My mom was just over a month into her 24th year when I was born, in 1967. My sister arrived 15 and a half months later, in September of 1968. My parents separated when I was two. Mom was 26, with two little girls, and doing it all on her own.

I did not see my father again until I was 23 years old, at a meeting of my own doing. I’ve seen him once, since.

She dated two very different men following the dissolution of her marriage. I’ve written about Fuzzy before, and the red house on the corner in Mukilteo. We also lived in a yellow house there, up the hill from where Timmi and I had shared a room. You could see the Sound from the kitchen at the yellow house, and there was a dutch door leading to the yard.

Timmi and I almost burned that house down, one morning. Mom was sound asleep, having worked the night before. We would make ourselves bowls of cereal on such mornings, and watch cartoons. It was the early 1970’s, and candlemaking was a popular hobby. A television commercial showed a kit you could buy, to make your own little candles, and we thought it was a great idea.

While Mom slept, Timmi and I gathered up every crayon and candle in the house. We dumped all of it into a pot, and I dragged a chair over to the stove. As the eldest, it was my responsibility to stir the melting wax, while Timmi cut pieces of string and readied our candle containers. I was six years old.

I peered down into the big pot of wax, frustrated by its dark color. Even with all the red and yellow and orange crayons, the melted wax just looked like burned, black goo. It smelled awful. I turned my head toward Timmi, telling her to peel more crayons, when the pot of wax exploded in flames. Three seconds earlier, and it would have burned the skin off my face.

We ran to the bedroom and told Mom the kitchen was on fire. And it practically was. Flames grew from the stove, and the ceiling was coated with burning wax. Not long afterward, Mom and Fuzzy had a big fight and she woke us from our sleep, bundled us in the car, and drove off. We were still in our jammies, and it was dark outside. We never lived in that yellow house on the hill again.

I started the third grade at a new school, in a new town. We had moved to Bothell, where my mom could be near her sister, and we had cousins to play with. Maywood Hills was the third and last elementary school I attended, and I was the only kid in my class without a dad. It didn’t bother me, at all. We had Uncle Ron, and Gargon, and our super fun Uncles Tom and Tony.

Mom was dating a man named Ron. I didn’t like that he shared the same name as my closest Uncle, and his two children from a previous marriage were crybabies. He was an attorney, and drove a silly little green sportscar, with only room for two. One day, he showed up with a color tv, as a gift for me and my sister.

“That wasn’t for the girls,” I later heard my mom confide to her sister. “He just couldn’t stand watching the black and white.”

Timmi and I had loved Fuzzy, even though he didn’t sing to us when we went to bed, like Mom did. Fuzzy was fun and exciting. He knew how to develop pictures, and he played in a band. When our dog Maria got hit by a car, he buried her in the back yard, in the pouring rain, and had us put flowers on her grave.

Ron and his stupid little car could not come close to Fuzzy and his cool hippie vibe. But Ron loved my mom, and he wanted to take it up a notch. I think he wanted to marry her, or at least get a lot more serious, and I know there was a diamond involved.

The diamond was returned, after Ron told my mom that she needed to start spending a lot more time with him, and less time with us girls. He wanted to be number one. He was out of luck. That spot was jointly occupied by me and Timmi, and there was no man that would ever take it. My mom did not date again, until Timmi and I had grown up and moved out of the house.

Last month, my mom turned 65. She is still single.

My mom busted her ass to raise us, and she made it very clear that we were all in it together. I can vividly recall her sitting us down, and explaining the situation. “I can’t do this without your help,” she said. “It’s the three of us, and we are a team.”

After years of trying to make it happen, my mom finally got my dad to pay child support. That $100 a month did not go far, and we were always short on money. Every night Mom was home to tuck us in, she’d sing us songs before turning out the lights. The first was always a rousing chorus of You Are My Sunshine, followed by an amended version of the Coca-Cola jingle.

“I’d like to buy my little girls everything they want, but I don’t have enough money, so instead I give them love,” she’d sing, ending it with a quick, “…shine and a haircut, two bits!”

I have never, ever doubted or questioned my mother’s love. It is the purest and longest lasting thing I have ever had. Timmi would say the exact same thing. She has always made us feel extremely loved, no matter what. It is the best thing she could ever give us.

I first met Gloria Steinem in 1996, at a show in North Carolina. I was there with the Fastbacks, who were opening for Pearl Jam at a giant, outdoor stadium. Billed as a farewell party for Senator Jesse Helms, the 25,000 strong crowd was implored to get out the vote in the forthcoming election, with hopes of ending Helms’ regime of hate.

Afterward, I was introduced to Gloria backstage and she immediately did one of the many things she does so well: she asked about my experiences, and what brought me to the show. I worked at Sub Pop at the time, and she had all sorts of questions about women in the music business, and what sort of issues I felt were important to ladies my age. I was 29.

We talked for a good thirty minutes before it was time to go. Before saying my goodbyes, I paused and said, “You know, I grew up in a single parent family. My mom always spoke so highly of you, and you were an icon in our home. Thank you so much for everything you’ve done, it truly has been an honor to meet you.”

Gloria looked me in the eyes, and reached out and grabbed both of my hands. “You tell your mom she did a hell of a job raising such a thoughtful young woman. Please give her my best.”

My mom was thrilled when I relayed the story to her. “Gloria Steinem thinks I’m a good mother!” she crowed. It was a hot topic of conversation in Ballard, and Gargon kept a photo of me with Gloria right in the middle of all his other grandchildren.

“She’s a great woman,” he said. “You sure made your mother proud.”

Since that day in 1996, I’ve been involved in a handful of events with Gloria Steinem, each an absolute honor. We’ve hosted a couple of different fundraisers for Choice USA, where she was our special guest. I dj’ed a rally for John Kerry at the Showbox that Gloria spoke at; afterward, she hugged me like an old friend. I’ve shared my own abortion experience to a roomful of supporters, with Gloria by my side.

I could not have done it without my mom, and the way she raised me.

Last month, I helped my mom purchase her first computer. Going to the Apple store was like a trip to Mars, but she’s getting the hang of it and is excited by email and all the stuff the internet holds. She now reads this blog, but we have some rules. She cannot discuss it with me, unless I bring it up.

There is nothing private about the internet, but I only write this for me. I like that my friends and family read it, and I am touched by the interest it receives from strangers. But I can’t have the fact that my mom reads it alter what I say or do.

“Oh, I don’t want to know that personal stuff,” my mom said, which is code for I don’t want to know about who you sleep with. “I already know you swear, for chrissake.”

