The Sweet Scent of Old Spice
Mizelle had just moved to Portland when I met her, ten or eleven years ago. She came from southern California via Salt Lake City; a cute punk lesbian with a posse of girlfriends.
In Like a Lamb, Out Like a Lion
Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?
With two days to go in March, it’s snowing outside. Correction, it’s hailing now. As the saying goes, if you don’t like the weather in Oregon, just wait fifteen minutes. Snow, rain, hail and sunshine have all made an appearance since I got up today. I left the house with standard spring accessories; umbrella and sunglasses.
I’ve made three trips by bus today. Downtown, over to northeast, back to downtown. Home. Back to Southeast. Home again. I’ve heard thunder, and walked into the house as the rain started again. I’ve been missing the icky stuff by mere seconds.
Watching the Cubs and Mariners play baseball, it feels more like the playoffs than spring training. Yesterday I went to Clairissa’s for a haircut, wanting to look sharp for Saturday night mischief, and the sun was in my eyes most of the way home. When I went back this morning to drop some stuff off to her, I got hailed on.
With the smell of fresh-mown lawn in the air, I had a case of baseball fever that wouldn’t quit. I plunked on my Portland Beavers hat and had homemade sausage dogs during the game. Exxx-cellent! It was kinda weird hearing the Cubs broadcasters announcing the Mariners. Took me a minute: What’s wrong with this picture?…
Today the Mariners are the home team broadcasting, but since Steve Stone and the Careys have moved on, I have a hard time telling (or caring) who is calling the Cubs’ games. HO-LEE COW, I wish Harry were still around.
The weather has gone nasty again, and staying in seems to be the plan. I still have to hitch a ride to the store for dinner, but there’s no rush. Saturday plans have been (appropriately enough) rainchecked, so after foraging for grub (and a pint of B&J New York Superchunk Fudge) it’s looking like hibernation time.
Which is neither lion or lamb-like. Bear with me…
Awkward Silences
“Don’t you just love those awkward silences?”
One of many quotable lines from the movie Pulp Fiction, but it gives me a lead-in to today’s subject matter.
When one works with the public, and takes public transportation, it is inevitable that paths cross. I deal with 200-500 people a night, most of them very nice. I nod and smile at people as I walk into work, and am frequently recognized on the bus. It’s no big deal. I don’t get swarmed like Britney Spears, and don’t get pelted with rotten tomatoes like Jack McClellan. I nod, smile and it’s over.
Most of the time.
“Hey bartender! Double shot of bandwidth with a Google chaser!”
I am celebrating a year sober this week. Sober is such a relative term. Even on my straightest days I’m a bit of a smartass goofball. ‘Celebrating’ is also a stretch. I’m livin’ it up by having unsweetened morning coffee. And later? It’s wild times in the nightclub district, selling cigarettes and gum to wobbly hip-hop fans.
I’ve gone years without alcohol before. Quitting drinking is easy; I’ve done it a thousand times. I typically break down during hard emotional times, or on the rare occasion when all my family, friends and loved ones are away. (No one wants to see me stumbling around, singing Motorhead songs a capella.) But I’ve gotten to a mental space where I’d rather tough it out than give in to the cravings.
Thank the gods for obsessive distractions.
Hot Date with a Blue-Hair
I imagine you’re getting a picture here. Running my fingers through her thinning hair, gently stroking her varicose veins, bending her over the walker and doing it ’til the bones crack…
It wasn’t like that at all.
Cue ‘Flight of the Bumblebee’…
I’m a little scatterbrained today. Don’t know why, could be the ongoing head cold. I wake up feeling ‘floaty-headed’ and it takes a few minutes to clear the lungs. Coffee isn’t helping the brain power, so bear with me if I drift around off-topic.
“Top o’ the F***in’ Mornin’ to Ya!”
Got your Irish on yet?
It’s that time of year when everyone becomes a leprechaun for a day. Or, as the Irish and the alcoholic call it, amateur night.
I have a friend named Rusty, whose last name is even more Irish than that. We always greet each other with the phrase “Top o’ the fuckin’ mornin’ to ya!” It started one St. Paddy’s Day, when people wouldn’t stop asking us if we were Irish. It stuck, and has caused embarrassment at work. One day I was expecting him to call me right back and answered the phone that way. The little old lady on the other end was shocked. I hung up quickly and played dumb when she called back.
Being a redhead of Irish and Scandinavian descent, I get a lot of stupid questions, usually from well-meaning drunk people. Please keep in mind; I’ve been asked that before, I’m at work, and I’m not as drunk as you are. I can only fake the laugh so many times. And don’t ask me to speak with a brogue; I’ll smack you with my shalleleigh.
I rarely drink on St. Patrick’s Day. It’s like New Years when you are an alcoholic. If I’m drinking, those who usually don’t are bringing unwanted attention to my habit. I don’t want another roadblock to skirt around, or the extra security scrutinizing my behavior. I work hard to fly under their radar, and it’s too hard to maintain under that kind of pressure. I usually skip that day, or drink at home.
But since I’m not drinking, and have to work, guess I’ll make the best of it.
It’s my brother-in-law’s birthday, which explains why he’s named Patrick. (I wonder if there are any Mexicans named Columbus?) I just shouted a “Happy birthday, you old goat!” out the window at him. He flipped me off. Status quo.
What did I get my Mexican brother-in-law with the Irish name for his birthday? He requested The Autobiography of Malcolm X. I don’t think our household has ever been so racially balanced.
St. Patrick’s Day is a religious holiday, you know. Patrick (Saint, not old goat bro-in-law) introduced Christianity to Ireland without force of violence. That stuff about driving the snakes out of Ireland? It’s amazing what a shot of Jameson and a couple pints of Guinness will do to chase the DTs away. St. Paddy had a fondness for the spirits, both ethereal and liquid.
And now, I must head to the center of the city to watch people dressed in plastic derbies and shamrock-patterned shirts, whose liquid lunch started around noon, stumble around in a bellicose stupor. Fun times.
Take note of the green watchband. Technically I’m wearing green. So unless you are a very cute girl, pinch me and I’ll stuff a leprechaun up your ass!
Happy St. Patrick’s Day. Behave yourselves…
No Dog in this Fight
Five long years.
In some ways it seems an eternity. In other ways it seems like yesterday.
What part of “Do Not”…
…do you not understand?!
If someone makes it clear that they want to avoid something, that it bothers them, irritates the fuck out of them, makes them want to rip the vocal chords right out of the offender, wouldn’t you think “smart people” could figure it out? I do. I expect people to honor the spirit of the request, whether it be the No Soliciting sign on my door, or the way I avoid street urchins with my averted gaze and shaking head.
So what’s stirred up the beehive in my butt this morning?
Answering the Age-Old Question
Ginger… or Mary Ann?
Today’s kids just don’t understand. With their eyepods and youtubes, they are missing out on a big part of growing up; after-school reruns of Gilligan’s Island. Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale.
Dingleberry Gazette 