Why I Haven't Been Posting Lately

This is my office. It is where I write. It has also become my son's bedroom. Traditionally, I do my writing at night after the kids go to bed. Lately, not so much.

And seriously, I've been working on a journal entry from CRABWARS 2012, and it might actually be done tomorrow. Or the day after that. We'll see.

This Is Better Than Dead Air

I apologize for the delay in posting. It's been a long couple of weeks, punctuated by a few key job interviews (one of which actually materialized into an actual job offer, which I accepted) and a lot of time consumed by that and the fact that my kids are both dancing on the edge of cold and flu season. When you are unemployed and your kids and/or their daycare provider are sick, the unfortunate yet unavoidable truth is that you will become Mr. Daddy Daycare. That's just how it is.

But I've got plenty of old story ideas that I've been thinking about fleshing out. Things like my long-standing relationship with the Smirnoff product development higher ups, and the fact that I once tried to blow my hand off with a roman candle. Some real nuggets. Also, plenty more birthday party invites as well. I'll get to them soon.

Tomorrow at 4:15 am, my pal Pete Perzan is going to pick me up at my house, at which time we're going to drive to the airport, fly to Portland, rendezvous with my brother Joel, and engage in the ritualistic killing and eating of the mighty Dungeness crab. If the story of this weekend is entertaining enough to tell, and if I get enough interesting pictures, then that will likely be my next entry.

In the meantime, please enjoy this picture of two squirrels doing it.

An Open Letter to Tim Gunn

Tim Gunn
Rogers & Cowan
Pacific Design Center
8687 Melrose Avenue
7th Floor
Los Angeles, CA 90069
USA




Dear Mr. Gunn:

First off, let me say that I'm a fan. Like a lot of guys in America, I'm occasionally exposed by secondary means to my wife's choices in television programming. There are two in this category that are most notable. The first being "Glee," which I can not comprehend. (For the life of me, I have no rational explanation for why that show is a phenomenon. I can watch singing high schoolers anytime I want. We've got YouTube for that shit.) I'll go on record right here to say that "Glee" is absolute garbage. Rubbish. It's killing America.

However, my wife's other favorite show is Project Runway.

I'll be totally honest. I've loved your show from the start. And to put it in context, I could give two craps about design, but that doesn't matter. Project Runway has charmed the shit out of me. I have become a secret fan of Project Runway, and mostly, that's because of you, Tim. You have the most friendly, unassuming, and unpretentious way of saying, "I see that you've put a lot of thought and work into this, but to be honest, you look like absolute garbage." But not only that, you're also clearly a very warm person who doesn't miss an opportunity to pass on an equally charming compliment. You just seem like a really decent guy, Tim. The kind of guy that I could really see myself hanging out with.

And that brings me to why I'm writing this letter, Tim. I'm writing to you because I'm turning 40 in just under a year, and I'm planning a real blowout of a party. I mean big. We're talking strobe lights and smoke machines and stuff because let's face it, I'm only going to turn 40 once. I'm gonna make it big. And while it will undoubtedly be a great time, the thing that's going to make it special is the potential guest list. So far, excluding all of my friends, I've also extended invitations to Zack De La Rocha and Governor Jerry Brown. I haven't specifically gotten a confirmation from them per se, but I'm pretty sure that they're going to be there. Zack is always a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of guy. That De La Rocha dude is crazy. (We go way back.) And Jerry's always a wild card. This fact is well documented. I think you'll fit right in.

I'll get to the details stuff later about the party. Before I get to that, I need to ask a favor. Like a lot of people, I don't put a whole lot of effort into thinking about how I dress. To say that I'm a jeans and t-shirt kind of guy would be overstating my ability to dress myself. Lately I'm more of a shorts and sleeveless shirt and flip flops kind of guy. (I'm unemployed. What do you want from me?)

Fashion Forward and Fabulous!

Clearly I could use some help. Oh yeah, and yes, that is a picture of the nose end of my sweet ass minivan, accompanied by the entire contents of my garage, which have been spread all over the driveway while my wife re-organizes the piles of crap into other more organized piles of crap. Just a little peek into what makes my life awesome.

Historically, I've had issues with dressing myself. I was recently digging around some old pictures and I found this from my Junior Prom. Luckily I've been drinking so my judgement is a little flawed, so I'll post it here for you. Take note of some of these homespun fashion features:

* Really dirty and beat up Converse All*Stars. For that classic, retro look.