For Mother’s Day, I was going to solicit the readers of the Bonks for emails to my mom. My Valentine’s Day experiment was a huge success, and I thought it would be fun to replicate. It seems dicey, though. I don’t want my bitter ex-boyfriend sending her a harsh message from Texas, nor do I want somebody to tell her something she doesn’t need to hear.

All she needs to know today is that she’s a good mom. Gloria Steinem thinks so, but, more importantly, so do I.

If you know a lot of people, you have to remember a lot of names. The Rolodex in my brain is just about full. Sometimes I don’t remember people’s names, and I feel like a real jerk about it. But, come on. I am getting old. I can barely recall what I wore yesterday, let alone the moniker attached to some sweet little thing I met at the club.

My Nikole/Nicole problem has already been documented. There are four Amy entries in my cellphone. I know at least eight boys named Mike. James? Forget about it. Liz, Scott, Brad, Jennifer, Gabe, Charles — all multiples. It can be real confusing at times.

There is only one Quentin, but a lot of Daves and Jons. A unique name, especially one that starts with the letter Q, is a safe bet for exclusivity, but it is certainly not a guarantee. I know two dudes named Maurice, which is not a name you hear every day. One has long been a fixture in the Seattle music and arts community.

I met the other Maurice the day after the 2004 Presidential election bloodbath. He stole my heart. I still love him, even though I know I shouldn’t. Marcus calls him Mo Mo. I call him the Gangster of Love.

There are two Jay Clarks. Both are talented, funny, and charming. One is black, the other is white. Actually, white Jay Clark is Jewish, so he prefers to be called Jewish Jay Clark. Maybe you know him from GOODS, or perhaps you read his oftentimes wildly inappropriate blog, PUBLIK HAIR? Almost everyone I know does. He can be a real hilarious motherfucker.

I adore him. He’s clever, cute as a button, and wears funny clothes. He’s got some great political views and always treats me with kindness and respect. He has a big, squishy heart under all that swagger and is smart as a whip. And, he can spit dirty talk with the best of the filthy boys I know.

Jay is one of the artists featured in tonight’s group show at BLVD Gallery. It will be up through June 7, but you should come to the opening party this evening. It starts at 6pm and, like all BLVD openings, is guaranteed to be a good time. Come through. You can find a full list of artists and more detail here.

I’ve only been truly surprised on my birthday once. It was two years ago, when I turned 39, and Chad was the mastermind. You might have read about it here, or heard about it. Maybe you were there. You might have looked at photos and got all the dirt here.

We were in Hawai’i and, man, it was solid good times.

On Tuesday, it was Chad’s turn to be surprised. He turned 39 that day, and his wifey-to-be Nikole organized a secret party for him. Everyone was supposed to be at the Viceroy by 7:30, to shock the hell out of our dude for his birthday. The bar was closed to the public, Nikole put together a menu of Chad’s favorite food offerings from Twist, and I procured cupcakes from Trophy.

The joint was packed when I arrived, ten minutes before the birthday boy was set to show up. It is always so nice to be in a room full of friends, especially the friends we have. Smart, charming, easy on the eyes, hilarious, and engaging. There is no way you can’t feel blessed.

There were mini roast beef sammies, lobster macaroni and cheese, and crazy little snacks like jalapeno wontons. Champagne on ice, and cupcakes that tasted like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Nikole even put together a drink special — The Chadillac, which was a shot of Jack and a bottle of Budweiser.

Earlier in the day, I helped with the fake out. Chad seriously did not have a clue, and the look on his face when he walked through the door was priceless. It is startling to have a room full of friends yell SURPRISE, especially if you think you are walking in to a quiet bar for an early evening drink. Dude was sweating like a motherfucker, and can you blame him?

J. Moore, aka Jonny Merlot, spun the cuts while folks made merry. All sorts of fun times to be had and there was no shortage of laughter throughout the night. At one point, my face hurt from smiling and busting up so much.

It was pretty much the jump off for the late spring/summer party season. Neumo’s crew was in the house.

AEG up in it.

Audrey flew up from San Francisco, and her mom was there, too.

Gloria brought the G-had.

It was the first time I’ve seen Kerensa since she announced her pregnancy. She and Jason will be bringing a little boy into the world this September, and she absolutely radiates happiness. John Roderick was in good form, too.

Nikole was the hostess with the mostest, and look at those crazy cute glasses on Joan.

As is always the case for May birthdays, we were missing folks on tour. I can’t even remember the last time Gabe was in town for my birthday, and Dann is also out on the road with MIA. Derek and the Cave Singers are still touring, and the Death Cab boys are also on the highways and byways of America.

But, Spencer was there.

And so was the always lovely Zollo.

Tilson was in the house, repping the Saturday Knights. Do you have their new record yet? Get it. It is awesome, and Chad’s favorite new release for good reason.

Lajeunesse took most of these pictures, and he did a good job. It’s fun times to pass the camera to someone else for the night.

Although, there sure were a lot of boobie shots when I downloaded the photos.

And lots of pictures of pretty girls.

Jason went big with this one: pretty girl AND boobies.

More pretty girls.

And, more boobies. At least he got my good side.

Oh, Lajeunesse, you dirty devil. That’s why we call you The Juice.

We had one more night of fun with Russell, before he headed back to LA. Amy left on Monday, after we had a nice time out on the island. Russ blew everyone’s mind by taking a birthday swim on Sunday, in the frigid waters of Puget Sound. It was incredible. I’m sorry Marcus was out of town, and missed it.

Corey’s birthday is this month, too. I think it’s right around mine. I can’t believe how many friends I have with birthdays in May. Quentin’s was yesterday, Greg’s is on Sunday. Pirone turns 40 this month, and Zollo was born two days after me. Lily will be 10 on Tuesday, Kurt hits 41 at the end of the month, and Pheed shares May 20 with me.

That’s not even half of the list for May. Seriously.

A bunch of us ended up at China Gate around midnight, where the birthday boy sang karaoke and Marcus charmed the bar staff. It was a great night, and a good start to Chad’s new year.

One time, I was driving North on I-5, and was stuck in traffic near Everett. It was around the time that everyone had Osama Bin Laden fever, and I was fully obsessed with funny things pertaining to that elusive cave singer.

The giant pick-up truck in front of me held a couple of beefy, corn-fed boys and bad rock and roll blared out the window. The bumper and back window were emblazoned with stickers, including one of Calvin (of Calvin and Hobbes fame) peeing on the words Osama Bin Laden.

I immediately called Chad, to report this sighting. We both laughed about it, but not as hard as when I realized, two minutes into the conversation, that Chad thought I was talking about a sticker of Calvin Johnson (of K Records fame) peeing on Osama.

He was serious.

Another time, Chad sent me an email entitled Your new uniform. There was no message inside, just this link.

