September’s End
As much as I love football, and as much as I appreciate John Madden, I had to put him on mute. The sounds drifting into my room are much nicer.
The hum of the freeway, like a cross between the ocean and a beehive. The pitter-patter of the rain, which switches from drizzle to downpour without notice.
What’s missing is just as nice. No thump of the neighbor’s new Fiddy Cent album. No mariachi music. Little or no dog barking. (The herd of chihuahuas around the corner must be in the house today.) No leaf blowers or lawn mowers. Just an occasional siren.
I noticed the breakfast places were doing a jamming business this morning. (Maybe because diners can’t sit out on the sidewalks.) The quiet place ThatGirl and I have been frequenting had a crowd waiting by the time we left.
Another nice thing about this time of year; ThatGirl starts cooking more. Instead of slaving over a hot stove, we’d go out on Saturday nights. Now, the hot stove and its yummy smells serve a dual purpose. One can warm their hands, and we eat well while saving a small fortune.
Like last night, for example. She announced we were dining in. On the menu? Halibut, rice pilaf and apple crisp. The halibut was Parmesan cheese and bread-crumb encrusted, a huge fillet we split, and would have cost $50 at a decent restaurant.
The apple crisp was a surprise. She’s made it for me in various forms since we began hanging out, always tweaking the recipe. Last night, she was tired but made it anyway. She tossed a handful of this and that, a sprinkle of this, another handful of that, and voila! Perhaps the most perfect one yet!
I have another theory: she knows just about how long I can last before having an apple-cinnamon fix. Usually this involves The Original Pancake House. (Try the apple pancakes and bacon. Hog heaven!) Since the place is a madhouse on a slow day, with no outside covered area to wait we would have been cranky, wet and/or disappointed.
She claims it wasn’t premeditated, but I’m giving her credit for it anyway.
So now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready for work tomorrow. The umbrella’s in the backpack. Now all I need to do is remember which pile of black clothes my hoody is in…
It’s Dowdy Hoody Time…
Over the years, I’ve noticed patterns. One holding fast is the Hoody Rule. Almost without fail, since the mid-90s I’ve had to break out another layer of clothing for my outdoor adventures on October 1st. To the day! Every year! When sleeveless is just too damn uncomfortable, It’s hoody time.
The Biltmore Hotel
1984 was a busy year. I changed residences no less than six times. After living out of cardboard boxes for a year, I found a place to land…
So long, cyster!
I’ve been dealing with medical issues for the last couple of months. The funky growth on my back is gone, replaced by a diagonal slash-scar. It looks like a stab wound.
I’ve taken a full contingent of antibiotics, and the infection has gone away. But, during one of the blood tests, they noticed something and had a talk with me during the last check-up. The words had an ominous ring-
“You need to think about making some lifestyle changes…”
Feelin’ Halloweeny
I’ve been summoned to a meeting of the evil overlords…
The Safeway Shuffle
Over the years, I have lived downtown and in Old Town numerous times. I always took full advantage of Fareless Square, TriMet’s gift to the inner core.
Madman across the water
One by one, all the things I loved during my youth are dying off.
It’s a fact of life. Things come and go, seasons change. The best-laid plans go awry. I’d been in a funky mood all day, and couldn’t figure out why. It’s been almost exactly six months since the big break-up, and though I could blame that, it didn’t seem like the cause. It was a sense of loss, yet I couldn’t figure out what.
Then I read today’s paper.
Slow Boat to China
One of my esteemed colleagues is leaving. Since I’ve known him, this gentleman has been ‘on his way to China.’
Looks like this time it’s for real.
Any last words?
“…”
RIP Marcel Marceau, 1923-2007.
It is said that he never spoke on film, but in actuality he has the only spoken word in Mel Brooks’ Silent Movie. (“No!”)
Here’s a shout-out to you, MM…
Can death metal be funny?
When one thinks of the death metal genre, humor isn’t the first reaction that usually comes to mind. (More like headaches, revulsion and nausea, according to past girlfriends.) And while I am not the biggest thrash fan, I do like the occasional hardcore slash-fest. But does it make me laugh?
Not until this weekend…
