Shiftless…
I find myself stuck in an impromptu 5-day vacation. “Oh, poor me!” you say? It would be more fun if I’d known it was coming.
Last week some legal issues came up (jury duty, the good kind of legal issue) and I piled on the hours early in the week so I wouldn’t lose income by doing my civic duty. That worked out fine, but then I got an e-mail from the boss stating that due to personnel issues I would be working Tuesday through Saturday this week.
Whimper.
It’s freaking Blues Festival week, and there are bands I wanted to see this year. Isaac Hayes is playing Thursday. Yes, children, Chef is headlining. (Will he play Theme from Shaft? Love Gravy or Chocolate Salty Balls from South Park?) Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll stop by the store for some late-night porno or Little Debbie’s.
The other is on Saturday night. Elvin Bishop. I’ve been a fan since 1975, when Fooled Around and Fell in Love was a Top 40 hit. His album Ace in the Hole is a favorite. Gone Fishin’ is a classic, and the instrumental version of Fooled Around… rips it up. Maybe I can take a very late lunch and listen from the Hawthorne Bridge.
So, now, what the hell to do on Monday? I’ve already gone on a long bus ride. Went shopping for a new wallet. Paid my phone bill. Stopped by work, no emergency shifts to fill, thereby giving me negotiating power for Saturday. This means I will be working the next ten days with one day off. I see a cranky bastard in the near future.
I must be getting old. I actually miss going to work. We’ll see how long that feeling lasts…
The Film Project
Thirty years ago, I was a teenage wunderkind, a cinema know-it-all. A perpetual truant, I spent lots of time at matinees, read screenplays, idolized John Waters and Martin Scorsese, and wanted more than anything to make porno films for a living. (Aah youth!) While my delusions of grandeur never came to fruition, I did get to dabble a bit in filmmaking.
RIP George Carlin, 1937-2008
I’m saddened to learn one of my heroes passed on yesterday. In the world of wordplay and witty banter, George Carlin was a nuclear bomb. I am going to refer back to a post I wrote here a year or so ago.
Thanks for all the funny words, George. You had way more than just seven.
I’m Such a Tool Sometimes
As one grows older, they realize how little they really know. This is considered a sign of wisdom. I knew everything when I was sixteen. Today I’m blissfully ignorant, but I’ve picked up a few things along the way. I have these mini-epiphanies, “Oh, now I get it!” moments. Then technology comes along and bitch-slaps me back to reality.
“Fire GOOD!”
Picture me stumbling around the kitchen like Frankenstein on ecstasy, saying “Mmmm…MMMM…”
Indoor cooking has returned to our house!
A week or so ago, I returned from grocery shopping to discover our oven had screwed the pooch. (Not literally, but you never know. Our dog is up for anything.) After a week of chicken strips, roast beef sandwiches and the occasional microwave wrap, a hot meal cooked at home at 3 AM sounded like the most wonderful thing in the world.
Enter Spencer’s Appliance, located on NE Glisan. For $119, they delivered a clean, compact used kitchen range and hauled off the piece of crap old, broken one. The young man installed it, tested it and was gone in about fifteen minutes.
I shouldn’t knock the old one. When we bought the house, the folks gave us the option of keeping it or removing it so we could put in our own. We kept it as a temporary, and it lasted seven years. Seven years with a functional oven and one working hot plate. When cooking spaghetti, timing is everything. With four functioning burners, I will have to rethink my whole cooking routine!
What was for dinner? Cube steak burgers, with melted Swiss cheese. It was heavenly. Tonight? No idea yet, but it won’t be a microwave burrito.
Or chicken strips.
First Face of the Morning
Over the years, I figure I’ve spent about half the time sleeping next to someone. I don’t have a problem sleeping alone, and am thoughtful and considerate when I do have company. (Example: only two Dutch ovens in my 47 years. That I remember…)
Lately I’ve been flashing back to the last girl I spent frequent bedtime with. Not, piny whiny stuff, just missing the contact, the cuddling, the ‘first thing in the morning’ smiles. Of course, I miss the Saturday afternoon jump-between-the-sheets, wearing nothing but a smile and maybe a sheen of perspiration moments too. (We fit together like Legos.) Lately though, there’s tumbleweeds on the left side of the bed, and I hug my pillow for companionship. And who am I waking up to now?
Kathy Lee Gifford.
Friday Stew
Aah… blessed weekend.
It’s been quite a week. Met lots of interesting people. Lost an old friend of the four-legged variety. (My sister and niece buried her in the back of the garden, next to the goldfish and “a big, fat worm.”) Work is full of turmoil. Grinder is smart, he took a week’s vacation. I get to enjoy a three-day weekend.
I found my uncle! Technically he wasn’t lost, but he had some troubles and ended up in a facility for a while, with strict rules as to who can contact him. His Alzheimer’s has been accelerating, and he needed attention. On a whim I called him during a slow point at work, and got his voice mail. Figures. I left a polite, upbeat message and went back to work.
