Spiffy Space-Cadets entering the Final Fall of the Zeroes

Rocketing and rocking on with life in Portland Oregon my current writing projects burn with blaring clouds of flame and smoke blasting onto the pad. At the moment I'm working on a press-release for my boy Ansel, for his band, wait for it... Ansel. This kid is a contender I tell ya, living on the waterfront so to speak in West LA at the moment. Check them out at www.bandcamp.com/ansel . Beyond this I've just begun a new novel, "White Balls and Kina'ta'An" the tentative title, a romantic drama of sorts juxtaposing the rise and fall of a relationship with the economy of the Zeroes while expressing the reality of cross-cultural relationships in contemporary American culture, in this instance between a Native Son (American born) and 2nd generation Filipina. The short story "A Sentimental Story about Family" is done, exploring the transitive and at times surrogate-like nature of family set against a decadent back-drop of a Portland OR drug-scene, email me and I will send you a copy, as well as "Panic Switch", a sort of criminal drama, and I'm working on a religious satirical allegory titled "Adam" exploring the origins of Adam, a creature of the visionarium nestled within the seventh belt of the thirteenth planet from the darkness. On the physical front I've breached five miles and am nearing the kick-flip, it's only a matter of my front foot placement man, front foot placement mastery, and I'm golden. The weather in the Northwest is a watered down iteration of the Northeast, although I must admit the kindling leaves and fall foliage is a welcome divergence from the evergreenery of SoCal. As the trees come alight in this final year of the Zeroes savor the burn and prepare for lift-off.

Westward Bind

My name is Michael, Jack, Michael John, but on the East Side it soon won't matter until it does across, as I'm about to peace out, be swayze, gone. I've been running three to four days a week, training at World Gym three, laughing my way up higher inclinations during midnight jaunts. The song "Summer's Almost Gone" by the Doors, live, enchanted me in May, persevered happily into June only to haunt me in July, pushing me over the edge of the decision precipice, free-falling I am no longer. On Tuesday I'll be landing upon Portland, the West Side once again the locale I've chosen for my residence. I've not yet been there, however "Paranoid Park" was illicitly good, VooDoo Donuts sounds ill, the skateboarders there are better than me so soon will be my skills as I thrash along, and Southern California felt too comfortable for me to be content in such a choice. I'm halfway through the smithing of four domers, the first of which shall be sparked as the wheels of my storm-trooper board touch down upon the black fields that never die cutting through downtown Portland. Literary internships, the Burnside Review, Open Spaces, Tin House, are to be taken on forthwith son, leading to literary connections building to the dominos of publication falling into notoriety as the ostensible path beckons. Rock and Roll.
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