**eastward movement is included


there's a kid in there ... and he's big and he's dumb and he's kinda scared.

so i wish i could have read that last post out loud in front of an unnecessary amount of people just so i could hear the uncomfortable silence that would inevitably follow. four words; "ehhh ... ya got any gum???" i hope to god my mom hasn't found this blog.

instead, i'll try to stick to the tried and true blog winners; music, my floundering post-college work situation, the portland scene, drinking, and sweet people.

wish me luck, and kiss my free-time goodbye because as of four pm this afternoon i'm officially part of the design team for a competition we've been shortlisted for in denver. our competitors? several native {to colorado} 'hot' architecture firms, including two that i actually interviewed with in the great city of denver. are worlds colliding? absolutely, and i'm excited to see the fallout. needless to say, i'm thrilled to finally do something 'cool' at my job. since assimilating, i think i've said all the right things. memorable emissions from my big mouth include:

'youth? put everything on these shoulders,'
'weekend plans? what weekend plans?'
'i'll be your huckleberry.'

so i made the last one up ... sort of. yes, i'm a complete loser. did i mention it's friday night and i'll be at the office by nine tomorrow?

my design input? respectfully witheld.

my professional credibility? nonexistant.
my blind devotion to the project? enough to fill the cosmos.

anyway, the next two weeks or so should be full of a comical amount of work intensity, innumerable wads of trace paper, a heart-stopping amount of caffeine, and legendary late night hangs at the 'ol 320. color me excited. i can't believe i've been craving this.

speaking of work, i'm also excited about tomorrow's 'big' event; a work cookout in the midst of some irish-fest in some town about twenty miles west of portland. i think i received a mass email a few days back where the words 'lots' and 'guiness' were very close together in one or two of the sentences. you don't even need to ask if i'm going to be in attendence.

i also failed to mention the night of august twenty second ... the night wolf parade and frog eyes invaded stumptown. a respectable night of legendary proportion. the night started off by josh {sweet guy from work} picking me up at 1945 {i wasn't on time, of course} and then heading to the ash street pub to slam some sodas and watch this band perform, {name?} whose members he was friends with. our dorky discussion of local bands and obscure musical name-checks was interrupted by some degenerate outside who starting yelling at me about terrell owens being '40 years old and finished' and 'how he's a big chiefs fan.' i nodded my head in agreement {mostly condescension ... and a little fear} because he obviously was drunk, didn't have a full set of teeth, and mentioned earlier how he's had to drop everything and 'kick some ass' at the bar on several occations.

at about ten we arrived at the crystal ballroom for the show. at this point, describing my anticipation or excitement for this show would basically be superfluous, simply because of how much i've grown to adore this band since i was first introduced to them by two legendary individuals {a.ross & k.knecht} months ago 'back in college.' their performance would only exaggerate my obsession. i only saw the tail end of frog eyes, which disappointed me, but once josh and i grabbed some drinks, i was quickly over it.

basically, the show was incredible. the crowd was pretty rowdy, but the energy was practically tangible, and i also found myself in the pit, which is slang for 'a sweaty group of aggressive teenagers.' someone threw a sandal at one of the bandmembers. he threw it back in the crowd and hit me in the face. i almost got a drumstick. i left with the pungent stench of seventeen year old body odor; and was beside myself with joy. by the end of the show i had made my way to the front with my hand literally resting on the stage. as much as i would love to elaborate further with a continual pitchfork-esque stream of elist and dorky adjectives and verbs, i'd prefer not to. i'll let my mediocre pictures do the talking.

becoming more technologically inclined by the day,



my boys, click and clack.

manifesto time.

it's saturday morning, and you know what that means. Car Talk, baby. time to make a large pot of coffee, turn the lights down low, and ... write on my blog. a guilty pleasure? perhaps, although i don't know why i would feel 'guilty' about listening to the two funniest {and surprisingly humble} bostonians on the planet make fun of each other and astound my ears with their automobile aptitude.

i'm pretty sure i was first introduced to their quirky jokes and pithy humor years ago by my father. we were driving on some remote highway, south of kc, i think on the way to Richards-Gebaur air force base for one of the 'guilty' pleasures of my youth, the airshow. {people who know me well know that i was consumed with aviation and jets growing up, and feverishly drawing them thousands of times over ... and watching top gun in equally innumerable quantities.} i like they how they try so hard to spell their listeners' names right, and when they insert yiddish terms like 'schlepp' and 'kibitz' into their infectious diologue. right now a girl from orlando is telling a story about her smoking steering column. after that they helped a female minister from cleveland choose a new car that would be a more dignified means of transportation during a funeral procession. needless to say, i feel a strong sense of humility and insignificance when i listen to their shenanigans and endless sage advice ... and all i do is write about how i used to draw jets.

