During my year abroad in Barcelona, I frequented a nightclub called “Nick Havana”. And I do mean frequented. A friend was a promoter for the club, and since it was located a short 10-minute walk from our apartment, we found ourselves there at least once a week. I had some good times, some so-so times, and quite a few awkward moments. One particular night, however, I experienced a moment so awkward it will no doubt go down as one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.

I’m not sure how, but I found myself at the bar ordering a drink. It was early still, and the club was relatively empty. Nobody was really dancing yet, just a few folks clustered around the bars and standing near the walls, chatting and looking cool. Two Spanish girls came up to the bar to my right, and miraculously, they started talking to me. I don’t remember what started the conversation, or what we talked about. I just remember feeling really excited to actually be speaking with girls, and Spanish girls at that.

So I had my drink and they had theirs and I turned slightly to face them and I said something awful like “la música está bien, no?” (the music is good). They smiled and nodded.
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This Danish film, like all good movies, is real.  We get to meet characters in a real world and watch them take steps in their development as humans.  There’s love, some pain, and joy.  It’s the best movie I’ve seen in a while.

Kristoffer and his friend Geir work for an advertising company pasting posters on billboards.  They cruise around some Norwegian coastal city in a dilapidated little VW van-truck.  Like Thierry Guetta, Kristoffer is an obsessive filmer.  He carries his camera everywhere recording the antics of Geir and their reclusive roommate Stig. They make a sort of milder version of “Jackass”.

Kristoffer’s love life drives the movie, but along the side there’s drama to be found in Geir’s past and Stig’s fears.  When some tapes are discovered by a TV station, the three roommates get thrust into sudden stardom, adding an extra layer of excitement.  All along we grow to love Kristoffer for his sweetness and naivete, his broken heart and his awkwardness.  We love Geir for being a good friend and for becoming a man, and we love Stig for facing his fears and sharing his true feelings.

We love these people just as we love anybody with a good heart, and we want desperately for them to be happy.  And while we see where we want these characters to go, how we want their lives to work out, there’s nothing so elaborately developed or abnormal as to make the ending obvious.  So we sit and we watch and gradually things unravel and reach a tipping point, and then our characters step up and speak their truth and show who we’ve really known them to be all along, and everything collapses back into place in the most satisfying fashion.

I guess I don’t need much of anything in a movie besides truth.  I just want to believe that these people could exist, and I want to see them grapple with the rich experience of life.  100 minutes later, I can feel my heart stirring as the ending credits cruise by.  It won’t jump out and shock you, but “Buddy” will remind you of how perfect life is.

Today I’d like to share a fantastic interview from Tulsa public radio.  Stanley Lewis is a force of nature in the art world.  You will never meet a man more excited about painting, committed to his work, or genuinely interested in the artistic growth of his students.  Above all Stanley lives life with a childish sense of wonder and a firm presence in every moment—characteristics that make him a joy to be around and a legendary painter.

Stanley’s work is currently on display at The Hogue Gallery on the University of Tulsa’s campus, and he took time to discuss his painting practice with Rich Fisher.  It’s 30 minutes well spent, and here are some highlights:

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At the Chautauqua School of Art where I studied this past summer, the studios are situated in a horseshoe-shaped block that opens onto a grassy quad.  In the quad are picnic tables and a big shade tree, and art students often congregate here while not at work in their studios.  There’s a covered walkway that goes around the front of the studios, with lateral beams spanning a row of white wooden columns.  It is on one of these beams that I managed to experience one of the most embarrassing moments in my life.

The beams hang about nine feet above the ground, and early on last summer I discovered that with a full leap I could touch the top of the beam with both hands, and with a serious commitment I could jump up and grab on.  I found the process both frightening and rewarding, as I’m terribly afraid of heights, but once up on the beam I could do a few pull-ups and gently drop back to earth, which made me feel very strong and manly.

I made a point to attempt this maneuver a few times each day—usually right before meals.  I felt that I was slowly conquering my fears with each leap, steadily making myself into a better person and a stronger man.  Each time I would make a couple of practice jumps, then steel myself for the big leap.  Each time I had to overcome my fear and commit fully to the jump, I had to visualize my fingers securely over the edge of the beam, and then throw myself up there with all my might.  Sometimes, after a couple of practice jumps, I’d chicken out and head for food, but I usually got up there at least once a day.

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Today I’m excited to begin a series documenting some of the most embarrassing moments in my life.  We’ll go in reverse chronological order, starting here with an event from late September, 2011.

It seemed like a great idea.  Months ago I’d completed a culling session of my dresser and come out with two things that absolutely had to go: a pair of brown Gap corduroys that puffed out too much at the bottom, and a blue wool half-zip sweater I’d bought at Macy’s for $25 and had begun to pill after just one wash.  Discovering that the Goodwill on Castro and Market had already closed, I decided to try offloading the clothes at Crossroads Trading Company.  I’d get some store credit to boot, I thought, and maybe walk out with a chill pair of pants.