* Shorts. And by "shorts," I mean, standard, grey, thrift store shorts that probably once belonged to some old guy named Cecil. All the better to show off my slightly underdeveloped leg muscles, my dear.

* Matching cummerbund. This is, after all, a formal occasion

*Tuxedo T Shirt. I know everyone else does this now, but hey, this was in 1990. Not everybody had caught on to the tuxedo t-shirt phenomenon. Yet. If I'm a pioneer on this then you're bloody well welcome.

 *Actual tuxedo jacket. Not just a tuxedo jacket. A tuxedo jacket with tails. TAILS.

*You can't see it because my facially-blurred date is obscuring my lapel, but I'm wearing a broccoli boutineer. Dig that.

*Note the hair. I did it myself. I still do my own work nowadays.

 So I'm bringing all this up because I could really use some feedback. I'm sure by now you're utterly sick of people stopping you on the street and asking you your opinion on stuff like this, but I'm calling in a favor for a guy that's really trying to make the most of his big 40th birthday. (Me.) This is a big deal, and you and I both know that I clearly can not be trusted to decide on my own wardrobe for an event like this. Particularly if anybody from my star-studded guest list decides to show up. So this is my commitment to you, Tim. I am 100% coachable. I will wear whatever you tell me that I should wear. If you tell me that I'll look good in white linen pants and a vintage Hawaiian shirt, then by God that's what I'll wear. I trust you. I trust your judgement. Mine? Not so much. Want proof?

You want to talk bad judgement, Tim? Howzabout having a couple of cocktails and posting this picture on Facebook. You don't do that, do you? Of course you don't! Because you're Tim Effing Gunn! You have class! You have style! I have none of that! I need your help. Badly.

To further illustrate my point, I once wore a pair of plaid boxer shorts for just about a full week before I realized that they were, in fact, boxers. Meaning I was wearing them around town as if they were shorts. In my own defense, this was the early to mid 90's, so the notion of short shorts wasn't totally foreign, so some people might not have noticed. Back then Magnum P.I. was still a part of the cultural lexicon so I kinda got away with it, but regardless, this is something that I've carried with shame for almost 20 years. I mean, I went to the mall in these shorts. I walked around my neighborhood in these shorts. Turns out I was strolling around town in my underwear.

In hindsight, I would've really appreciated a heads up from my friends. ("Hey, dude. Um, I know we're going casual and stuff, but maybe you should put on some pants before we go to my girlfriend's house party.") Unfortunately, that never happend.

Anyway, I'm really hoping that you can make it. I realize that on paper you and I have pretty much zero in common, but that doesn't mean that we wouldn't have a lot to talk about. And truthfully, and I mean this in the most non-obsessive, non-crushy way possible, but I could listen to you talk all day. You can just come by the party and tell me a few funny stories about how Heidi Klum picks her toe jam on the catering table when she's off camera or whatever. I'll eat it up, Tim. I could just sit and listen to you talk for days. Like I said. Not creepy obsessive. I just think you're awesome, that's all.

So here's the necessary info that you'll need when you start making your plans. For one, of course, you're going to need to plan your wardrobe. Keep in mind that this is going to be in August in Sacramento and we'll be outdoors, so it could potentially be really hot. And by "hot," I mean that it ain't a party until somebody goes to the hospital with heat stroke. So dress appropriately. Thankfully it's before Labor Day, so no sweat if you're thinking about wearing white.

The party is going to be on August 24, 2013. Some time in the afternoon. Not sure when we're starting yet but it should pretty much be an all day affair.

Food and drink are pretty much taken care of. I mean, if you've got a favorite side dish that you're particularly proud of, feel free to bring it, but don't feel obligated. We should have plenty of beer and wine as well. If you're partial to stuff outside of that, let me know and I'll gladly make sure to accommodate you.

My address is:

26 <redacted>
Sacramento, CA
95831.

If you need directions or if you need anyone to stake out a parking spot for you (they'll be in demand, believe me) then by all means please feel free to call ahead. My phone number is (916) 290-XXXX

In the meantime, please feel free to email me with your wardrobe suggestions.


With my most warm regards,


Pete Barker

Go To Sleep, Little Dude.

My computer died, hence the lapse. I can, however, post brief stuff from my phone. Here is a picture of me while trying to get my son to go back to sleep in the middle of the night. This was not posed. This is exactly what it feels like to be emotionally and physically abused by a little dude that's almost literally walking the edge between being a toddler and an infant.

