David Blue


Founder & Cap­tain of the Dig­i­tal Lost Boys
A pre­ten­tious fiend.
Obsessed with the fresh.
Cre­at­ed of idio­syn­crasy.

I’m stuck in Rock Springs, Wyoming with Hawthorn (no longer as Tech Edi­tor, but as fiance) and a rather large crack in Nevermore’s front right tire’s side­wall. I haven’t writ­ten you in a month, and I have a lot to explain, but I’m not sure I’ll be all that inter­est­ed. Or able, frankly - I am steal­ing a closed Star­bucks’ shit­ty wifi with 30% remain­ing lap­top bat­tery, but I shall do my best.
In essence, my life would seem to have been turned around quite quick­ly - aside from the tire, of course (anoth­er pot­hole) thanks to one very spe­cial young woman, and - in a much less­er sense - a new iPhone 8 Plus. Lucky for you, both of them take great pho­tographs.
Wyoming is unques­tion­ably the most beau­ti­ful place I have ever seen. (The above scene very near­ly brought me to tears.) It’s a com­plete­ly dif­fer­ent plan­et from where I was stuck for the major­i­ty of my 23 years until last week­end. Hawthorn wasn’t able to board her flight back to Port­land, which is just as well - I’m no longer employed in Colum­bia, and we didn’t feel like sep­a­rat­ing, any­way. So, we stuffed just about every­thing I own into Nevermore’s cran­nies (apart from the absurd amount of mag­a­zines I’ll prob­a­bly nev­er read) and set off on what was orig­i­nal­ly a 1,997 mile dri­ve to The City of Ros­es. You prob­a­bly know I’d been prepar­ing for a bit more delib­er­ate depar­ture to the same, next Spring, but I’m much more attuned to act­ing abrupt­ly, so it’s just as well. It’s going to take me a while to com­pre­hend just how much my life is chang­ing, but I sup­pose I sud­den­ly have a huge amount of tan­gi­ble sub­ject from which to draw from in writ­ing.
After I final­ly killed the dog, we left Colum­bia at 2 in the morn­ing on Sat­ur­day, vis­it­ed a friend in Kansas City for a bite, and set off at dawn fur­ther West than I’d ever dri­ven myself through The Sun­flower State (prob­a­bly the cutest of the States’ alter­nate names, no?) I’m sure you’ve heard some throw­away sen­ti­ment about the pur­ga­to­ry-like expe­ri­ence of dri­ving through Kansas, but I’m now con­vinced that the whole lot of its echo­ers sim­ply chose awful cars. In a 20-year-old, dan­ger­ous­ly-over­loaded XJR, it was an exquis­ite­ly pleas­ant dri­ve. The State cer­tain­ly main­tains I-70 bet­ter than any of the oth­er of its hosts I’ve vis­it­ed. At 80mph - tick­ling the low­er end of the supercharger’s use­ful range - I didn’t have much to do but enjoy the scenery, which was spec­tac­u­lar, believe it or not.
These excep­tion­al whirling boys, for instance, were stuck through­out the land­scape in num­bers expo­nen­tial­ly greater than I’d ever seen. I find them - and the thought of their pro­fes­sion­al tend­ing - quite charm­ing, which is the only aes­thet­ic on which Jere­my Clark­son and I dis­agree, to my knowl­edge. I’ve been think­ing about writ­ing a review of Kansas as a sov­er­eign­ty for the site late­ly, but it’d cer­tain­ly be a waste of my time.
On that note, food­ists should watch for my Yelp! reviews, please. I’ve been doing my best to remem­ber to review every estab­lish­ment we vis­it on this trip, but I’ve only done two, so far. Food blog­ging might just be the fuck­ing career for me!
I’ve also final­ly begun work on For God’s Sake, Just Sit Down to Piss - my self-help/how-to guide for white 20-some­thing cishet men, which will like­ly end up noth­ing more than obtuse, elit­ist pro­pa­gan­da. Nev­er­the­less, I have a duty to the world… Columbia’s Big Boys, espe­cial­ly, are des­per­ate­ly in need of some guid­ance. Here’s an excerpt, just for lucky ole’ you!
I have pulled a lot of stu­pid stunts in bars, though I’ve yet to be phys­i­cal­ly struck in one, despite some very per­sis­tent attempts at provo­ca­tion by oth­er par­ties, and I’m proud of the fact. I’m not going to tell to you that you shouldn’t enjoy a good bar fight – espe­cial­ly if you’ve a lust for vio­lence that may oth­er­wise man­i­fest in less-than-con­sen­su­al, more mali­cious activ­i­ties – but oth­er­wise, be aware that the vast major­i­ty of Huffy Yokels can be talked down from even the Most Both­ered of dis­po­si­tions with intel­li­gent­ly-applied finesse, should you care to use your time alter­na­tive­ly.
Of course, one would do best not to allow him­self and his own designed influ­ence over his out­ward image and sub­se­quent bear­ing in a giv­en social bio­me to become ram­pant and/or obses­sive patron­iza­tion. By nature, such a pur­suit will only meta­mor­phose into a slope of blis­ter­ing­ly-mul­ti­ply­ing incli­na­tion which ter­mi­nates sin­gu­lar­ly into the oxy­moron­ic undo­ing of itself. A pre­oc­cu­pa­tion with the pet­ty maneu­vers of one’s local bar cul­ture tends to rapid­ly illu­mi­nate one’s weak­ness­es like a psy­cho­sex­u­al flare gun. Be wary of your own undue sat­is­fac­tion with pet­ty demon­stra­tions of pow­er over the old­er, more-region­al crowd. The green­est patron (those who’ve just arrived at legal drink­ing age, for instance) may find the low-risk, rel­a­tive­ly col­lat­er­al-resis­tant nature of this envi­ron­ment incu­ba­to­ry, at first, but they would do well to agi­tate their social pool astute­ly, lest they become ensnared in some of the var­i­ous crud on which the oth­er, rumi­nat­ing cit­i­zens of these foul asso­ci­a­tions have found them­selves caught.
Though we’d orig­i­nal­ly planned to take the whole 30 hours direct-to-Port­land in one big bite, we were able to split it up in Col­orado thanks to my sis­ter, who allowed us to stay in her Key­stone (a ski resort) con­do for a few nights. The town was utter­ly aban­doned, in con­trast to when I last vis­it­ed two years ago, in-sea­son. It was less creepy than you might imag­ine - nicer, I think - but the near-10,000 feet ele­va­tion got to me more than I remem­ber and seemed to mys­ti­cal­ly soil my abil­i­ty to write at all.
Over the sum­mer, I pulled some real tod­dler shit and man­aged to both break my phone and lose my $1100 glass­es. Bit­ter­sweet­ly, I found the dis­taste­ful pair I wore in high school while rum­mag­ing though stor­age for the move, so I can see much bet­ter, though I can­not bear to look at myself. As for my cel­lu­lar, my moth­er gra­cious­ly offered to buy me a new device for my step out of the wad­ing pool, though late­ly I’ve been less informed about con­sumer elec­tron­ics than ever, and had less than 24 hours to decide. All indi­ca­tors point toward the new Galaxy Note as the ide­al choice, right now - and I’d insist­ed that my 6S Plus was my last Apple-made hand­set, when I bought it - but… I think it’s actu­al­ly the 8 Plus which I set­tled upon. iOS is one of only a hand­ful of spheres which I con­sid­er myself qual­i­fied to write about since I’ve been using it for over a decade, now, so I think I shall explain fur­ther, soon.
The imme­di­ate effect has been my renewed pres­ence on Snapchat, Insta­gram, and now Flickr. Suf­fice it to say, the front-fac­ing cam­era is one hell of a sen­sor. I took the image below in the wee hours on the condo’s bal­cony. How it was able to find so much light, I’m not sure.
A few nights ago, I would’ve told you that Love­land pass - a fair­ly-steep, rib­bony moun­tain jaunt between I-70 and Key­stone - was the most beau­ti­ful road I’d ever expe­ri­enced, but yesterday’s trip was prob­a­bly the most visu­al­ly enchant­i­ng after­noon of my entire life. (If you’re curi­ous about the specifics of our route, con­tact Hawthorn.)
Unfor­tu­nate­ly, we struck a pot­hole on I-80 just before din­ner, and are stuck in the Rock Springs Days Inn, which is prov­ing to be spec­tac­u­lar enough to write about in the near future, assum­ing we sur­vive the night. If we don’t, please bury what’s left of my body in my Jaguar.