We had dinner with Ron Jeremy one busy Friday night at the Metropolitan Grill. There were six of us at the table and I had to sit next to Ron. Chad and I could barely look at each other throughout the meal, each of us knowing full well that we would dissolve into fits of laughter. Especially when Ron Jeremy ATE OFF MY PLATE.

It is the only time I have been at a dinner where the guest of honor discussed anal sex over appetizers, and later offered to show me his penis.

For Christmas one year, Chad gave me a beautiful, vintage bracelet, packed with intricate silver charms. One night, I slept on his couch and woke up with a miniature rickshaw indent on my face. It lasted for almost an hour.

This is an actual email I once sent Chad:

From: Kerri Harrop
Date: Wed, 21 Sep 2005 11:59:46 -0700
To: Chad Queirolo
Subject: patriotic duty

i wrote in JEFF STEICHEN for mayor yesterday when i voted.

Today is Chad’s birthday. He is almost as old as I am. I cannot imagine life without him. After the Raconteurs a couple of weeks ago, I was discussing the post-show highlights with Nikole.

“You guys really are like brother and sister,” she said to me. “It was so nice to see.”

It is so nice to have. Happy birthday, to my number one Humanzee.

I have lots of things to write, but am still recovering from my stint in the dentist chair today. That nitrous will wear a girl out.

Russell took this picture of me yesterday. We celebrated his birthday with some real nice times, and the sun even came out to play.

This week has flown by, a busy, busy start to my favorite month of the year.  Dinners with friends, a new baby, hours in the dentist chair, time with family, friends from out of town, and all sorts of other stuff.

Yesterday was my wedding anniversary.  I was 19 years old the day I walked into the Richmond Registry Office, just outside of London, silly with love.  That was 21 years ago.  It is astounding to think that much time has passed.

Jon is remarried now, and has a child.  I wonder if he remembered that May Day, so long ago.  I hope so.  It was fun.

There’s a lot to write about, but no time to do so right now.  Maybe this weekend.

In 18 days, I will add another year to my age.  Exactly three weeks from today, I will fly to Hawai’i, to celebrate that fact.  I can hardly wait.

Sometimes, the best thing you can do on a Sunday morning is get in the car and drive.

Breakfast, with a Bloody Mary and a Red Beer? Sure.

Especially when you spent the night before judging the Gong Show.

It really doesn’t take that long to get the top up, when the rain starts falling.

And no one is ever bummed when you have one pancake on the side, to share.

I’ve written about my mailman, Dominic, before. A few times, I think. I like him, and I really appreciate his dedication to only wearing shorts, no matter how cold and wet it is outside. He’s been my mailman since I moved to West Seattle, and I feel like he knows me pretty well. I see him more often than I see some of my best friends or family members.

Dom’s been doing big things for me this week. I love to get exciting mail and he has really helped deliver the goods lately. A lovely little book showed up yesterday, sent by my angelic friend Kerensa. Written by kooky NW scribe Clark Humphrey, Vanishing Seattle documents all sorts of amazing people, places, and things that have sadly disappeared from our great city.

Kerensa knows that I love the old-timey history of the 206, and it was a really delightful gift to receive, out of the blue. My friends continue to amaze me with their kind-hearted and thoughtful ways. I say it a lot, but it never gets old: I am truly blessed to have such killer people in my life.

Yesterday was the annual Dining Out For Life event, coordinated by Lifelong AIDS Alliance. It’s a great fundraiser, so simple in its premise and really effective at raising cash. Who doesn’t like to go out for dinner? No one I know, for sure. I’ve participated almost every year. One time, Dann was an Ambassador and we all ate crepes at 611 Supreme. This year, Nikole invited us all to have dinner at Twist, where she works as Event Manager.

Not Nikole the dentist. I have a Nikole problem. There is Nicole V, Nikole O, and Nikole S. All three were at my Christmas party this past December, a regular mafia of same-named ladies. At my birthday last year, Uncle Tony met the three of them, as well as Nicole B, and couldn’t believe it. It’s like the wedding scene in Goodfellas.

Weddings are good times, and this year will bring us some fun ones. Dominic delivered my invitation to Caitlin and Jonathan’s nuptials a couple of weeks ago, and I hope I’m able to attend. I’ve never been to Vermont, and I relish any opportunity to see Marcus in a tux. He cleans up real nice.

There’s a lot going on at the War Room this weekend. It took me almost a week to recover from their Three Year Anniversary a few Fridays ago, and now we’ve got the GOODS Five Year Anniversary party tonight. Do you want the details? Go here. It will be a fun time, for sure.

Chad hosted our table last night, and a great time was had by all. I love Chad. Everyone already knows this. He is the one who is engaged now, I’m just gonna go ahead and spill the beans. Nikole showed me the ring last night, and she is positively glowing with happiness. It is great to see. I love love.

I also love good stories and, man, Alex sure has them. He and Chad work together, helping deliver some fine rock & roll to the great Northwest. Alex has been in the music business forever, and is a wealth of interesting anecdotes and facts. He’s worked with just about anyone you want to hear stories about and has seen just about every great band since the late 1960’s. Michele is no slouch on the rock & roll front, and neither are Gloria and John. Between the six of us, we had lots of funny talk last night.

The soundtrack at dinner wasn’t anything to remember, but the soundtrack to my life improved greatly this week. Dominic didn’t deliver the package that arrived at my door this week, but he let the Fed Ex guy in the building so I’ll give him points for the assist.

My i-pod broke a month or two ago, total bummer. I am an Apple girl all the way, and I’m not gonna talk shit about the fact that my i-pod wasn’t that old, or how dismaying it is that modern technology doesn’t last as long as it should. Especially after receiving a surprise gift from dear Jenna. She left the 206 this year, landing a great gig at Apple. They are lucky to have her, she truly is a young woman to keep an eye on. Physical beauty in spades, and a heart that seems to be the size of Texas.

The note that arrived with my shiny new i-pod was sweet as can be. Just as sweet as her musings at Fresh Produce. Keep up the good work, girl. I am expecting big things outta you.

Does your dentist give you a bottle of wine when you visit? Mine does. My trip to Nikole’s office yesterday went well, even though going to the dentist is seriously something I dread. I used to be really self-conscious of my crooked grin, and always wished that I had braces as a kid. We were too poor for such things, and I have always had a pretty irrational fear of the dentist chair.

Nikole and her amazing staff did an excellent job of alleviating those fears yesterday. I only need one little filling, and I didn’t freak out when Benita started scraping away at my choppers. I am not too old to straighten my teeth, but I don’t think I want to. I love crooked teeth on other people, and I feel like mine are part of my face.

