fingers

my roommate has this unusual theory about air conditioning. instead of pointing our electric fan in the direction of our rooms, he aims its whiring blades at the bathroom--that is, he sends the cold air in the completely opposite direction of our rooms. he claims that this creates some kind of vaccuum, fifth dimension, or high pressure system whereby our home will become magically cooler. mark's dad has a phd, so i tend to believe him about stuff life this. still, when i arrive home at night, i like to hang out on the porcelain throne--for some odd reason, the toilet is the coolest spot in the house....once i'm refreshed, i mosy into my bedroom and prop open the window.

this summer ritual isn't so bad except for nights like tonight when the window comes crashing down on your hand. then, as you nurse your throbbing fingers, you start to wonder about hot days in the artic. you curl up on the couch and sulk, cursing the heat, the fan, and that stupid window. or you might praise God that your name doesn't end in skeith.

that is, today i dialed up my long-time buddy jonathan skeith and learned to be thankful for aching fingers (at first my mood was celebratory: jonathan passed the cpa exam. that means he can begin reintegrating himself into regular life. but then i heard the news: his wife's grandmother died last week. jon and kim spent the weekend at the funeral in idaho. and the other news: last night jon's baby daughter, naomi, had a bad, bad fever. when it reached one of those bad numbers in the low one-hundreds, the family spent the night at the ER. thankfully, the doctors said that it was probably a one-time viral thing. and then): jonathan's brother jacob lost three this last weekend. as he was trying to fish his wife's diamond ring out of a lawn mower bag, the machine got greedy. it sucked his hands from the bag into the spinning blade. in a split second the fingers on his left hand were cut in half. agggggh. painful. unlike the film kiss, kiss, bang, bang (another finger story from this week), jacob's finger tips couldn't be recovered. he'll be stuck with stubs and odd phantom feelings of whole fingers. so, if you pray for random people that you read about on the internet, pray for jacob (or jonathan, or kim, or naomi...), and if a bad day's got you down, be glad for those happy ten.


no pictures today. i'm trying to decide how to handle my pictures of people. they're not great pictures, but they are fun memories. i need to decide what i'm hoping to gain by posting photographs. what's my purpose...?

blue scholars lyrics!

Perhaps you've noticed that a complete set of lyrics to the Seattle-based, thoughtful hip hop group Blue Scholars is unavailable on the internet. Well, let me be the first to congratulate Andrew for now having the first ever internet links to the Blue Scholar's self-titled album's complete lyrics!

Check it out; leave me a comment if you have suggestions about words that don't seem quite right.

solstice: reintroduction
blue school
bruise brothers
motion movement
selfportrait
freewheelin'
the inkwell
burnt offering
evening chai
blink
sagaba
the ave
life & debt
no rest for the weary

to my bored reader(s) and neighborhood thieves

i recently received some blunt criticism regarding the 17 point scale. a loyal reader frowned and said "your blog hasn't been very good lately." and that's it. no request for expanded seahawks coverage or spicier cooking tips. no call to cut out the photography. not a mention of how i might ammend my errant ways. well, what the crap do you want me to write about?

and speaking of crap, why would someone steal a tent pole from my backyard? thanks for leaving the tent, but what are you going to do with a single tent pole?

oh, and has anyone seen my headlamp? in any case, i'm leaving for saskatchewan on thursday--with or without my tent pole (and head lamp). thus, i won't be posting until i return next week.


andrew david. "the rejects 2: hand jive; our casa complex; a fence; the way; untitled #43" yelapa, mexico.

the colors in 'our casa complex' are not digitally altered. i don't know where the greenness came from...

'untitled #43' was a picture that i really liked. i played with it for awhile, but i couldn't find a good crop. another interesting idea that just didn't work...

packing list (part 1)

beth and i are driving from seattle to saskatoon, sk. what should we bring?
1. razor
2. shaving cream
3. toothbrush x2
4. toothpaste
5. deoderant x2
6. clothes (boxers x7, swim trunks, jeans x2, casual wedding garb pants & shirt, t-shirt x6, socks x7, belt, sweatshirt x2, coat, shoes, sandals)
7. atlas
8. other notes re: instructions and campgrounds
9. camera x2
10. camera charger
11. ipod
12. ipod fm transmitter
13. laptop x2?
14. tent x2?
15. sleeping bag x2
16. pillow x2
17. headlamp


andrew david. 'the rejects 1: keeping current; observing the surf; oncoming traffic; hot day' yelapa, mexico.

back page: cherry

VI.
cherry by mary karr

10/19/04
"yet another 'messed up girl grows up' memoir. i think it left me feeling sentimental and that 'cherry'-- [i think that's the main character]-- is really missing the point (of life). i guess i [just] find it hard to relate to her. it may have been well written [it seems that i was afraid to say one way or another] and includes some objectionable content."

