…Pictured here with blues legend Curtis Salgado.
If you’d like to encourage youngsters to follow their musical dream and support a worthy cause, send a few bucks to American Music Program.
Wouldn’t be a birthday without a little song now. Hugs and happies to Sun (aka Zoe) Richter. This is from a year or two back… Remember me when you’re rich!
So, I went to a Pink Floyd tribute show with my ex-wife. No cause for concern or alarm there, right?
It sounded like fun when she invited me. I had no IDEA how intensely emotional the night would turn out…
Annie and I have had a tumultuous relationship from that first day in the c-store when we fought about empty bottle returns to marriage to divorce to living together off and on for ten years. Much like that sentence, a run-on relationship. Most of those early years played out to a Pink Floyd soundtrack. Most of those songs came from sides of record albums. That was the theme of the night’s show.
The problem with free and easy relationships is they rarely stay that way. What starts as casual ends up serious. It turns from “That was fun, want to get something to eat?” to “Where the fuck you been?”
Rain and I aren’t quite that possessive, but when one of us goes off the radar for a few days, the other notices. Level of worry?
It depends upon the situation…
I’ve been steadily losing weight since 1996, when I peaked at 528 pounds. I hit a plateau or two along the way, but have been making slow but sure progress.
After surgery, I began wearing a back brace that also kept tummy flab (aka “meat apron” or “dicky-do”) up where it belonged. Soon I discovered that fat won’t climb uphill to lose itself, but will melt right off if it’s held up high enough long enough. I kept wearing the brace, and now the brace has gotten too small.
As Mizelle once teased me, “You’ve got a torso again!”
Clothes have always been troublesome. Once the internet and fat-sites popped up, stores caught on and you could buy fat clothes locally. It didn’t hurt that ‘Merika is getting fat in the ass. Used to be hard to find a shirt with an “X” in the size. Now you have multiple Xs, off the rack. Too bad they’re all cargo shorts and barber shirts.
The Brit-Floyd show is next week, and I wanted to find my concert tee from 1987, the Delicate Sound of Thunder tour. I paid $17 for it, and it was always too small. I figured I’d shrink into it someday. That was when I weighed 275.
Before I got fat.
I prowled the boxes. I found the safari vest I wore to Las Vegas, and tried it on. I could literally get two of me in there. I weighed 454 when I went to Vegas. I looked at the vest I wear today. 3 Xs smaller. And I swim in it.
While digging, I found pants I was ‘saving for a rainy day’. They were almost too big. I washed them and they go into the rotation today. Wear those bitches out before they fall off.
I found a dressy shirt I’d been saving for a wedding or a funeral. I tried it on. I looked like a little kid playing dress-up. The tag was still attached. $50. Ouch. I decided to take it (and my Fred Meyer Rewards coupons) to the store and see what I could get.
Since I had no receipt, and it had been more than three months, they gave me an in-store credit for the lowest price in the last 90 days. ($25.) Sigh. Oh, well.
Woohoo! The same shirt I exchanged was still on sale. I got one with only one X, a tall. Slimming and highlighting my newfound torso? I’ll take it! I found two more tee-shirts, in the “normal” sized mens department. By the time I’d used all coupons and credits, I walked out of Freddy’s with three new shirts for a total out-of-pocket cost of $1.43.
Oh, and I found the old Pink Floyd tee-shirt. I can still tell the girls, “I have tee-shirts older than you!”
It fits me better than ever. But it wears like a muscle shirt, and I still am more Michelin Man than Marlboro Man. I’ve got batwings and man-boobs, but so do a majority of the men my age. Call me fat. I will laugh. And in ten years, I will laugh at you when all that designer beer hits your waistline.
It’s time to show off…
There was a time when I really hated the unpredictability of life. I wanted to know what was gonna happen before it happened, and if things didn’t happen the way I thought they should, I would stress. Early on I discovered that few people would see the world the way I do, and would probably want different outcomes than I. So I learned to accept the randomness of life, and to appreciate the controlled chaos and mayhem that comes with everyday life.
I guess that’s a really roundabout way of saying, “I’m having women problems, and I love it!”…
Since moving back to the Nightclub Store I’ve been feeling revitalized. My schedule tends to stay constant; when I get relocated it’s usually for reasons deeper than schedule conflict. While I may appear to be a lazy (alebit clean) hippie, I have territorial issues that extend well into my working life. The boss may have figured out how to exploit that.
In other words, get off my porch, you bums!
Rain and I have been seeing each other for going on three years now. About a year ago, we had a dust-up and I took a little break. Since then we have reconnected, consider ourselves a couple, for what it’s worth, and she has pledged fidelity to me.
