of the time sneezing and wiping my nose. The name I prefer for our development is -- "subdivision". All lower-case, simple block letters. Picture *that* on the brick sign. Meta, dude.
Last summer some friends of ours were visiting, and to keep some of my street cred, I started ripping on the current name (again withheld, but it is something akin to "briarsnest" or "brookforest"). We got the idea to put together an automatic name generator for subdivisions. It took me until just last night to break out the list of words and throw the page together. Perhaps the homeowners association is willing to roll the dice and rename using this tool?
So, without further ado, I present the Subdivison Name Generator 1.0. Enjoy.
Yesterday morning while I was heading to work, I was sipping on my Starbucks "tall nonfat not-too-hot latte" (no joke, that's how I ordered it), peeking over at the two dozen Krispy Kremes in the passenger seat (for a meeting I was hosting), passing strip mall after strip mall, and wondering where it all went wrong.
I started taking a mental state of my real-keeping, and friends, I am here to say that it was not pretty. I reached up and felt the 'product' in my hair that a younger me would never have worn, looked down at my LaCoste shirt and Steve Madden shoes, felt the George Michael facial hair I'm trying to nurse into a scruffy beard, and worst yet, saw my Abercrombie jeans that I now regularly lament not being able to find a replacement for without holes in them (I swear -- the only brand that fits my big ass).
About the only think somewhat 'real' about me were my Dickies socks with holes in them. Meh. Then it hit me. Why is the engine whining so loud? Why are people passing me on the on ramp to the freeway? OH YES. I DRIVE AN AGING STATION WAGON WITH A SOCCERMOM STICKER ON THE BUMPER. Thank God for that wagon, it was covering for the rest of my non-representin' (and aformentioned large) booty.
Story short, I have had a bit of a come-to-Jesus moment. I need to get back to keeping it real. It is time to break out the wolf t-shirt. It is time to make my lattes at home *every* morning, or at the very least order them the right way. It is time, my friends, to finally mount the campaign to change the name of my subdivision!
On this fine November morning, I'd like to spend a few minutes to relay a quick coming of age story. To be fair, this story may have some truth in it. It may even be semi-autobiographical.
Once upon a time there was a boy. This boy loved to do things that other kids didn't consider very "manly" or "tough", like playing the trumpet, or reading all 45 volumes of the "Wizard of Oz" series. This boy -- let's call him Mike -- got by ok. He hung out with the semi-geeks, made wisecracks, self-deprecated to the point he had enough friends. But still, he never could field a grounder cleanly, run very fast, and to this day, his record field goal is a measly 25 yards.
One day Mike realized all his friends were getting into "extreme" sports. In order to keep hanging out with them, he figured, he'd have to put down the trumpet and give them a try. So he went snowboarding. 2 asthma attacks and a very bruised ass later, he was in the club. For the most part, he was able to keep the inner monologue that was shreiking like a little girl silent. Hooray, Mike!
Still, Mike had a problem. He was a poser. Any time he did anything "extreme", he didn't sell out. He never caught "Big Air". Riding "fakey" was never an option. But the goal was never to "go big", it was to just get by. And Mike does that. With a little posering, he continues to gain the respect of his friends. And he has some fun doing it. That's enough for him.
I'll now present some pictures of Mike doing just that -- having fun and posering.
From the Ski to Sea race in 2004.
* What it looks like: Not bad. He certainly has the gear. Maybe he ripped thru that puddle and is on the way to a respectable time.
* The truth: Not so hot. Mike almost fell over in that puddle and had to walk the rest of the way thru it. He is just now getting back up to speed and has affected that look on his face for the camera. Current speed: 5 MPH.
From the Ski to Sea race in 2005.
* What it looks like: Sweet. The wind ripping thru his hair. Mike has conquered the uphill portion of the race and is shredding the downhill. Go Mike!
* The truth: After wheezing up the climb, Mike has lost his speed on the downhill. He is trying to maintain some speed and hoping to catch the 300 pound female skier that is still ahead of him. Current speed: 5 MPH.
From a day wakeboarding on Lake Sammamish.
* What it looks like: Bulging arm muscles. Hard-core gloves. This guy knows what his is doing. Ready to rip back across that wake, probably.