i rarely mark on the front or back covers of books. it's unsightly and somehow discourteous. however, after concluding cherry i apparently felt free to scribble messages to past reviewers:

frank mccourt: "she's a poet and there are passages in her writing that glitter."
andrew david: "i probably agree."
sunday times: "...she writes with wonderful exactness and candour about sexual experiment and girlish desire."
andrew david: "...and this is probably why i don't relate."
caroline gascoigne: "this frank account of a wild texas girlhood is the most unbeatable read of the year...."
andrew david: "this frank account of a messed up texas girl is...."

if you read my blog as closely as i do, you'll notice that my book reviews tend to appear in alphabetical order by author's last name. today marks the end of that tradition. after unknowingly bumping into karr last week, i felt it was only fitting to conclude her time on this blog with a back page review. as my editorial marks attempt to highlight [i.e., these boxy brackets, the pesky pets of overly attentive editors], i didn't have much to say about this book. i'd just finished janet fitch's white oleander, so i was on troubled-girl-overload. still, i wonder if my response would change had i known that karr was a recent (?) convert to catholicism. would i have embarked on a wild goose chase, searching for a subtle message of redempton whereby i could exclaim, "ah hah! i told you she was a christian"? would i at least find some nugget to dissuade me of karr's pointless vision of life? maybe one of you will read it and tell me...

andrew david. 'wimps die 1 & 2' yelapa, mexico.
the guidebooks claim that there are no roads in or out of yelapa. however, any andrewesque wanderer who journies beyond the cemetary, up a dusty trail, and past the occasional clothes line may find a most marvelous sight: a nonexistent road. and maybe, if this window is particularly portentious, one may find this same vehicle, still waiting the return of its daring dead owner.

happy father's day!

my dad's quite a character. over the course of my life he's crashed motorcycles, surf boards, and boats. he's been a sunday school teacher, soccer coach, ship captain, and pizza baron. more recently he's become a bit of a mad scientist: in mid-july, he'll be opening salem's first 3D, dark light, mini-golf pirate adventure (i tried to include a link, but the website for pietro's pizza must be top secret; i can't find it). i find this unusual enterprise to be emblematic of my father's personality. he tends to operate in two modes: goofy, light-hearted, and laid-back or business savvy serious. the mini-golf is a little bit of both.

i've learned a lot from my dad. i read the good book, watch world cup highlights, pilot the occasional water craft, and eat a lot of pizza. i don't plan to invent a new kind of mini-golf, but he has pushed me to use my creativity in my own way. yep, i'm lucky; my dad does the stuff that dads are supposed to do--love, encourage, and discipline. it may sound elementary, but my dad's the best!

he also does facial expressions and sports a nifty green fanny pack:

andrew david 'dad' seward, alaska.

not a real post

i should go to bed now.

h2oj

everyone has morning rituals. i myself start each work day with a styrofoam cup full of orange-water juice. it's a refreshing reminder that i'm awake. this blog, the 17 point scale, is a lot like that orange-water juice.

point one: orange-water juice is a cheap alternative to full-on regular orange juice. it costs half as much! likewise, in contrast to other fine literature (which may require a costly visit to some used bookstore or online vendor), the 17 point scale costs half as much! well, actually, like most blogs, it's free.

as you may know, i'm cheap. but h2oj is the result of more than everyday economic obsessive compulsiveness. as much as i love orange juice, it has a decidedly acidic aftertaste. frankly, it's a bit much for my tastebuds. thus, i decided to go half-and-half, to combine fresh water from the VA fountain with low pulp tropicana.

there are many ways to relate this process to my blog. for instance, each post blends photos and prose. the blog fuses religion with art, literary commentary with mouth-watering recipes, pseudophilosophy with random goofiness.

better yet, the 17 point scale splashes somewhere between confessional and detatched. i share about my life, but i choose not to bore everyone with my daily activities (except making h2oj of course). this isn't a blog where you'll find sylvia plath with her head in an oven or --

holy goose! i hate to interrupt our regularly scheduled blog like this, but i just happened upon something a little bit crazy. you see, i was hoping to say something like: " [another famous confessional poet] poetically recounting the acrimony of her sex life," but i couldn't think of a good poet to fill-in-the-blank. so, as any frenzied blogger would do, i turned to google. there i typed "confessional poet sex." instead of finding robert lowell (did he write about sex?), anne sexton, or (thankfully) some strange and artsy porn site, i found mary karr...to everyone but beth (?) this may seem ho-hum-who-cares? but, beth, isn't this the girl that wrote that essay you were having me read tonight? the essay that some single-initialed literary type forwarded to greg wolfe at image? maybe not, but it sure sounds the same. and, if so, this is the girl who wrote cherry, that coming of age memoir that i was telling you about! crazy, eh?

errrrrrr...okay, so i'll write more about this blog's battle with confidentiality in some later post. sorry, good night.


