May 20, 2008 at 1:30 am (The Easy Chair, Waxing Nostalgic)

With no peaches, and very little herb.

Part of my weekend was great, the other not so much. Had some major family drama come down, and with the hot weather my sociable attitude went on the lam. I stayed home in front of the fans, talking on the phone and running damage control.

The upside? I contacted some of my favorite people, and they called back!

My cousin back east finally surfaced, after a bit of public humiliation. (I will not hesitate to blog about you again, should you fail to write, Miss Misty.) We talked a lot on Saturday, partly catching up and mostly dealing with the above-mentioned family emergency. I will not discuss that here, as it’s personal and painful. And I’m tired of talking about it for the moment. I want to focus on happy things these days, remember?

Saturday, the cooler (?) of the two days, I ran out of energy for cooking or walking to where the food is, so I bribed Bro-in-law to take me to DeNicola’s for a take-out pizza. I don’t recall the first time I went there, but it had to be early ’80s. $21 used to seem like a lot for a pizza. After my last encounter with a certain national chain (whose name rhymes with butt) I was most happy to give this local family my, um, dough.

The dough (flour, water, etc…) is what makes this pizza so special. Simply because it tasted like the homemade bread my mom used to make. My mom didn’t always cook things I liked, but when she baked (bread, or cinnamon rolls, or anything that didn’t have those goddamn raisins it it) I was there by the oven door, waiting. She didn’t make pizza often, but when she did it was THICK crust and very cheesy. DeNicola’s is like that, only better.

The very nice lady loaded me up with extra parmesan cheese, and asked me to go to to vote for them as Portland’s best pizza. Confession: I did, but tomorrow I’m going back and voting for Flying Pie as well. Like Mary MacGregor, I’m torn between two lovers…

My sister’s eyes lit up when I walked in with it. I told her to grab a plate and take what she wanted. I absconded with the rest. After three pieces I was unable to move, which was just about the right frame of mind for the twelve-hour nap I had planned.

Sleep came about 6 AM, after the house finally cooled down. Just as I was getting into dream-time, the phone rang. It was one of Hillary’s supporters looking to find out how I’d voted. I explained that I didn’t feel like sharing that info, that we are on the do-not-call list, we are day-sleepers/night-workers, and would you kindly not call again. She was very pleasant, and wished me a nice day.

The second Hillary supporter got hung up on immediately after some unintelligible muttering. The third? She was cranky already, almost as much as I. My resorting to words often blamed on the French got results. They stopped calling.

When the phone rang about 10 AM, I was livid. “WHAT?”

“Sorry dude, did I wake you?” It was Freewheelin’. How long since I’d talked to him? Okay, I’ll lighten up.

We chatted for a bit, but I was too sleepy to be coherent. I suggested he come by after work. I retrieved the rest of my pizza. Full up, I tried to sleep again. About that time the teens started getting calls. YOU answer the phone!

I got a cat-nap in, and was almost civil at this point. Then I heard the rumble of Harley pipes, and the thundering herd of kids toward the driveway. The dog went apeshit.

Freewheelin’ had arrived.

We hung out in my room, each with a fan blowing our way. As he looked through my movie stash, he picked one. “Borat? I’ve heard about that…”

“You haven’t seen Borat?” I’d seen it about twenty times. How could he not have? I plugged it in.

We laughed through the running of the Jew, Gypsy tears, even the horrible falling-out between Borat and Azamet. We’ll both be running around for the next week, saying “Verrrry nice-uh.”

No wrestling, though.

As he looked over my knick-knack shelf, he picked up Clairissa’s broken clippers. “What’s up with these?” I told him the story of how I came into possession of them.

He looked at them. “This is such an easy fix. Or it would be, if someone hadn’t cut the power cord off. Got any tape?”

I provided scotch tape, duct tape, was looking for electrical tape when he said, “Got any broken appliances with a cord?”

“Like what?”

“Fuck, I don’t know. Clock radio?”

“Your old computer monitor is in the kitchen. Would that work?” We investigated, but it was the wrong cord. There was an old, very dead television sitting on the back porch. “What about that?”

In response, he snapped open his Leatherman tool, and gave that TV the electrical equivalent of a bellybutton.

Back in my room, he stripped a couple wires, ripped a stretch of duct tape, did some screwin’ and the next thing you know we were back in the kitchen, marveling at how nice they sounded. He even cleaned the old hair out of them. Gasp! Not all of it was mine! I’m not jealous though. (I’m betting most of it was girl-hair…) The next time they come apart, I will have him redo them with epoxy instead of duct tape, and perhaps they will last forever.

I thanked him for the future brownie-points he’d just scored me, and after hugs all around, he fired up the two-wheeled beast, giving the kids a thrill as he peeled out of the neighborhood.

It was so good to see him again. We’re down to hanging out twice a year now?

There’s one more reunion to go. Clairissa is out of town for a couple of days, but when she returns I have a surprise for her. Like the Phoenix rising from the ashes, her clippers now have a new life.

I’m betting I get a hug out of this one.


1 Comment

  1. gee-no said,


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