office lady!

If you’re anything like me, you’re probably wondering what in Hades I’m doing here these days. Well, even if you aren’t I sure am… but in exciting news I have found a job for a while. That’s right, I am now an official office lady (I got my badge yesterday) for a cruise ship company. So I get to wear a cool headset with a microphone on it and answer calls in front of a computer screen and give people information about how to get to various places in Portland. Which is somewhat ironic given the fact that I just moved to this town 2 weeks ago. I have a suspicion that I may be the first male office lady that has been hired by this company because everyone keeps referring to our department as full of “her”s and “she”s. Although I am not bold enough yet, I plan on politely reminding my benevolent co-workers of my gender…if necessary with my fist. How many girls would do that huh?! Hopefully this job will lift me out of complete destitution and redeposit my financial corpse onto the proverbial “lifeboat” of life.
Yes friends, it was a hopeful time for all of Portland.

my personal hero

Yes, it was another grey day in Portland when Brent suddenly realized that he had much in common with his personal hero, Harry Potter. For you see, Brent not only shared the same last name, the same birth month, and the same sense of style (the robes, I love the robes), but now their parallel lives took on an uncanny likeness when Brent took up residence in a closet under the stairs. When Brent lay there at night after the light was off but before he dozed off he often wondered what Harry felt like living in a similar residence...and if those giant glasses ever burned his eyes like a magnifying glass when he looked into the sun.
Needless to say, I am now proud to announce that I live in a storage room under the stairs. I call it my "basement suite". I have been looking for jobs for the past week but one can only do that so long that before frying his mind with how much sucking up one must do to get one. It makes me sick and I hate myself more every time I do it, but I suppose it is unavoidable. I'm so bored that I take walks in circles and read the Narnia books for hours--I should read more challenging books perhaps, but Narnia books are so addicting...soo addicting.
In other exciting news it would seem the curse of the certificate of eligibility has finally been broken. In America I have come to realize that one is not credited as of sound legal mind and age until one has attained proficient government eligibility to be regarded as such. In this society I have found the title of Proficient Eligibility to hinge a lot on one thing; a drivers license. Hence the drivers license is the certificate of eligibility-proof that you are of sound legal mind and age. So it is my joy to announce that at the age of 20 and after one year of attempting to attain this certificate I have looked boldly into the face of society and said "No longer shall I be regarded as an infidel for I shall triumph". And I did. Ladies and gentlemen, Brent the Eligible.
Thank you.

Another Day in Portland

One hot afternoon when Brent was admiring the view of the Portland skyline (as he often did when there was so little to do with his time) he caught sight of an odd looking airplane. “that’s odd” Brent said to himself, “for a plane to be flying so low”, but as it got nearer he noticed that the wings of the airplane were moving up and down and that the front end of it had smoke coming out of it. “Oh golly! It must be on fire!” he said in a panicked fright. As it came ever nearer he realized that it wasn’t a plane at all, but was just another stupid dragon menacing the good citizens of Portland. For you see, Portland dragons are a not the typical fierce dragons you read about in story books, no, Portland dragons are much more likely to accidentally fly into a sky scraper or trip over a road sign then they are to do any real damage. Brent watched on while animal control teams tried to entice the dragon away with a giant cardboard cutout of a female dragon hanging from a black government helicopter—the plan seemed to be going well until the dragon lit the female dragon on fire with its flaming breath. The flames of course went straight up beneath the helicopter making a kind of heli-oven from which the inhabitants soon began bailing out of. The poor dragon who thought he had lit his lover (that is the cardboard cutout) on fire began crying giant drops of steaming water into the city streets and making some sort of sound that was so low that it seemed to be causing an earth quake (Brent who was quite well read in dragons knew this sound to be the mourning cry, or distressed dragon sound. The other city folk just thought it was an earth quake).

By this time the firefighters had arrived on scene with their equipment and tried to hose down the beast. Unfortunately for them, this seemed to cheer the dragon up quite a bit for he stopped his horrible earth quake sound (which by now had brought half of Portland down to rubble) and began dancing and playing in the fireman’s stream of water like a child plays in a sprinkler. I say this is unfortunate for the firemen because a happy dragon is more dangerous than a fierce one. When dragons get happy they start to dance, and as dragons are extraordinarily large creatures with odd proportions and little sensitivity to pain they are not much good at staying out of the way of buildings. So as the well intended firemen hosed the dragon, it began doing some rendition of “I don’t wanna be a chicken, I don’t wanna be a duck so I shake my butt, do do do do” and by the time it came to the twirl dance part he was knocking over whole sky scrapers with the left tail movements and as he did multiple “jump tuck and twirls” (rather gracefully as Brent noted) he decimated the whole Lloyd Center shopping mall. It was a funny sight to see crowds of city people and even firemen running away from the dragon like it was some kind of world war one retreat to the trenches.
Another day in Portland.