My ex-boyfriend Mike used to call me Party Mouth, and not just for my oral skills. He loved my crooked teeth, and so do I. They’re really shiny and clean right now, and, on Monday, Nikole is putting a gold filling in one of them. Gangster.

You seriously should have her be your dentist. Her practice is located on the Ave, in the U. District, and we recently picked out great new furniture for the lobby. Everyone that works there is really nice, and Nikole has a fantastic reputation in her field. She is great at what she does, and if you tell her I sent you, she will totally hook you up.

Seriously. I mean, she probably won’t give you a bottle of wine, but she will certainly take good care of you. Don’t be scared. Tell them General Bonkers sent you when you make your appointment, or just throw around my name like a handful of bird seed.

Look what’s on the fridge, as of last night. RADIOHEAD TICKETS!!!! As if I don’t already love Chad enough. Over dinner, he reminded me of when we went and saw them play for about 100 people at Bad Animals studio, years ago. He loves to break my balls about how much I love that band, and I had to elbow him a million times during that intimate performance. Wise ass.

He gave me the tickets last night. Seventh row. August 20. Man, I can hardly wait.

I bet Dominic is sad he didn’t get to deliver those tickets to me, but the sunshine today will make him happy. I’m gonna go see if he’s put anything good in my mailbox today. Don’t forget to come to the Second Annual Stranger Gong Show on Saturday night at Chop Suey. You don’t even need to bring me a present, but I won’t be bummed if you do.

I don’t even care how creepy R. Kelly is, this song always makes me happy. And, damn, who wouldn’t want to be at a party like this? It’s the freakin’ week-end, baby, I’m ’bout to have me some fun.

I’ve long been a fan of The Stranger. I’m old enough to remember when Tim Keck was still fairly new in town — the first issue hit the stands in late 1991, during Grunge Fever. Keck was around a lot, at parties and shows and stuff, and he could not have been more charming.

I mean, come on, Tim is an original co-founder of The Onion. You know he’s clever.

Over the years, I’ve had a lot of friends working at The Stranger. I still do. Charles Mudede and I met way back in the very late ’80’s, our shared interest in the written word and British hip hop cementing a bond. Schmader and I share a like-minded view on many topics, Nipper and I worked together at Sub Pop, Frizzelle and I were both employed by the Weekly.

I’ve had more than a few drinks with Kathleen Wilson, Jennifer Maerz, and Josh Feit. Savage and I argue online sometimes, always with mutual respect.

Kelly O shot beautiful photos at my 40th birthday party, each one a new surprise. T-Bag even made it as Drunk of The Week a couple of days later. And who can ever forget the time she dressed up as the Cobrasnake?

Brilliant.

Brad Steinbacher is one of my dearest friends in the world, more like family at this point in our lives. We met when I was working at Seattle Weekly; I was charmed by his smart ass style and healthy head of hair. We became fast friends, seeing each other through boyfriends and girlfriends and job woes and hangovers and baseball games. Steinbacher is a brutally gifted writer and, at times, has destroyed me with his prose.

For Christmas one year, Brad wrote me a book. It is tucked away on a shelf that holds some of my all-time favorite titles: Weegee’s People (original 1946 first edition), A Confederacy of Dunces (a book I will judge you on if you haven’t read it), Ordeal (Linda Lovelace’s scandalous story), Charlotte’s Web, and Subway, a book of incredible NYC photos from Bruce Davidson.

Nearby, are signed copies of Vernon God Little, next to Timoleon Vieta Come Home. I spent a couple of memorable evenings hanging out with the respective authors, DBC Pierre and Dan Rhodes, just shortly after Pierre had been awarded the Booker Prize. My god, what charming men they were.

Brad’s book is in good company.

I met up with Brad and Dann on Tuesday night, we were long overdue. The three of us used to spend a good amount of time together, watching Mariners games and talking shit. Once, they took the Water Taxi over to my place and we ate sushi. I can’t even remember how many hours we spent at Kincora, in front of that crappy old big screen, rooting for Ichiro and Martinez and Older Dude.

We’ve spent an unhealthy amount of time at the Elephant & Castle, located downtown on 5th. It is a weird, British-themed bar, with crappy food and appalling decor. We love it, for a lot of reasons. We’ve never had to wait for a pool table and they have Boddington’s on tap. The bathrooms are clean and the music is weird. Best of all, we never run into anyone we know there.

It feels like we’re in another city.

Actually, the only time I have ever run into anyone at the Elephant & Whatever was the day of the big anti-war protest, the one that happened just before George W. said fuck all y’all and started that abomination. Brad reminded me about it the other night. Spencer and I had repaired to the Elephant & Stuff for a drink, after marching through our city’s streets. Shortly after we arrived, Steinbacher came waltzing in.

All that chanting and marching really worked up a thirst, and the three of us spent the next million hours bellied up to the bar and solving the world’s problems.

That was a long time ago, now. Just look at that sticker on the back of my car. Or, consider the fact that over 4,000 US troops have died since the war started. Tens of thousands of innocent Iraqis are dead. More money than you can even fathom has been wasted.

And Hillary Clinton did nothing to stop it.

My friend Nicole has done a lot of work for a lot of good folks, and has been intimately involved with Body of War, a tremendous documentary that chronicles the life of Tomas Young. You really need to see this film.

Dann is behind Barack Obama. So is Brad. Me, too. We talked about it quite a bit on Tuesday night, what with all the ruckus in Pennsylvania going down. The three of us have no problem talking, and it is always quite amazing to consider how open we are with each other. We all know all sorts of scandalous things about each other. There is never a hesitation when revealing something embarrassing or stupid or tear-inducing.

I love those guys an awful lot.

They both gave me advice regarding my pathetic love life the other night. I have not had a real boyfriend for a few years now, which is the longest I have ever been single, since the age of 15. I feel like I am ready to have a nice boyfriend. Not one that is a degenerate alcoholic and not one that is married to someone else. I’m not having very good luck finding a nice boyfriend, and it is kind of bumming me out lately.

Brad, the newspaper man, suggested I take out a personals ad. No. Dann thinks I need to be patient. I know. He did support my brilliant idea of getting a part-time job at the Men’s Big & Tall shop. I think it would give me good exposure to the kind of dude I’m looking for, but we both agreed that they have terrible clothes there and I can’t have a nice boyfriend that has bad taste.

On Monday, I went to Neumo’s and saw the Raconteurs. Don’t miss them if they roll through your town. I have long been a fan of Jack White and I truly believe he is one of the most important songwriters of this generation. It was a great show, and an awesome fun time. You should see Gabe’s beard in real life. That thing is bonkers.