andrew david. "view from our casa" yelapa, mexico.

life gets in the way of blogging yet again

friday - hot tubbed in portland
saturday - mocked rose paraders, tried to climb an elephant, shopped at powell's, ate pietro's pizza, played sardines
sunday - ate barbeque, river frolicked, and played horseshoes at the oines bungalo on puget island
monday - dined at the mountain something cafe, watched my first free movie from blockbuster online (munich)
tuesday- no plans
wednesday - no plans
thursday - no plans
friday - go out of town?


andrew david 'loot' yelapa, mexico.

i'm not quite sure what i mean by loot. i didn't have a chance to rummage through their contents. probably contraband of some kind, but that unknown is part of the mystery that i hoped to convey. however, i obviously didn't frame the picture very well. when looking at this one, my eyes go directly to the boring blue sky and then they're lost. can anyone think of a good crop? also, the boxes mimic the hills in the background, and rather than compliment one another, this proves counter productive. still, i really like the sand shadows in the foreground.

google searches & house tour

my cyberpet, the statcounter, attempts to track how many people visit my blog and their method of doing so. during the last 100 visits, there were 5 visitors who arrived by google and 2 by yahoo. here are their queries:

	4 visits	36.36%	the 17 point scale
	2 visits	18.18%	http://the17pointscale.blogspot.com
	1 visits	9.09%	interracial photo sessions
	1 visits	9.09%	failed blog
	1 visits	9.09%	god laughs and plays
	1 visits	9.09%	lekkerman
	1 visits	9.09%	history of church on yelapa

failed blog! hah. i have no interracial photo sessions to share, so i thought i'd share another little chunk of my mexico photos instead. by the way, after a few months worth of posts, i'm finally nearing the end of the good photos from that trip. anyway, here's a tour of our $95 accomodations in yelapa (that's right, only $95 bucks! crazy ridiculous good deal; in case you're wondering, this is at casa isabel):


a view from beth's bed; a view of beth, angie, and our front porch; a view of beth's bed and the kitchen from my bed


a view of of beth, the kitchen, and some ladders to the girls' rooms; angie's bed; the bathroom sitting room

my bed and views from my bed
the shower (well, kinda')
the bathroom (kinda)

this is a litle tale about sleeping

once, long ago, a whirling bit of cosmic dust, an almighty deity, or some cosmic accident resulted in this thing we know as humanity. whatever our origin, us bipedal primates were designed to spend half of our lives sleeping.


indeed, the bed is the great equalizer; even honeymooners and dudes on death row must sleep.


finding this sleeping business a bit tedious (and an utter waste of time), beth, angie, and i planned our escape. we traveled deep into the sun soaked land of mexico.


once we reached the coastal village of yelapa, we sidestepped the bed bugs for an hour or so by joining a candle-lit dance party. the locals were a peculiar blend of hippee, tourist, and native, but the dj's fondness for cheesy eighties music made us retreat to our jungle bungalow.


and it was there that we succumbed to that inevitable sign of human weakness--we slept.


like any holy grail quest, our search was in most ways a failure. despite its two dollar margaritas, roaring iguanas, and tropical beach, yelapa could offer us no antidote to the night. still, our sleep was far from boring. as you may or may not have noticed, these beds are covered in netting AND, better yet, they hang: we were safe from all those nasty jungle critters while hanging suspended in mid-air. it was as if the bed itself was a physical representation of our sleep state; that night we hovered happily in our dreams. how can sleep get cooler than that?

(it can't.)

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
1. what if we're stuck in seattle? should we avoid the boredom of sleep and advocate our friends and roommates to do the same?

2. speaking of roommates, what is one to do if his (or her) roommate serves as a roadblock for this pursuit of waking life? for example, let's say that at 9pm someone intends to delay the call of sleep by watching a hit tv show (e.g., 24) with his girlfriend, but that his roommate says, "no, i have to work early in the morning; i'm going to bed now, and the tv is too loud." what should one do?

3. okay, okay. so assuming that one does the polite thing and lets his or her roommate drift safely to sleep, what if the roommate also says "yep, i've decided that i need more sleep, i'm gonna start going to bed about this time every night. maybe you could use the tv friday nights..." what now? sure, mark needs his sleep, but what about my right to occasionally watch a movie on my big screen tv?

(i was going to ask a sex question related to hanging beds, but then i remembered that i was annoyed about our small house, so alas, i asked no sex question. now it's too late.)

strange men

wednesday i saw a man with a big bushy gray tail coming out of his pants. beth said, 'don't look, but there's a man with a tail coming out of his pants.' i said 'a tail? what do you mean?' 'look.' sure enough, there was a man with a tail coming out of his pants.

this isn't him:

andrew david 'shiny space alien man buys some advil' puerto vallarta, mexico. (taken in february; originally a color photo)