Two minutes later my cell phone went off, it was him. “Who is this?” he asked. I told him, and he recognized me immediately. “Well, hi there! Good to hear from you.” We caught up quickly. He said, “I’ve still got my car, with the OnStar on it. Maybe I could drive down and see you guys?”
“How about if we drive up and see you? We can pile in your car and I can take you for a drive. You know I can handle that Caddy. It’s a sweet ride.”
He agreed that maybe it was better if he didn’t drive anymore. I owe my uncle a car ride. Darn.
It’s Pride Week, and the Dyke March is tomorrow. As much as I’d like to go watch, I think I’ll stay home instead. I’ve seen more lesbian boobies this year than any man should be allowed to. Clairissa will be out there, probably leading the pack.
Later I will go downtown, drop by work and check out the vibe. But right now? I have a date with a cute mother/daughter combo. Extra added bonus! French husband! We’re going to invade an Asian buffet. My kitchen stove is broken, and man can only live on chicken strips and roast beef for so long. I haven’t had a hot meal in a week. I’m ready to become a regular at an all-night diner, like a character in a Tom Waits song. When Mizelle called and asked what/where, eight dozen options popped into my head. With Asian buffet, I can cover a lot of those bases. Mmm, munchies.
Have a great weekend. You deserve it.
Jenny from the Block
I was met at the door tonight by a tearful niece. “I’ve got bad news,” she said. “Really bad news. Jennifer died tonight.”
Jennifer was my cat.
Actually, she was the family’s cat, but Jennifer had adopted me. She wandered into the yard, then into the house about seven years ago. She was fully grown, but young, so after a few weeks we had her fixed and claimed her as our own. The kids named her Jennifer, which I modified to Jenny from the block.
She had a ditzy manner, and some medical issues. I don’t know if cats can be epileptic, but she seemed to be. She had a fit one night that scared the hell out of me. A few minutes later she had a second one, and I’d thought she’d died then. I woke my brother-in-law, to confer about how to get rid of her, when she rolled over, shook it off and went about her business.
At first, she bugged me. Everywhere I went, she would run in front of me and stop. The endless stepping over would make me cranky, and then my sister pointed out that she was the only one of the cats that didn’t look at me with contempt. (And vice versa.) She eventually stopped being a pain in the ass, and spent a lot of time sitting outside my door, respecting the boundary.
Her personality reminded me of Anna Nicole Smith or Zsa Zsa Gabor. Her long white coat with silvery tips had a trashy glamour about it, and her googly-eyes had a kindness behind them. She didn’t have much to do to earn her keep; with four cats there is no rodent problem at our house. Squirrels won’t even hang out in the yard.
My niece is still crying, off and on. She wanted to make sure I was okay, and she wanted to be the one to tell me. “I wish I could see her soul,” she said. I told her that Jenny is taking the longest sweetest nap possible, and that she’s in a happy place now. It helped, but not much. Hell of a way to start summer vacation.
RIP Jenny from the block. You were a cool cat, and I will miss you.
Beastly Numbers
I wish almost every work night could be like tonight. I say ‘almost’ because I’ve had some pretty crazy-fun work nights, and there’s always room for more fun. But, for punching the clock while not getting rich, hammered or laid, it was a pretty good night.
Part of it was in the numbers. I had not one but two transactions that totaled $6.66. That only happens on Halloween. Well, not only, but I can go for months without seeing the price tag of the beast. Yet virtually every Halloween it happens. Customers think I’m making stuff up, until I give them the receipt. “Ooh, I’d better buy something else! That’s unlucky.”
To which I reply, in my best Beelzebub impersonation, “Don’t do that, or you will anger the master!” Then I give out a guttural growl, which either leaves them laughing or crossing themselves.
On the second $6.66 transaction, I pondered aloud the significance of seeing it twice in one night.
“Well, it is Friday the 13th this week…”
“Well, I’ll be damned. Uh, maybe I should rephrase that. By god man, you’re right!”
My favorite Trimet supervisor played 13 and 31 on Keno and won $33. (She promptly lost ten bucks going for more, but we’ll not think about that.)
Lucky or not, it was a pleasant work night. Besides grooving on spooky numbers, I flirted my ass off.
Thank You, Powerpuff Girls!
Willie Nelson sings “My heroes have always been cowboys…”
While that’s good for him, I’ve been blessed with a different phenomenon. Over the last couple of weeks, who has been coming to my rescue?
Cute young girls.
The events of a couple weeks ago were well-documented, when a large drunken rowdy got into my personal space and met the wrath of the Damsel of Distress. While many wonderful women have done me favors, looked out for me, taken care of me, I can’t think of a more dramatic “See? I care!” in recent history. While other instances have not been as scary or violent, they were touching.
And they were done by strangers.
Dingleberry Gazette 