maybe this is a good segway into another topic, and it's something i realized during my recent flight back home. fortunately, our plane few north and then swerved back around south, and then the inevitable direction east towards kc, allowing everyone on board to get an aerial view of the entire city and eventually both mt. hood and mt. st. helens. it got me thinking about how i've had this silly obsession with form all my life. i guess that explains why i was drawn to the distinctively sexy and powerful forms of jets from such a young age. it obviously helped that i had a the luxury of admiring a gorgeous composition of the earth below me as we flew over the cascades of the northwest, the rockies of the colorado, and surprisingly attractive sparseness of wyoming.

then, predictably, i came to the conclusion that i'm obsessed with bullshit ... with composition; with arbitrary forms. in architecture for instance, all i can do is admire something by the form it takes; by the dynamism of it's shape and materials, or by the impossibility of overcoming earthy forces {see gravity.} i don't know shit about construction and i've merely scratched the surface of the application of creative material usage; attributes i always found in the people around me while at ksu and now at the office. i concluded i am a shameful 'lookist.' i size up buildings/people/ideas by how they look and not what they mean. how noble is that?

how many times have i ran my mouth about how distinguished and reputable it is to possess the ability and genuine passion to build, and how certain glorified architects represent everything that is transparent and shallow about the world because 'they don't do that'? is it considered a contemptible act to condemn such a thing when i'm more than guilty of the same thing? some might say i'm being to hard on myself, simply because i'm brooding over flaws common to all humans, but i still feel like a degenerate phony nonetheless.

enough of this ranting. i think the endorphins from my coffee are wearing off.


what did the wasp say to the hipster?

nothing of substance, would be my educated guess.

tonight, i made two conclusions. first, in order to maintain some thread of sanity, i need to stop wandering around public events in portland by myself. second, i must carry a {loaded} camera with me at all times from now on. allow me to explain myself.

it's the first thursday of the month here in portland, and every fashionable elitist scenester knows that means it's time to head down to the pearl district and see what the wacky 'art world' has to offer. i would post some visuals to give the reader a sense of the 'environment' of this outdoor soiree, but in typical corbin-style, i left the batteries to my camera at home. but i digress ...

the aforementioned first conclusion is a function of tonight's experience. to put it simply; a hurricane of people, most of which are only there to loudly voice their opinions about so much mediocre art without the least bit of censorship or discretion, about a subject with which they have no conception or understanding ... all underscored with an attitude of pretention so thick and creamy i could feel it sticking to my skin like midwest humidity. {simple?} there's nothing discreet about the posturing that goes on out there. now, i willingly admit that i'm no guggenheim, but listening to some of these conversations is unbearable. it's a fashion show. it's a meat market. it's complete bullshit. i seriously hurried home so that i could get this off my mind and write this entire post. {umm. pathetic.} so, if i am going to put myself through this ever again, i cannot do it alone. internalizing this cynicism will only push me further towards insanity ... i feel like i'm one 18th-century-art-movement-name-check away from slitting my wrists.

on the upside, there were some hidden gems. one exibit showcased some rare watercolors from the warped mind of salvador dali, which were quite nice. some guy next to me starting telling some story about some collector {friend?} he knew who bought one last week for $400,000 and i quietly left the room. there were also some legit work from these artists whose work i recognized from last week's 'last thursday' festival on alberta. after gawking for a few minutes, i apologized for turning their little display into a library, asked for a card and then enthusiastically assured them i would buy some of their work as soon as i had the expendable income to do so. i received the standard 'no worries, bro' response and dragged myself home, eager to tell the world about this transcendental evening of bitterness.

lastly, why do the people above me come home every night at 11.30, turn mtv and re-arrange their furnature? tonight i swear they're dropping croquet balls on the floor and throwing water out the window. i'm not making this up.

sweet dreams.

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New York, New York, United States
I take myself too seriously most of the time and I am trying to do that less. I remind some people of Woody Allen. I occationally indulge in the weekend camping trip. I adamantly support the Kansas City Royals baseball club. My identity is wrapped up in a few simple things, most of which are continuously displayed on this here blog.

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