* The truth: Mike has just scored a major victory. Air! "Big Air"? No. "Medium Air"? Probably not. "Tiny Air"? Sure. Maybe even "Sick Tiny Air". He just crossed the wake at a safe, but reasonable speed and awkwardly landed a mini-jump. Good enough. Don't take too many risks Mike. Current speed: 19 MPH.
So I'll leave you with this. The moral of the story is -- sometimes it is enough to just look hardcore.
THE END
Does anyone else remember chanting that when someone got called into the principal's office in elementary school? I miss those days. So here is my "Oooohhh, Busted!" moment of the week.
Overheard on Capitol Hill (the hip district of Seattle, where everyone wears way too tight jeans and ironic tee shirts, and would never be caught wearing big-chain clothing).
Hipster Chick Coffee Waitress: "Oh, that shirt is really cute. Where'd you get it?"
Hipster Chick Customer (wearing tight jeans, big jo-momma sunglasses, and a black shirt): "(long pause)... Um, The Gap... of all places (sheepish grin)."
Oooohhh, Busted!
I saw this T-Shirt the other day. Funny, but a true real-keeper wouldn't wear this, right?
I think not, but I am starting to get a little confused.
In response to Jean's initial post yesterday that blogging is just a "high-tech confessional", I've got something to get off my chest (and after this post I will say a couple of e-rosarys).
I ate at McDonalds today, and I liked it.
Now, I don't fancy myself as a hard core no-fast-food, no-chain-resturant type. I've posted about this before. 'Sok with me if you want to have a guilty pleasure. But McDonalds? Come on. We've all seen Super Size Me. They should just revoke my real-keeping license now.
I probably last ate at The Golden Arches a year ago, and that was one of those long road trips with nothing else in sight. And I got one of those fake-healthy whole wheat chicken sandwich things. Ah, who am I kidding? Enough rationalization. I ate McD's beef today for the first time in years, and I loved it! On with the post.
The Big Mac is good. Flipping good. Those beef-flavored fries? Delicious. And Jill M. is right that they mix the best Diet Coke anywhere 1. 2. Now, I'm not saying that I felt great afterwards. I'm not saying that my farts this afternoon didn't smell like burnt peanut butter. I'm not saying their resturant is a great institution, or doesn't often have confusing advertising. But it sure went down nicely (and if you followed all those double-negatives, a gold star for you). So for my confession:
"Bless me father, for I have not kept it real. I have consumated a relationship with a preservative filled 60+ grams of fat meal, and I enjoyed it. I pray that I will have the strength to resist temptation the next time I fill up with gas across the street from a McDonalds. 3."
1. Jill gets a McDonalds Diet Coke every morning, and somehow manages to avoid the food.
2. I know it's ridiculous to get a Diet Coke with a Big Mac and fries. But I'm trying to lose some of the weight
3. As a non-Catholic, I don't feel great about parodying a confessional, but it seems ok. Anyone offended? Mel Gibson, are you out there, or do you only read Aramaic blogs?
Western shirts are pretty popular right now. With the sweet mother-of-pearl snaps, nice cowboy cut shoulder patches, and the cool plaid patterns I find it hard to believe they ever went out. Like so many others, I jumped on the bandwagon early. But the difference is, I keep it real.
To illustrate my point, here are a couple of pictures of the shirt I wore to work today:
Notice anything interesting? Yeah -- there is no Ben Sherman or Paul Frank logos involved. That shirt is real, baby. WRANGLER.
In this case, keeping it real is a bit of a sacrifice. Actual cowboy cut shirts don't exactly fit the short/pudgy body type real well. Jean told me my shirt is funny because "you can see your pecs" (I think that's code for 'go easy on the ho-hos captain man-boobs'). Also, if you notice, the collar is pretty starchy and big. Maybe this serves some sort of calf-roping utility, but the shirt loses some of its urban chic because of it.
On the upside, my shirt is a lot cheaper than the couture rip-offs, and I have the peace of mind knowing I purchased it in Idaho's finest farm supply store. I'll trade a few fashion points for real anyday.
One thing I forgot the other day... and this is probably the most important promise to make to my friends/readers (done in a format imitating/flattering the greatest bill ever to pass thru the Idaho state legislature).
Be it resolved by the author of one inane blog:
WHEREAS, given the merging of the blogosphere and real life social gropus; and
WHEREAS, pretention runs rampant; and
WHEREAS, real conversations are now being cut short with a curt "just read my blog", or -- "I wrote about this on my blog"; and
WHEREAS, this is annoying as hell.