The kid's a worker, I'll give him that. Can I go back to sleep now?

An Open Letter To Zack De La Rocha

Zack De La Rocha
Los Angeles, CA
USA

Dear Zack-

Hi. You don't know me, but I'm a big fan. I mean, I don't technically know you, but we've met. I'll forgive you if you've forgotten, but for a minute there, I think we were actually kinda tight. Not like boys or anything, but we were solid for a good, oh I don't know...4 1/2 minutes or so? It was 1997, so it's totally cool with me if you don't remember. Let me refresh your memory. 

I used to work at the Valley River Inn, in beautiful Eugene, Oregon. On May 6, 1997 you and the other fellas in Rage Against The Machine played Autzen Stadium, opening up for U2, and you all stayed at our hotel. Man, was it exciting. I mean, at the time I worked in room service, so that means that if you guys were gonna eat, then unless you were going out, I was the guy that was gonna bring it to you. It was an inevitability that you were going to order dinner at some point in the day, so obviously, this made me popular with an awful lot of people, but not for the right reasons. It wasn't because they were excited about you guys. Everybody was bugging me to ask you if U2 was going to be staying in the hotel.

SERIOUSLY? FUCKING U2?

fucking U2.

It's not that I didn't necessarily dislike U2 at the time (that came later...) but it didn't seem to me like you guys were getting much respect here. U2 writes pop songs, but you guys wrote fucking FIGHT SONGS. I mean, as a 23 year old alcohol-feuled college student with a fiery social conscience and an appetite for confrontation, "Killing In The Name Of" was pretty much all I needed to get fired up about something. I mean, if I didn't keep my shit in check, I could easily try to punch my fist through concrete while listening to that song. I broke SO MUCH SHIT listening to Rage Against The Machine. I mean, seriously. I punched holes in walls, man. I smashed lamps on the floor. I was like a raging gorilla on a 3 week dose of Adderall. 

I really loved you guys, which is why I was really excited when my room service phone rang and I saw "DE LA ROCHA" on the caller ID. 

You ordered crab chowder (our specialty) and chicken strips. I made sure that I prepped them myself. I mean, I'd served celebrities before. We're talking Carl Lewis. Dan Fouts. Maya Angelou (she was a badass, but I'm being serious here when I say that she really likes Johnny Walker black. That beautiful slur that she has in her vocal inflections? Multiply that by a gazillion. I tell you this, man. A drunk Maya Angelou will charm the SHIT out of you.) Oh, and Nicole Kidman. Forgot about her.

Regardless, I was getting a little nervous. I was, and am, a big fan.

So yeah, I took you your grub, tried to put on my best casual "bro" persona, and struck up a little conversation. It was brief. Something like, "Nice to have you here. If I could just get your signature right here, blah blah blah." And then I managed to slip it in. "Hey, uh, I really don't give a shit, but everyone else in the kitchen is really hoping you can give us some insider dish on whether or not U2 is going to be staying here too." 

Your response was frighteningly blunt. "I have no idea, man. Probably not. When you've got your own fucking LEER JET, you pretty much don't bother with hotels."

I'm guessing they need all those extra seats for...Oh never mind. 

This was awesome. You weren't even toeing the line, here. Classic De La Rocha, man. Fuck the man. Fuck Bono, and his douchy private jet. Here you were opening for these guys and you still don't mind flashing a little "I could give two shits" when asked for a little insider fan info. I dig that.

So fast forward to the next day, and I'm still a little bit high from my flash with infamy, and yeah, I'm still 23 years old, so I still have a hard time holding myself together when it comes to exciting stuff like this. And I did something that I'm still, to this day, not very proud of.

I called in to a radio show.

There was this DJ in Eugene at the time named Marconi and he had the morning slot on the local "Alternative" format station. And yeah, I called in and told him that I got to meet you and told him the story, and all that stuff. He even put me on the air and we made up this fake routine about how I told you to sign your check and you jumped up and started yelling "FUCK YOU I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!" over and over again. It was hilarious. Then, off the air, I gave the guy your room number.

I know, I know. The moment it came out of my mouth, I knew it was a bad idea. Classless. Disrespectful. Just overall dodgy. It was one of the suckiest things I've ever done, because then Marconi started calling your room and leaving long-winded and half-funny messages on your room's voicemail, and he did it all on the air. Thank God you didn't answer. Ugh. It would've been awful. 

But for what it's worth, and if it makes you feel any better, his radio career ended pretty badly. In hindsight, you really dodged a bullet by not having to talk to the guy. 