One of my very best dudes is now engaged. It is nice news. I would tell you who, but maybe I should wait a little bit. I think everyone already knows. But, still.

There’s a lot of other stuff to talk about, but I have to go to the dentist today and need to get my head in the game. It will be the first time that Nikole sticks her hand in my mouth. Weird. Thank god she is my friend. You should have her be your dentist, too. She is nice and gentle and pretty and she’s not gonna yell at me.

She’ll be with me on Saturday, at the Second Annual Stranger Gong Show. I’m a “Celebrity Judge” again this year, and it is going to be a blast. Last year was seriously insane. I’m not even exaggerating. You should come. It’s at Chop Suey and Schmader is hosting. You can find all the details you need here.

When I was in junior high, my Uncle John came to live with us. I think I was probably in the seventh grade, or possibly the eighth. One of those hellish years. There wasn’t a lot to like about Canyon Park Junior High, a sprawling school tucked in the middle of some woods and empty fields, and I don’t remember those years with much fondness.

It was there that I began to understand the pecking order inherent to teenagers. There were all sorts of cliques and subsets — stoners, nerds, jocks, cheerleaders, smart kids — and I didn’t really fit securely within any of them. I was in honors classes, but starting to discover punk rock. We hung out at the arcade after school, but the stoners were boring and surly. The preppies were stuck up, the jocks, with their wispy moustaches and flexing machismo, all seemed inappropriately older.

I hated junior high.

Sometime in the late 1960’s, Uncle John had gone from altar boy to juvenile delinquent, and my grandparents’ house was close enough to the University District for him to discover the wide world of drugs at an early age. By all accounts, Uncle John had always been a sensitive and quiet kid. He fell in the middle of the line — either fourth or fifth in the string of eight children. Once his teenage years hit, he was rarely out of trouble.

I have no memory of his shenanigans in the early 1970’s, but everyone in the family knows the basic details. Uncle John was the right age for the times, and photos of him from that era show a long-haired, handsome young man. You can see the trouble in his eyes, and in his body language.

My mom always said he got lost in the shuffle.

He would sneak out at night, climbing down the side of the house to meet up with his friends. There was a string of pretty crimes and Uncle Tom once took the fall for a stash of weed Uncle John had hidden in their shared bedroom. Uncle John had broken a statue of the sleeping Christ child, in order to hide his drugs inside it. It had belonged to Nana’s mom, Nana in Boston, and Gargon hit the roof when he saw the damage.

It was glued back together and now resides on one of my bookshelves.

Uncle John and his buddies would score a lid of grass and head to the Seattle Center, where they would go on rides and terrorize unsuspecting people. They would jump out of their little cars on The Flight To Mars, hide in the darkened haunted house, and sucker punch people as they went through the ride.

He was a bad kid.

A stint in the United States Marine Corps did not mend his ways, and ended with a broken jaw and a dishonorable discharge. By the mid 1970’s, Uncle John had been in and out of jail a few times, finally ending up in Walla Walla, at the Washington State Penitentiary.

I can remember going to visit him at a halfway house on Capitol Hill, run by the folks at the Seattle Drugs and Narcotics Treatment Center. I can also remember the letters we would receive from him, written in his flowery penmanship and bearing his prisoner number in the return address. He would send gifts at Christmas, made in the prison workshop. I always used to wonder if he wore a striped uniform, or if he spent his days making license plates.

He didn’t.

My mom has always been a soft touch. She has a lot of compassion for others and, as the eldest daughter, I think she has always felt a sense of responsibility for her siblings. I’m positive that she was the only person to offer Uncle John a home upon his release from the Pen, back when I was in junior high. I know she believed that he had changed his ways, and had finally kicked his drug habit.

His room was in the back of our duplex, and he kept it much like a cell. Bed always made, a little portable tv set, tidy stacks of books. At first, he seemed to make an effort. He would cook us breakfast, telling me and my sister that he learned his recipe for potatoes with onions while in the joint. He tried to find work, although there wasn’t a whole lot he could do. Drug-related robberies and petty crimes don’t look so good on a resume.

It wasn’t long before Uncle John had reverted to his old ways. Once, he took me and Timmi shopping for my mom’s birthday. On the way to the store, we had to stop to see The Snowman.

“We don’t call him that because of his skin,” Uncle John said, while Timmi and I waited in the car. A giant, dark man appeared at the front door of the house, and Uncle John disappeared for ten minutes.

I wasn’t sure what was up, but I knew it wasn’t anything good. I was only 13 years old. I knew about pot, and I knew there were scary, hard drugs, but I had no reference points. The Snowman? What the hell was he selling?

I also knew that Uncle John was a racist, and I could not believe that he had a friend that was black.

I lied, recently, when I wrote that I had never heard the n-word in our home, while growing up. I didn’t lie on purpose. I had forgotten about it, until I recalled Uncle Wee’s lesson from the garbageman.

Timmi and I loved the show What’s Happening!!, and never missed a single episode. We both had giant crushes on Dwayne, and loved his big afro and sly charm. There were only about four or five black kids in our entire school. Finding a boyfriend with creamy brown skin and dark eyes seemed impossible.

What’s Happening!! was set in Watts, a place I knew about only from headlines. The dad was absent, just like ours, and they never had enough money, just like us. The kids liked music, and there were often references to Stevie Wonder and the Jackson 5. In one memorable two-part episode, Rerun, with the aid of the Doobie Brothers, helped bust some concert bootleggers.

It was awesome.

Timmi and I were in the middle of an episode one day, after school, when Uncle John came into the room. He took a glance at the television and, after finding out it was our favorite show, looked me straight in the eyes while putting forth a command.

“If you or your sister ever bring home a nigger, I will fucking kill him.”

I was too old to be a tattle tale, but all I could think was I’m telling Mom.

I had no response for Uncle John. I knew that saying anything would make it worse, and I could not believe he would dare to use such a word in our house. I didn’t have strong feelings toward Uncle John at that point in my life — he was my Uncle, and so I loved him. He was a grown-up, and so I respected him.

At that moment, looking into his angry face, I hated him more than anything in my young life. I have never forgiven him for that moment, and I never will.

He didn’t live with us for much longer after that. It wasn’t working, and neither was he. When my mom cleaned out his room, after she told him he could no longer live with us, she found a pile of spoons under his bed, bent and burned from cooking up dope.

She had noticed their absence from the cutlery drawer, but had assumed that we were being careless with our chores, and had tossed them out while doing the dishes. She has always wanted to believe in the good.

About a year after my mom moved back home to take care of my grandfather, Uncle John also returned to the big old house. He had lost his apartment, after a stint in the hospital for yet another heroin-related health issue. Neither my mom nor Gargon were happy to have him back, but what could they do? He had nowhere else to go, and I think my grandfather always held on to a hope that Uncle John was on his way to being a productive member of society.

