October 10, 2010 at 10:10 am (Clairissa, On the road again...)

Now that’s more like it.

My recent Saturdays have been as mundane as regular workdays. I always look forward to the weekend, but once it arrives I feel like I’m just killing time until work starts again. That’s no way to spend a weekend, and against my basic core beliefs. I mean, Satyrday is all about “Party party party!” Right?

Yesterday wasn’t a drunken blowout, but it did remind me of old times…

I’ve discovered favorite times of the week are subject to seasonal enhancement. A rainy fall Saturday? Meant for drinking and carousing and getting the rebel yells out of one’s system, so they can recover on Sunday and be ready for work on Monday. I haven’t drank in two and a half years, but rainy Saturdays give me the urge. When I deboarded the downtown train and walked straight to the liquor store, alarms should have been going off all over town. But no… It’s not for me.

“Travel bottle of HRD Vodka, please?” I told the fine young man at the liquor store. (He’s also a customer.)


“No! Might as well get a fifth. I’m bringing party favors, and if they can’t drink the cheap stuff they don’t have to drink! Ex–Governor Kitzhaber plugged HRD during the goobernatorial debates, which did more to endear him to the common man than his blue jean outfit. Let Dudley buy the $100 booze with the pear in it, the working man just neeeds a fifth of HRD and a can of OJ concentrate!”

Alcoholic politics 101. The liquor store clerk looked at me as if he were guessing how many screwdrivers *I’d* had this morning. I stuffed the bottle in next to my netbook and headed for Meg’s.

We sat on her bed, and I poured a large water glass full of HRD. “Mind if I save it for later?” she asked.

I tested the weight of her watermelon-flavored can of Four Lokos. Full. She’d be sloppy if she mixed the two. “Nah, not at all. I just felt like being the liquor fairy today. You might want to put that in a closed container.”

She covered it with Saran Wrap and put it in the fridge. I pulled out the netbook and showed her my blog. She observed with skeptical wonder as I showed her pictures of Clairissa and gave her the back story. I was killing time until my darling barber had her fingers free. Soon it was time to go.

Meg fingered my long hair. “Are you gonna get it cut?”

“Nah, this is a social visit. I have some top secret clown business to attend to…”

* * *

I walked through the West End, boarded the MAX and rode to Hollywood, where I switched to the uptown bus. I was off to the hood. A half-hour later I was walking up a quiet residential street. The rain had subsided. After knocking twice, I texted Clairissa. “Little pig little pig let me in. The BIG BAD WOLF is here!” After a moment one of Clairissa’s friends opened the door and escorted me to the basement. The Girls Room.

“Hey baby!” Clairissa shouted from behind a curtain. She was coloring a young lady’s hair while two of her friends watched. “Make yourself comfy. We can visit between procedures.”

I sat on the couch with a bunch of gals, a couple I knew, a couple I didn’t. Booze, the great social lubricator. I pulled the bottle of vodka from hiding and set it on the table. “Looks I got here a little too late, or just in time.” Clairissa’s GF had just finished a shot of whiskey and was pouring a shot of Coca-Cola to chase it with. The half-gallon of Evan Williams was almost gone.

“Allright, vodka!” said the GF. “I fuckin’ hate whiskey.” To prove it, she poured and downed another shot. She began playing video games, and I watched with amusement as she drunkenly flew the helicopter around a mockup of New York City. It looked awesome on HDTV.

I slipped out with Clairissa for cigarette breaks, and snapped pictures of her while she trimmed, washed and combed out. I’d hang on the couch for a while with the party crowd. It reminded me of an earlier life, where it would not be uncommon for me to be in a roomful of strangers, waiting to buy mental enhancements of an illicit nature. This was much friendlier than the waiting room of your local weed dealer, and the only trimming going on was atop people’s heads. After an hour or two, I was getting restless. If I didn’t get out of here, I’d be tempted to join them for a shot or twelve. I’d had a pleasant visit with Clairissa’s GF, and met a couple of nice young ladies to boot. Plus, I had drool-worthy pictures of Clairissa to check out when I got home.

It was a lovely way to spend the afternoon. It reminded me of the glory days of Hot Box Salon, and those drunken days with Tank Girl and Daddy the Dog. I wouldn’t want to relive them, but it was nice to be reminded of them.

Clairissa walked me toward the bus stop, and gave me a parting hug. Soon I was on an overheated bus full of blue-collar types in search of adventure on a Saturday night. I kept making eye contact with a lovely lass who looked like an eighteen-year-old version of Heather Graham. Her eyebrows were perfect, as were her legs. Every guy on the bus was checking her out, and the room was getting stuffy…

I rolled in about eight hours later than usual for a Saturday. Laundry was done, and I was able to catch the Yankees final out of the ALDS. Work is looking good today, but not because I’m bored with being at home. This weekend was like a reward.

Time to start building brownie points toward next weekend…

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