Covert Wedded Opperatory Intelligence--Moscow

Hanging out with a newly wed couple, an observer cannot but feel a spy infiltrating the ranks of matrimony. But no matter how much enemy information is recorded he cannot but feel as though they will always know more than he. What I am referring to is the international conspiracy of marriage--that which all young bachelors and bachelorets have heard rumors about, but which few, in fact none have experienced. Especially in recent history a matrimonial epidemic has hit our culture and on the front lines of this barrage stands the Christen sub-culture. After reaching the age of eligibility the once sedated flame that kept the hormones tame now run like a wildfires in the streets of Christianville. Indeed the hormones of these young individuals attempt to overthrow the sermon-based cerebral propaganda of abstinence. For this very reason they are the weakest and therefore the first to fall. My friends, do not become another statistic, stand firm all of you. And for the fortunate few who manage to survive this time of trial, a word of invitation (assuming minimum 40 years of age, singleness, meaninglessness, and lack of immediate family) I invite you to consider the following activities that will enhance a meaningful existence and ensure a swift, premature death: 1. Mine sweeping in Cambodia. 2. Standing in front of tanks to protest government things 3. Stage a demonstration for Catholicism in Northern Ireland.

But really, married couples have a secret, I'm sure of it--it is for this reason I have decided to declare cold war on the Marriage Club of Secrecy (M.C.S.), the Underground Society of Matrimony (U.S.M.), and the Covert Wedded Opperatory Intelligence, commonly known as the C.W.O.I. (Headquarters for all global capitalist propaganda and ministers unsurprisingly located in Moscow itself).
It has begun.

summer!

This time when I crossed the boarder into Canada, I got a strange sensation, kind of like that feeling one gets when arriving home after a long time away. I've crossed the boarder many times from the US to Canada and never have I felt more at home on this side than on the other. This sensation was even more surprising given the fact that this past year has been one not necessarily filled with awesome memories-its been hard. And although living in a trailer has been good, I am excited to get out of that stinky hell hole. The warmer it gets the stinkier that trailer is. But alas, school is out campus is empty and I am on my way to camp out in front of MEC (the REI of Canada) tonight to score some super cheap used gear they're selling tomorrow morning. It should be a good time.
For the first month of this summer it looks like I'll be living in downtown Portland with my bro Cami for the month of May until I head off to Japan in June. So for all you's Portland sluggards be on guard, I may show up at your door with a water gun and shoot you in the face until you fall over backwards.
In other news, I am pleased to announce that I have passed all my classes with then exception of none. Why is this a big deal you may ask? Because they were freaken hard man. Freaken hard. And for all you studious young university go-ers who are not yet done with finals, a word of advice-HAHA! SUCKERS!...I'M OUT OF HERE! WOOHOOO!
Summer here I come.

work:

the act of mindlessly prostituting ones body to carry out menial tasks for the sake of acquiring material possessions or paying off debt.

One takes precious time off his life sacrificing eight hours per day to the wanton demands of a power hungry overlord commonly referred to as a “boss”. At the end of his life I wonder if he would look back and say “if only I could have worked more”—no, no my friends, such words would be foolishness. However, this is the great conflict; to participate in the government’s evil capitalistic scheme by yielding our God-given freedom annexed by this “work”? Or to run free, poor as animals but rich as the fields in spring? ‘Tis a great evil that modern man is faced with this cruel cruel decision. For the first perspective ensures security and financial prosperity—but at the cost of ones freedom. Many times he is forced to work at a desk in a drab city appeasing superiors in constant fear of loosing the job. The ladder choice ensures nothing at all, but it taunts freedom and independence, adventure and unknown—but for who’s benefit? We call this choice the hermit choice. For what good is a person who, with potential for good and ability for changing the world, runs off into the mountains to seek selfish sanctuary? He is a hermit and does nothing with the time he is given. There is a quote that says “I am only one tree in a forest, but still I am one tree”. So the worlds a horrible place—but to run and hide cannot be the answer.

Recently I’ve been talking to one of my friends about exploring South America. Apparently there’s a bunch of unsummited mountains and unexplored mountain ranges down there waiting for some overconfident white boys to discover. Naturally, my buddies and I were the first to nominate ourselves for this mission. But many times I ponder the idea of spending so much of ones life pursuing a personal mission that neither benefits nor inhibits others. Not that inhibiting others is good, it’s all just a bit apathetic sounding. This was the inspiration for the above rant.

sock sleeping

In one comment posted by an author that at this time shall remain nameless, the question "are you alive?" was posed. This term "alive" particularly stuck out to me as at this moment such a term seems somewhat subjective in light of the whole semester ending. I suppose I am proud to announce that death has not yet grasped me by the jugular and sucked my proverbial "blood" from my still warm body. No, Brent shall live to die another day. God save the Queen.
The other day I went into Starbucks and asked for a free coffee. And I got one-a grande extra hot chai tea latte to be exact. And then they offered me a job. For a moment I was tempted to take them up on the offer but how would the cafeteria floors manage without me? Could I prostitute my floors to just any random minimum wage student worker? I think not! It goes without saying that I gracefully declined the job offer. Thanks anyways suckers.
Winter camping is a biohazard. Never have I been so repulsed at my own stench and that of my fellow tent mates as when the snow gear comes off. Although it is common practice to sleep with ones socks in his sleeping bag (so as to prevent ice from forming on them and to dry them out) after one night of said “sock sleeping” I opened my sleeping bag to the smell of gangrene, trench foot, and limb-rot. Instinctively I tried running away from the smell but the socks had already taken me as their deadly hostage—there was no escape. The only benefit to winter camping is that one can actually physically see smells coming off people in the form of deadly gaseous steam that would have put chlorine gas in WW1 to shame—now you know when to run away from your friends.
The sun-its like natures congratulations for making it through 6 months of sucky weather without dying from any combination of vitamin D deficiency, boredom, ugliness, suicide, or cold. Thank you mother nature for 6 months of death and 2 months of sun. I am not bitter.