Besides, that’s his kid. You don’t turn your back on your family.

Uncle John is now 59 years old. He has been behind bars for a dozen of those years, and has been on Methadone for probably half his life. I don’t think he has ever held a job for longer than a month or two, and has had a host of health problems. Just like when he lived with us, he has spent the majority of his time in his room.

“John’s up in his cell,” Gargon would say, with a wry grimace on his face.

Uncle John has made these last couple of years even more difficult for my mom, and I hate him for it.

Just as I have never forgiven him for dropping the n-bomb on us, or for taking advantage of his older sister’s big heart, or for robbing Nana’s jewelry, or for stealing $500 from me, I will never forgive him for his inability to step the fuck up and be a decent human being.

He is my mother’s brother, and I respect that. But I do not like Uncle John, and I never will.

The house will be put on the market soon, hopefully by month’s end. My mother cannot move out until Uncle John has found a place to live. He cannot be trusted to stay at the house alone, and there is no way in hell that he is going with her. She is on her last nerve with her younger brother, and her well of compassion for him has finally run dry.

Timmi and I are doing everything in our power to help the situation. I honestly do not care what happens to Uncle John, and have no desire to help him. But, I have to help my mom. I love her, and I want her out of that house, and back into life.

So, yesterday, I went to the house, for what feels like the millionth time this month, and drove Uncle John and my mom downtown, to meet with a lawyer. The money he has received from Gargon’s estate must be put into a trust. He has all sorts of issues that non-productive members of society share — he’s got SSI benefits, and disability, and Section 8 status.

It is a god damn nightmare.

My mom sat in the front seat. I mainly just try to talk to her. I don’t want to be blatantly rude to Uncle John, but I have nothing good to say to him. As we looked for a place to park, my mom and I talked about how much we don’t like parking garages.

“I don’t like them, either,” came the voice from the backseat. “But I’ve sure shot a lot of dope in places like this.”

Sigh.

The lawyer, a nice, middle-aged woman with long hair and kind eyes, seemed to suss out the situation pretty quickly. She spoke mainly to my mom, and to me, and we figured out everything that needs to be done to get Uncle John out of the house.

“It sure is nice to see a woman in a skirt these days,” he said to her, at one point in the meeting.

I wanted to crawl under the table.

When Nana died, Uncle John got fucked up and snuck into the cemetery late at night. He laid on her grave and cried and wailed and god knows what else. Before he left, he took a Sharpie out and wrote I love you Mom on the gravestone.

Gargon hit the roof when he found out. The stone had to be sandblasted and professionally cleaned. It better not happen again.

I will be glad when all this stuff is over.

You really wanna start paying attention about two minutes in.

All the hustlers? They love it.

You know Jay-Z is hyped.

I’ve been over at my grandfather’s house a lot this week, helping my mom sort through things and get rid of stuff. The house will be put on the market soon, and there are years and years of life within its walls. It is a daunting task.

Nana and Gargon didn’t have fancy furniture, or a collection of unique art, or china to swoon over. They had eight kids, and their style of living reflected that very fact. The house was always neat as a pin, and filled with sturdy, functional items.

Nana had her many collections — brass figurines, porcelain, 1960’s Hawaiian kitsch, silver, weird dolls — but most of that stuff was dispersed amongst the family after her death, over a decade ago. Everything left in the house is stuff that Gargon held on to, as a widower.

That’s Gargon there, the second from the right. I love that smile on his face, and the way he’s got his hat on the back of his head. I never knew him with dark hair — he was 47 years old when I was born, and already completely silver.

That old postcard was tucked into a scrapbook from his days upon the U.S.S. Cayuga. The leather is soft and worn, and the hand-painted cover bears the official seal of the United States Coast Guard. I’m surprised at how intact it all is, and how many photos are still tucked within its heavy pages.

It is a remarkable thing to have.

I picked up a lot of habits from my grandfather. Even as a little girl, I recognized our shared similarities — a love of books, a desire for solitude, an attraction to neatness and order. It’s been interesting to consider the various lessons and quirks he has passed down to the generations. Timmi and Gargon shared an unconditional love; for Megan, the only grandchild to call him Papa, he was just like a father.

There is not much of significant monetary value in the old house, but the sentimental worth is priceless. By now, a month after his death, all of Gargon’s surviving children have been able to choose the things they want to keep. It has been a blessedly peaceful operation. No arguments, no petty fights. Thank god.

There were a few things specifically designated by Gargon, in his will. Uncle Joe gets the military sword, Timmi gets the electric typewriter. She spent ages trying to find a ribbon for it, back when he was alive and still able to use it, and Gargon clearly never forgot her efforts.

Uncle Wee gets the medals. The photo of Gargon in his dress blues, all those medals pinned to his chest, is one of my favorites. It was the day he retired from the Coast Guard, after 28 years of service. When I was little, I thought he had a line of Nana’s wind chimes from the front porch pinned to his jacket.

I get to keep the old timey map of Washington state that used to hang in the cellar. I also was able to choose one of the commendations that hung in Gargon’s office. I picked the totally cool proclamation that marked his crossing of the equator, bound for New Guinea, while at war with Japan. It bears the official seal of the U.S.S. Admiral C.F. Hughes, and crazy graphics of mermaids and King Neptune.

I love it.

As the eldest granddaughter, and the most like Gargon when it comes to a sense of documentation and history, I have been bestowed with the honor of keeping virtually every bit of written history he has left behind. My office is full of treasures, with more to come. All of the original copies of the Nanagram, the meticulously researched family tree, files and files of sailing logs, war ration books, and family doings of note.

I’ve got a folder that holds nothing but correspondence between Gargon and elected officials. Letters from past Presidents, notes from Congressmen. The sheet of paper that hung above his desk, covered with quotes he loved, is now mine.

For the first time that I can ever remember, Gargon was in my dream the other night. There is nothing more boring than hearing about people’s dreams, so I’ll spare you the detail. But it sure was nice to see him.

When I was six years old, I determined that my lucky number is 2. My sister and Mom both have the number 3 as their lucky number. The Partridge Family Activity Book I had helped me choose my number, and I have kept it my entire life. Nana did a great job of passing down a wealth of superstitions to us, and I am not embarrassed to admit that I still abide by many of them.

I have stopped and turned the car around on more than one occasion, thanks to the black cat crossing my path. I will not listen to songs that mention death when driving, nor will I do the obvious things like walk under a ladder or open an umbrella in the house. I knock wood all the time, and I still hear Nana’s voice in my head late at night.