If you’re unfamiliar with Crossroads, it’s a consignment store that sells trendy threads for less.  They get their clothes primarily from drop-in sellers—buying on the cheap and selling back to the public for profit.  It’s like a thrift store, but more expensive and without the creepy housewares section.  I’ve made some nice finds at Crossroads, including my favorite blue blazer and a soft, fuzzy wool vest, but this was to be my first time selling clothes.

I strode into the store in the sunny center of a weekday.  I was all smiles, freshly unemployed and happy to be out and about in the quiet time between rush hours.  I proudly announced my intention to sell some clothes to the two girls working the counter, and was instructed to head around the corner and sign in.  I checked my backpack, stuck the tag in my pocket, and rounded the counter to the middle of the store, signing my name on a list behind a couple of other clothes-sellers and starting to peruse the pants.  After a few minutes my brother called, and as I scooted out the door to speak with him the alarm went off, blaring loudly but fortunately stopping as I jumped back inside and handed the tag to one of the girls behind the counter.

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It’s Sunday afternoon.  You’re sitting on your back patio, settling into the next chapter of your 955-page book, and sipping a glass of water, when you get a text message that ruins your whole afternoon: “Hey you heading down to HSBG?”.

At first glance, this may seem like anything but an afternoon-ruining message.  A good friend of yours has just invited you to join the festivities at the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival in Golden Gate Park.  But as you consider your current state of being, envision the event in motion, and imagine the journey required to get there, you realize you have suddenly come down with a serious case of San Francisco’s particularly virulent illness: Festival Guilt.

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Sunflowers 10.10.11
Charcoal on Paper
18 x 24

Today I finally got to drawing the beautiful bouquet of sunflowers I purchased last Friday. In the background is one of my paintings on the floor.  Check out more of my recent work here.

I love cheese.  I eat veggie burritos at least once a week, and quesadillas almost as often.  Naturally, I get the good stuff—Tillamook medium cheddar cheese.  In the interest of saving money, I usually buy it in the large one-pound loafs.  These babies are great thing to have in the fridge, but when it comes time to grate, complications arise.

The main problem is the sheer size of the loaf.  Using a standing cheese-grater, or worse—a hand-held grater—the large block of cheese is terribly ungainly.  It’s too large and heavy to hold easily in one hand an apply the necessary pressure to get a good, efficient grate going.  For the past few years, I’ve suffered through the first half block of cheese, grunting with effort, standing on my tippie-toes, and laboriously grating away until, a couple weeks later, the size of the block is finally manageable.

Fortunately, I’m blessed with an exceedingly clever family—one that encourages innovation and always seeks the best approach to any task.  Enter the pyramid cheese block:
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For the past year and a half or so, shaving has meant trimming my moderate offering of facial hair to a respectable length.  My dad purchased an electric rechargeable trimmer that, without any attachments, gives a nice close trim in a matter of minutes.  Once I started using it, I never went back to the old-fashioned razor and shaving cream.  I felt like I was doing my tender skin a favor, and a little stubble never hurt nobody.

In October of last year, I moved to the Castro.  On the first Monday morning in my new apartment, I went to give my face a trim.  Much to my dismay, I flipped the switch on the trimmer and nothing happened.  I flipped it again, gave it a shake, stuck it back in the charger and tried once more, but got no love.  The darn thing was broken, and I had no idea what to do.

I went to work that Monday, and for the next couple of days, as I tried to procure another trimmer, I allowed my stubble to grow into an unsightly, prickly mess.  I perused the Walgreens offerings but didn’t find what I was looking for.  I was told by an un-helpful Radio Shack employee that I “must be looking for razor shack”.  As the week neared its end and my facial hair continued to grow I finally settled on an interim solution: a $7 sideburn trimmer from Ross.

This little piece of shit is powered by two double-A batteries, and is not intended to do more than reset the edge of one’s sideburn.  It is by no means intended to trim the entirety of one’s scraggly beard, but that’s exactly what I did with it, in a painstaking, sometimes painful process that could last up to twenty-five minutes.  I had to move the thing in a maddening series of minuscule strokes, all the while listening to its pathetic little whine.  On must-shave mornings, I’d set my alarm an extra half-hour early.

This inefficient and frustrating routine persisted for nearly a year.  No matter how many times I dropped the damn thing it continued to work.  I replaced the batteries a half-dozen times, and in the back of my mind was always thinking about finding a proper trimmer, but at the end of the day little “Protocol” was still the only thing keeping me from looking like a complete bum.
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