While I wouldn’t call Rain a liar, she’s not known for letting the truth get in the way of a good story. I have been present at some of the events she has described to me, and they are fascinating. Factual? Well… Based in fact. Mostly.That has gotten better over time. We have taken chances on each other. We have a good time together. She seems to care about me. It’s not just what I can do for her anymore. However, I have had my guard up for so long I didn’t know if I could let it down. I wanted to believe, but I am as skeptical as one can get without being deranged. Dr T calls me paranoid. I tell him maybe so, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get me.
Rain has been couch-surfing for months since losing her apartment. There’s no point rehashing that; it’s over and time to move on. Except she’s found nowhere to move to. After exhausting her shelter options, she began staying with friends. She discovered how many true friends she had. The hard way. She called one night and asked if she could stay with me. My voice showed no hesitation, but I was conflicted inside. I didn’t fear for my family’s safety. I didn’t really fear getting ripped off. If I had money she would know.
I think I was worried my last place of sanctuary would no longer be mine…
It’s been a couple weeks since I’ve moved back from the Waterfront Store to the Nightclub Store. There were a lot of internal things going on at work, which I watched unfold. Now that I can discuss them within reason, I may drop a few vague thoughts. I should be venting more often. I’ll try not to come off too vitriolic.
At first I was worried, and asked Master P if I was in trouble? He mentioned something that irritated him recently, “but that wasn’t it. I just need fresh eyes and faces, stirring the pot.” While stirring the pot, he tossed out a rotten rutabaga. I’m the big Irish potato going into the pot to fill that space. Once this became clear, I stopped worrying so much.
I’ve rather enjoyed the lack of drama the past couple years. The Waterfront store is closest to a true grocery store experience in the Master P chain. It could close at 6 PM and no one would care much. Once the office workers commute home and the sun goes down, the customer base is mostly cocktail waitresses and homeless kids filling up on jerky and gummy bugs with their food stamp cards between rounds of PBR at the nearby pub. There are a steady stream of familiar faces, but they are scarce after a certain hour.
Which gives yours truly a chance to stare stupidly into space and ponder the whys and what-ifs of life. During my time on the Waterfront, I watched the HBO series Deadwood, and couldn’t help comparing some of the locals to characters on the show. Sure it’s vague, sure it’s a stretch, but since they took the radio away I only have my mirthly musings to keep me sane.
I start making parallels to my life and the shows I get hooked on. I was fairly well-dressed during my Sopranos period. I was scared shitless during The Wire‘s run, working at the Nightclub Store during a rivalry between two nearby hip-hop clubs. Pop pop pop every Saturday night.
With the MAX rolling past and the historic feel of the district, it wasn’t hard to step back in time. So, hitch up your garters and come along for the ride. It’s NSFW, politically incorrect, and hopefully the Fine Dining Establishment (FDE’s) can’t read English yet…
Google Reader is going away. This is wrong! ANYTHING promoting reading should be kept alive. Want to borrow my iron lung?
Okay, that’s not such a big deal. I asked Art East, my go-to guy for sensible internet advice, and he pointed me to Feedly. It makes me wonder if Google owns this, and just wants its reader in a fancier package. I guess if I were that curious, I could Google it, huh?
I’m actually more bummed about this recent news: Jack Bogdanski’s blog is going on indefinite hiatus. While Jack threatens to return, and I hope he does, what am I going to do for readership?
See, this here little blog gets little or no pimping. It’s a labor of love for me. I don’t want to answer to advertisers, and the only editor I have to get past is my own common sense. In other words, MINE MINE MINE!
But, reassurance is nice. Mister Jack has featured a couple of my posts on his site. Both times were the highest number of hits for a single day. The current record is 697; a rant about “Marb” cigarettes. The previous record holder was a stroll down memory lane, featuring the downtown Park Blocks, Ma Anand Sheela and and the early ’80s.
My total views on this blog, as of this morning? 95,221. Yup, after almost six years, I’m approaching 100,000 hits. Jack probably gets that in a good afternoon. (Some folks have mojito recipes, I have topless barbers and Jack to bring in traffic.) If not for Jack’s site, I might drift off into obscurity.
I wish you well, Jack. I know change happens, and I try not to be one of those fussy old guys that hates any break in routine. But, with the loss of Bojack.org and Google Reader, the new version of coffee and newspaper will need something different to focus on.
And Jack, thanks for your quiet help with certain things over the years. ‘Nuff said?
I don’t know if what you’re spending a year writing will be something I’ll eventually want to read, but if it’s more blog and less tax code? I am there.
You’re still providing a community service. Your blog reminded me to pay my f***ing Arts Head-Tax this morning. Maybe later I’ll tag your URL on a downtown alley and they can spend the $35 removing my “art”!
All the best, Sir!