“Never look in the mirror after midnight,” she’d warn. “You’ll see the face of the devil.”

It wasn’t until I was a pre-teen that I figured out that looking in the mirror in the morning was, technically, after midnight.

My mom has stories about her grandfather, Pop, taking her for a stroll around Boston with a sprinkling of breadcrumbs in her carriage, to keep the fairies from stealing her when he wasn’t looking. It wasn’t a joke.

On February 22, 1916, Ira Garfield Hutchins married Catherine Josephine Hilferty. Of their four children, Gargon was the only son. Catherine was a sturdy Irish woman, with big hands and childbearing hips. Ira was tall and lean, and all of the pictures of him are serious.

My mom sat me and Timmi down at the table in the living room last night and gave us some treasures that Nana in Missouri, Gargon’s mother, had left behind. Timmi received a delicate set of rosary beads, I have the gold cross Ira gave her.

There were a couple of little diamonds, in beautiful, old-fashioned settings. Timmi got those, while mom gave me great Aunt Peggy’s gold ring, set with 21 little diamonds. They are the first diamonds I have ever had. It looks pretty gangster on my pinky.

She also gave me my great grandmother’s wedding band. The thick ring of gold is inscribed on the inside: IGH to CJH 2/22/16.

It fits my ring finger perfectly. It feels lucky.

Where the hell did the sun go?  Jesus.

It was just here, and now it is freezing cold again.  Freezing.  There was ICE in the rain today, as if the rain on its own wasn’t bad enough.

Things have been hectic.  I don’t really feel like getting into it right yet.

It has been a minute since I have had a “real” job. I’ve been freelancing since my Miller High Life contract expired last year, hustling weird little gigs and consulting for a small handful of companies. Some may remember the three months I spent pushing Chambord, others may recall the event held this past fall for Appleton Rum. Sometimes I play records, other times I advise people on what they should do.

It’s not a bad life, for sure, although it is doing some real damage to my bank account. I’m going to have to get a “real” job soon, and probably should already have one right now. But, I don’t. There’s a lot of other stuff to do with the hours in the day, and the idea of being back in an office makes me anxious.

I haven’t worked in an office since 2001, when I was at the Seattle Weekly. Well, actually, Quentin and I had an office at Chop Suey, but that was in a club. It doesn’t really count.

The Weekly office was filled with cubicles and a lunchroom and conference rooms and fluorescent lighting and controlled air. The Pioneer Square location meant there were some lovely touches — exposed brick, wood beam ceilings — but, it was still very much An Office.

With all the transients and ne’er-do-wells in the neighborhood, the stairwells were always locked. That meant you had to take the elevator to the third floor. You could walk down the stairs, but not up them. Stupid.

The elevator opened directly into the reception area, where the front desk always had the mandatory bowl of candy and cartoons depicting office humor taped to the wall. The memory of it makes me sigh. Our receptionist was a nice, lovable woman and every day she would greet me with the same exact phrase. I liked her a lot but, by the second year I worked there, I could barely stand it.

Waiting for those elevator doors to slowly open into the foyer was one of the main reasons I quit my job there. I just could not deal with it anymore.

I met Christine back when the High Life program was up and running, and we had expanded from the original four markets to something like ten cities. She lives and works in New York, where she has an agency that handles a variety of events and clients. It has been years since we’ve seen each other or spoken, so it was a pleasant surprise when she contacted me in February, wondering if I was interested in a little one-off gig.

Virgin Airlines, owned in part by kooky bazillionaire Richard Branson, was expanding its airline service to the West coast, with new flight schedules up and down the coast. Parties to celebrate the first flight in each market were taking place, and Seattle was next in line. Would I be interested in helping coordinate and host such an event? And, most important to the client, could I fill the room with interesting and fun people from the 206?

Fuck yeah, of course I could. Rarely do I pat myself on the back, but I gotta say: I think I’m a pretty good hostess. I love to throw a fun party or an interesting event or a weirdo night. There are few things as great as good times with friends, especially when they are on someone else’s dime.

Anyone familiar with Malcolm Gladwell’s book The Tipping Point will surely understand the idea behind marketing that targets a certain demographic. Key influencers, early adopters, cultural visionaries — whatever you want to call them, they are worth their weight in gold to a lot of companies. Particularly companies that build their brand on lifestyle choices.

Whether or not such marketing tactics are still effective is debatable. Modern consumers that fall into this category tend to be at least somewhat smarter than the average bear, and can see through viral marketing schemes with ease. That consumer savvy is, of course, part of the whole equation.

Who cares if you think it’s lame that Esurance sponsors the Block Party? You probably didn’t pay to get in, anyway. But a lot of other people did. And, if that association makes them remember Esurance when the car gets wrecked, a marketing bigwig has achieved their goal.

As I learned long ago from Bruce and Jonathan, any press is good press, as long as they spell your name right.

Believe it or not, I actually do have some standards when it comes to who I will work with. I will never take a gig that will benefit companies that offend my sensibilities. I always research who it is, and what they are pushing, before getting on board.

No offense to any of my friends, but I will never do work for Starbucks. I would rather eat my own hand than be involved with anything to do with fast food, unless it is Dick’s. You will never see me cash a check from a company that overwhelmingly donates to the Republican party, or is guilty of blatant corporate chicanery.

I also can’t get behind the tobacco companies. As someone that constantly struggles with a nicotine addiction, I hate them. I hate that every pack of cigarettes I have ever purchased helps line the pockets of people that do not give a fuck about their product’s harmful effects. I love to smoke, and I wish it wasn’t bad for humans. But, there is no denying it is. You can’t really defend smoking, even though it is totally fun to do.

Just that sentence makes me want to light a cigarette.

Believe me, I recognize that my standards are full of contradictions and loopholes. It is difficult to be a consumer with a conscience in a time when corporate culture is so strong. And, I’ve had a lot of people ask me how I can be against tobacco company money when I’ve worked for a variety of liquor distributors.

I’ve seen plenty of lives destroyed by booze. I’ve lost friends to alcohol-related accidents and my last real boyfriend put me through hell with his love affair with the bottle. But drinking, unlike smoking, is something that, when done in moderation, isn’t gonna kill you. Most people I know do not have a problem with the juice. Sure, they’ll get real loaded every now and again, but, generally speaking, it’s not so much of an issue.

When I went to work for the Miller Brewing Company, one of the things I liked about them was their corporate policy. High Life is still union brewed, and the company offers same-sex benefits to its employees. They donate to both political parties pretty equally which, while not ideal, is better than a strictly Red corporate giving policy. The bottle is cool. It’s called the Champagne of Beer for a reason. I haven’t been on their payroll for almost a year, and I still keep High Life in the fridge.