So this brings us to the point of my letter.

I want to make it up to you, Zack. 

That was a shitty thing that I did back then. Just shitty. I've lived with that guilt for a long long time and I want to try and make it right. And I'm going to start by sending you an invitation to what is most definitely going to be the party of the decade. Because next year I'm turning 40, and I really need to have you there to help me ring it in. 

If you agree to come to my party, I can make several guarantees:

1) Marconi will not be there. 

2) I will make you (another) awesome meal. You'll eat well, Zack. And since I know that you probably aren't vegan or anything (unless nobody has told you that crab chowder has both animal and dairy products in it, not to mention the chicken strips...), I'm telling you right now that there's going to be some good shit going down. 

3) Anybody who walks up to you and starts yelling RATM lyrics in your face will get seriously cross-checked by yours truly. You need backup? I'm your backup. As far as this goes, I definitely owe you.There will be no "Hey, do a song, Zack!" heckling from the crowd. (Although it just occurred to me that that would be a funny scene if you imagine the whole "Oh, a song? Well, if you insist..." kind of scripted Elvis-like movie moment, except then you bust into "Down Rodeo" I could dig that. But don't worry. As much as I'd love that, I won't let it happen)

4) Jerry Brown is going to be there.

Hope to see you there, man. It'll be fun. The party is on August 24, 2013, and my address is <REDACTED> Sacramento, CA, 95831. If you need directions, call me at (916) 290-XXXX. If you could call ahead when you're on your way, I'd appreciate it. We might need more ice.

Most Sincerely Yours,


Pete Barker

PS-Of course, if you get a hold of Tom Morello, he's invited too. He'll remember me. I'm the guy that delivered a quart of cranberry juice to his room. Tell him I said "what's up?" (Also, when you say "What's up?" Make sure you do that cool head nod, head-cocked, squinty eye wink thing that cool guys do when they're bros and they're saying hi to each other.)

I Used To Be That Guy

Nowadays most folk know me as Pete, but some don't. I get that. The truth is that for the first 30 years of my life, that wasn't my name.

When I was born, my parents named me Guy Barker. A fine name, really. It's almost smack-dab in that perfect alley of baby names that's somewhere between "Batman Bin Suparman" (That's a real name if you want to look it up...) and "Mike." And in the cultural context of 1973, it wasn't all that weird, really. Guy Lombardo was not yet a totally unfamiliar name in most households in America. Guy Lafleur was a famous hockey player, not to mention Guy Lapointe. Plenty of French-Canadian hockey players out there at the time, and come to think of it, my dad was a little bit of a hockey fan at the time. I know for a fact that I attended more than one Salt Lake City Stars game when still an infant. I hadn't actually thought that out before.

The thing is, I lived my whole life with the understanding that my name was a novelty to just about everyone but me. And while it was cool having a unique name, it lent itself to several jokes that became just flat-out uninteresting as the years went on. In grade school (when everyone's name can be turned into a joke, whether it makes sense or not...) I used to always get "Guy Smiley." Remember that guy?

I hate you, Guy Smiley. I hate you so bad.

Perhaps more annoying was the most mundane and ridiculous from well-meaning folks. Things like: "If you were born a girl, were they going to name you 'Gal?" "Is your favorite musical 'Guys and Dolls?" And my personal favorite: "Hey Guy. You're a great guy, Guy." Followed directly by excessive use of the phrase "What a Guy!" In reference to yours truly.

To the rest of the world, it never got old. To me, it most certainly did, and not necessarily because they were using my name. It's because it was perhaps the dumbest and lowest common denominator kind of humor available.

On more than one occasion, I asked my parents why they named me "Guy." I mean, surely they must have known some really cool cat named "Guy" or modeled me after some badass movie character or something to have gone out on a limb with a 1% kind of name like that. But no. Here's what I got:

Mom: "Ask your father. It was his idea."

Dad: "No reason in particular. We just didn't want to name you Mike, or Bob, or Steve, or anything like that."
 
But let's be clear. I didn't hate my name. It was my name, and I rocked it. I just really envied the commonly named people of the world. If you will, the Mikes, Bobs, and Steves of the world.

In Maui. Experiencing the wonder of ultraviolet rays in January.

Fast forward to 2004. I'm living in Portland, burned out on the whole scene there and tired of living in an urban rain forest. A brief visit to the island of Maui has opened my eyes and I've seen the light. I'm gonna get the hell out of Oregon. I'm gonna move South, where there's actual SUN, outside of the months between May and August.I'm gonna move to (dramatic pause...cue the string section...) California.