NOW, THEREFORE, BE IT RESOLVED by one suburbanite in whom real is kept, that I will never refer to "my blog" in person, unless said website is brought up.
BE IT FURTHER RESOLVED that I will restrain myself from verbally pointing you, my friends and family, to any postings I believe to be especially clever. Electronic links thru email/YM/YM statuses will continue to be fair game -- some self promotion is necessary.
The purpose of this resolution is to maintain a distinction between the blogospere and real life in order to slay the dual-headed dragon of pretentious and presumptive face-to-face communication wrt the internet.
Listen. I know that blogging doesn't exactly "keep it real". Starting a blog in 2005 is a lot like starting an ecommerce site in 1998. Everyone's doing it, there's not much you can really accomplish, and eventually there'll be a sock puppet prominently involved. But, as my friend Mark says; blogging is an exercise in ego, and mine won't let the idea go.
So with that in mind, I intend to keep it real by offering you the reader (actual readership not implied) a few promises. Here is my blogging manifesto:
1) I will attempt to (cough) check my language whenever it gets out of hand. I realize that puns, alliteration, and clever word play is a little too cheeky -- so I'll be sure to let you know I understand that with a little, ahem, word-nudge.
2) I promise to never Capitalize A Popular Saying/Description to make it seem like it is overused and a proper noun. This is really annoying, especially when writers follow it with a (TM). For example -- The New York Yankees become: "The Best Team Money Can Buy (TM)". This device is about as fresh as a BiFi roll shipped overseas.
3) Given that embracing guilty pleasures is the new haughty dismissiveness, I promise to not act too cool for pop culture. If you want to talk about that Bebo/Bobo guy on American Idol around the water cooler at work, I won't mock you (although you know who you are).
4) I once read in the liner notes to a Beastie Boys' album (no joke) that you always become who you make fun of. Given that I am mostly making fun of myself, the only danger is that I start actually believing this crap. I'll try to not let that happen.
5) Along the same lines, I will continue to use Sam as a humourous prop. Dressing him funny and putting him in strange situations comes with the territory. If he can't laugh at himself later in life, he probably isn't really my son (and sure as hell wouldn't be Becky's) :)
Like any good conscientious consumer, I try to shop locally or in organic/natural places as much as I can. Mostly this involves avoiding chain resturants and big-box retailers. There are plenty of good reasons for this:
- Feed the local economy.
- Support earth-friendly shops and renewable resources.
- Subvert the big capitalist/media/advertising machine.
But most of all, I do it because my friends will shame me if I don't.
There are some things you just can't say to your friends anymore. For example -- "Maybe we should hit Applebee's after work tonight." Or -- "Hey, have you tried those new McDonald's Chicken Selects?"
Not that this is a bad thing. We should keep each other accountable. My point is that we all have our own guilty pleasures. Some people love the overwhemling scope of The Home Depot. Others can't resist saving a few bucks by buying CDs at Wal-Mart. My guilty pleasure is Chipotle.
Chipotle is an interesting case study because they are actively hiding their corporate identity. They are owned by McDonalds, but they avoid mentioning that anywhere, and they serve stuff like "free-range Niman ranch pork". Very tricky indeed. Couple that with the fact that they put an addictive substance on the order of crack cocaine in the salsa, and this place has to be conflicting a lot of Deaniacs.
So, how do I keep it real? For starters, I give my friends a break. I realize that Mrs. ikeepitreal might go into cardiac arrest without a regular dose of the Olive Garden, and in turn, I embrace my own guilty pleasures. If I'm going to give in for a Wendy's combo #6, the hell if I'm going to hide it.
Now the tricky part in all this is riding the line... you have to let people know that your consience is working, and you choose to give in. I don't let a Chipotle run go down without (subtly) mentioning something about McDonald's.
That way ya'll will know what is going on in my head -- I know this is wrong, but it just tastes soooooo good...
When I order my caffinated beverage from Starbucks, I keep it real. How, you may ask? By pausing between each coffee specifier, like it's my first time there and I'm trying to figure it out. Here's an example:
I'll take a half-caf? (pause) large (pause) one pump hazelnut? (pause) no whip (pause) non-fat (pause) um, mocha. (pause) oh wait -- can you make it extra hot too?
I stand in line with the other suburban yuppie sellouts and practice my poor delivery. And yes, I know it's grande.