squeeze your way through the bluffs,
as you go
stay your phatasms, scout­ing
chase them well down the week­day road
(just until you’re sure you’re dying in your sleep,)
stop for a shout; a beat
caught in the disin­gen­u­ous mish­mosh;
chuck­ing the soul’s sod­den peat
(its entire­ty)
and you’ll find patch­es on an unre­lieved black­top band,
spite through­out the aban­doned land - 
the Decade of Neg­li­gence - 
(angry at me)
lan­goliers don’t dis­con­tin­ue their chas­ing
just seen - 
shit a quick wal­lop on ready-spars­ing trees
(where are they going?)
in every day’s 
boozy dusk, seiz­ing
forever­more to fuck some­thing
moths: loose for­ma­tions,
for­lorn, smut rot,
flail­ing unawares into phos­pho­res­cents’ thoughts,
a by and by haunt
swipe their heat at the dain­ti­est breeze
because a man’s life is short - 
his flout sticks wicked
in the craven jaunt
immov­able, abashed; 
no bet­ter future than to dust his musk over the nest­ing crags,
I’ll be damned if that’s how I go out -
dumb and pride­less,
drip­ping dick doubt
it’s a fuck lagoon, this town
stand­ing water’s in the nightlife sounds
nev­er short a dullard
just hangin around
anoth­er word,
and I’ll loam his way
sin­ners, floods;
lev­ees cleanse plagues

The recent­ly-dis­con­tin­ued Nis­san Mura­no Cross­Cabri­o­let dark­ly mir­rors sen­ti­ments first begun with the Pon­ti­ac Aztek, nar­rat­ing Gen­er­a­tion X’s decline.

After my years spent writ­ing in my abstract, alien­at­ing bent, I want to learn how to real­ly… write, again. It is for me. Per­haps — if you share my addic­tion to revi­sion — it is for you, too.


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