So that's what I did. I hatched a plan, sold my house that I was co-owning with my brother at the time, sold my stuff, and got ready to move to Sacramento. But before I did all that, I very quietly went down to the Multnomah County Courthouse and went through the entire legal process of changing my name. Whereas I was once "Guy Brentwood Barker,"  on March 4, 2004, I became Peter Guy Brentwood Barker.

Made it official. I also, officially, have really poor handwriting.

There was a funny moment during the proceedings when the presiding judge who heard my case asked me why I was changing my name. I sense out of procedural necessity, but also a little bit out of curiosity as well. I'm sure he hears some real doozies. My response was a lot more simple.

"Uh, because my name is "GUY?"

He chuckled. A few others chuckled. The dude in the back who several minutes later changed his name to "Stareater Chickenface" (Not kidding) even gave me a polite snarf.

Down goes the gavel. "So ordered." And it's done.

I filled out some necessary paperwork, wrote them (another) check, and left.


It felt really weird leaving the courthouse that day. I tried thinking about myself as a "Peter" instead of a "Guy," and it was weird, but I instantly liked it. I felt at home in my new name, if that makes any sense. I could tell that I was going to enjoy not being Guy anymore, but the problem waas that I was still living in Portland, and I really didn't want to go through the whole ordeal of trying to get everyone to call me anything different, so I kept it hush hush for a couple of months. I'm not even positive that I told my brother. I certainly didn't tell my parents. It would just be so much easier to move to California and then become "Peter" on a more official level when I don't have to reprogram everybody to call me something different. If anything, it seemed like the polite thing to do.

Then late May rolls around and my plans are coming together. The house is sold, my belongings are liquidated, and I'm ready to roll. My pal Huston Davis owned a bar at the time in NW, called the Brazen Bean and she, being the badass that she is, actually closed down the bar and let me have it for a Sunday night going away party. It was an amazing night. So many people came out and said goodbye, and it was all really touching.

As the evening progressed and the alcohol continued flowing, it seemed to me more and more like now was the time to unveil my new identity. So I did. I reached into my wallet, pulled out my new driver's license, held it up and said, "Hey check it out everybody! I changed my name!"

Remember those E.F. Hutton commercials? When one guy says something akin to "Well, my broker is E.F. Hutton, and he says..." at which point the whole room goes silent because everybody is suddenly waiting to hear what he's got to say next?

That's what this felt like. The whole bar just went dead quiet. I mean, really, what do you say to that? "Hey Congratulations! I think?" I explained the whole process and the whole thinking behind why I did what I did, and for the most part, people got it. If they didn't, they were polite enough to keep it to themselves. For the most part. Ben Graves and I got a moment together at the bar not too long after I dropped this and he said, in the most inquisitive way possible, "Ok, let me get this straight...You wanted to change your name because you're tired of people thinking that your name is some kind of weird novelty...(The ellipsis is to point out the dramatic pauses that happen when a drunk Ben Graves is trying to talk to you.)...and you came within one hard consonant from naming yourself 'Peter Parker?' You know? Spider-Man? You're fucking Peter Parker, man! You realize now that everyone is going to call you Spider-Man, right? Well played, my good man. Well played."

Ben Graves. Right before he let me know what's what.

Well played, indeed. This is why I prefer to be called "Pete." Oh, and I'm sure you're wondering what the significant of "Peter" is. The answer is, nothing, really. About 6 or 7 years earlier I was really sick. Having seizures and all kinds of crazy shit, and not a single doctor in Eugene, Oregon could figure out what was wrong with me, even after all kinds of ridiculous and expensive tests. So as a last ditch, I went to a naturopath. An Applied Kinesiologist, who, in the course of her diagnosis (which worked, by the way...) said, "This is interesting. Did you know that you were given the wrong name when you were born?" Obviously I said no. I mean, who knows this shit? She asked me the first name that came to mind, and I said "Peter." That's all. There was no pre-planning. It was the first name that I thought of. She did her little muscle-testing thing, which apparently gave her a good answer because she smiled and said:


"Yep. Your name is definitely Peter."

This Is My Neighbor's Beer Garden

I live at the end of a cul de sac, directly adjoining a soccer field.
When the dude comes out to chalk the field, my neighbor chips him a little extra to edge out his "beer garden."

Note the private entrance.