Besides, I love the culture surrounding drinking. The neighborhood bar as a third place is a well-worn tradition. There is nothing better than a beautiful cabernet with a good meal, and I will rarely refuse Jameson on the rocks. I’ve met some of the most interesting people I know in bars, and I really appreciate the mixology behind a good cocktail.

So, whatever. I know my standards aren’t perfect, but I’m good with them. No one is holding a gun to your head to attend a corporate-sponsored party, and I sure have never seen an anchor on anyone’s ass at any event I’ve put together.

Although, Anchor on Your Ass would be a good name for a club night. Someone tell Jon Cairns.

Jon came to the party I helped throw at the Showbox on Tuesday night for Virgin America. It was good to see him, it’s been awhile. I’m not so into going out these days, much preferring the comfort of my home, or a nice dinner party with friends. You can forget about seeing me out on the high holidaze — Friday or Saturday night — unless it’s a real special event. I still enjoy the rare midweek occasion, which is one of the many reasons why Tuesday night was such a blast.

As with a lot of corporate-sponsored events, there was a decent level of d-baggery on the line. The VIP area was packed with a motley assortment of weirdo celebs and eager employees. Festivities had begun earlier in the day in Los Angeles, where the Donnas played at the LAX terminal, before everyone boarded the first flight to Seattle.

Cisco Adler, he with the infamous nutsack, performed on board, and so did the Air Guitar Champion. The invite-only passengers were also subjected to a performance from Virgin America posterboys the Bamboo Shoots, a truly awful band out of Brooklyn.

Winning a contest on MTVU doesn’t mean your band is listenable. Looking good in an ad campaign most certainly does not guarantee you will sound good. I am not trying to be mean by saying this, but, seriously, Bamboo Shoots is one of the worst bands I’ve ever seen at the Showbox. Or, anywhere. I am not alone with this opinion. It was the number one complaint of the night.

I actually wasn’t subjected to much of their aural assault, since I was busy being hostess at the Showbox entry. The guest list was packed with friends, colleagues, and acquaintances, and I was there to make sure they all had a good time. They did. It’s hard not to, when the drinks are complimentary, and there are tasty snacks to enjoy, and there is a slew of folks to talk to, and gift bags to receive.

I mean, come on, who hates good times?

Even better, the headliner for the evening was none other than Thurston Moore, with a full band. It is hard to believe he is 50 years old. He looks great, and he completely brought it on Tuesday night. I’ve always felt that Sonic Youth were a bit overrated — people seriously get all kinds of crazy over them, and I’ve seen them really shit the bed onstage. But, man, Thurston KILLED IT the other night. Not even the lame corporate graphics on the screen behind the stage could dampen his performance.

The guy responsible for those graphics was real proud of himself. When he showed up earlier in the day and started offering strong suggestions about the room’s set up, I thought he was an opinionated hipster dude hired to help with load-in and set up. Turns out he’s some sort of creative director for Virgin. The fact that he dressed like that lady man in Le Tigre should have been my first clue.

Thurston’s blistering performance was not marred by the rotating graphics that included phrases such as Virgin Rocks! and an image of horned hands. The horned hands were actually awesome, if only for the reason that they were wrong. Instead of the sign of the devil, it was actually the American Sign Language symbol for I love you. Sweet!

The backdrop was, of course, the only other thing that people complained about Tuesday night.

I had a good laugh about it with Mark Arm, who I booked to DJ a set before Thurston played. Those dudes are old bros, and it was fun to see them hanging out. One of my many highlights of the night, in fact, was seeing Mark and Charles Peterson spellbound by Thurston’s set. An email from Charles yesterday confirmed my joy: Yeah, it was fun joking around with Thurston and Mark before the set. Like old times.

I am not even exaggerating when I say I talked to at least 400 people that night. Probably more. I am good at talking and it was fun. I truly love to be the hostess and it is lovely when everyone is having such a good time. Drink tickets always make people smile, and so does the company of other good folk. We had no shortage of either the other night.

Thanks, Richard Branson.

It was the first time I’ve ever seen an actual red carpet at the Showbox, complete with paparazzi and a number of television cameras at the step and repeat, which is the term for that logo emblazoned backdrop that you see celebs getting photographed in front of at events. The first hour of the night was completely nuts, with interviews being conducted on the red carpet and photos being snapped.

The Donnas were in the house, and so was Jerry Harrison of the Talking Heads. The early part of the evening had featured a one-song performance from two local bands, as part of a tie-in with KNDD. The winner, determined by this odd panel of judges, would receive a package that included a professionally shot video, which will be included in Virgin’s on-board entertainment menu.

I missed all that, as I made sure folks got in the door. I heard the judges were pretty brutal in their assessments, which would have been interesting to see. I don’t think Luke Haas is an authority on music, but fellow judges David Cush (CEO and President of Virgin America) and Joe Scoleri (VP, Hollywood Records) certainly know a thing or two about the rock.

My favorite panelists were Hot Lix Hulahan and Stryker. You don’t know who they are? I didn’t, either. Why don’t you just go ahead and Google “US Air Guitar Champion” and find out more? Rad.

My guest list was 500+ strong by the time I was done, and it sure was a good one.

Folks from Sonic Boom, Sub Pop, Barsuk, Light In The Attic, KEXP, Fuzed Music, One Reel, Ten Club, KNDD, Zune, Microsoft, The Council, STG, The Stranger, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, Seattle Weekly, Seattle Sound, and a whole bunch of others. All sorts of band folks in the house, from the Saturday Knights to Triumph of Lethargy to Kinski, and a whole bunch in between. Local DJs, promoters, party people, and boozers. Those bad boys from GOODS and Winner’s Circle that I love so much, and all sorts of fashion plates.

It was a fucking blast.

To my knowledge, no one managed to see Cisco Adler with his pants off. J.R., however, did get him to do shirts off at the Cha Cha after the shindig at the Showbox ended. I didn’t see it happen, but there is photographic evidence.

By then, I was whupped. I finally had a drink around midnight, some Jameson with Fourcolorzack and Nikole. Zack murdered it on the turntables, and I loved watching him do it. He truly is one of Seattle’s best DJs, and was a stellar addition to the night.

I’m sure a lot of folks were cursing my name on Wednesday morning. People were partying hard, and the room was nothing but fun.

Sarah Joann Murphy took that photo above of me, and it pretty much sums up my night. Lots of talking, smiling, greeting, and a handful of drink tickets. She’s got some great shots of Thurston on her blog, which you will find by hitting that link.

It was a great night. I am still looking for a job.

They are smart, fast & will take what they can get.

Man. Coyotes have never sounded more exciting!