C’mon, Clock…
You want the good news first, or the bad?
Let’s start with the bad news.
I awoke to a blinking red light on my cell phone. I checked, text and voicemail. Start with voicemail. It was Rain: “Hey baby, where ya been? I came by your work, they said you been sick. Am I gonna have to come check up on you? Call me…” (beep)
Yeah, well, I’ve been busy.
Text message from Dr T. These are typically hilarious updates involving the less-intelligent antics of co-workers. Not this time. “Bookkeeper had a stroke. Master P was right there, called 911. Cross your fingers.”
Shit. And damn. Our bookkeeper is a lovely woman, who trained me in the early days at Master P’s. The thought of her being incapacitated sickened me.
Forge on.
Checking the news on the internet, I saw they had identified a stabbing victim from Old Town. I checked his name on PDXMugshots, found his mug shot. Crap. One of the Avenue weed dealers. Not a problem child, but no angel either. From the looks of the dude who stabbed him, it was a beef over dope.
I arrived at work, and one of my regulars was hanging around outside, smoking. “Did you hear about Johnny Ray?”
Johnny Ray is an older gentleman who stands unassumingly in front of the coffee shop across the street with a small cardboard sign. “Anything helps. God bless.” He’s been a fixture for years.
“No, what did he do?”
“He ODed this morning. He’s dead.”
God damn.
She briefed me, then left for a minute. About that time Saucy Alfredo arrived for the lunch break I never take. He smelled so strongly of Axe and “axe” that I chose to take a walk. Voodoo Doughnuts had reopened after the remodel; maybe I could get a peek inside?
I did! Two Memphis Mafias in the bag, with a candle in one of them. The gal at the counter even did a little dance for me. (Voodoo Doughnuts and I share a birthday.) Dessert obtained, it was back to work. Alfredo was ready to go by the time I returned. After twenty minutes working up a sweat in the bathroom, that is.
Clarence came into the store. Clarence is from the streets, but you’d not think him homeless to look at him. He walks like I imagine Scatman Crothers would in his 30s, and is built/looks like a boxer. I carded him for beer a while back, and discovered that he’s 68 years old. Holy crap, I hope I look that good when I’m that old.
“Big Man, help me out with a solid quarter?” He had twenty-three cents. I popped the till, fished two pennies from my stash and hooked him up.
“Hey Clarence, got a second?” He stopped to listen.
“I don’t want to be talking out of turn, but you know the old dude on the corner with the sign and the walker?”
“Johnny Ray? What about him?”
“He ODed this morning. He got a bad batch of dope. Apparently they’re cutting it with a sedative, and it’s taking people out. Be careful.”
“I don’t mess with that shit. One of my friends at the Estate ODed last week. Johnny Ray’s dead? Motherfucker…”
“Let Rain know if you see her? I know she dabbles, and I’d hate for something to happen to her.”
“Will do, Red. Johnny Ray. That fucks me up…” He wandered off into the night.
Alfredo left. I turned the radio back on, and the opening riffs of ZZ Top’s Tush echoed through the store. I turned it up until a family of four came in. Ease back down…
My phone buzzed. A Certain Someone who had lost her phone was back in communicado. “Hey lover, just got your messages. Sorry so long, got new phone now. Thursday is perfect!”
I have a date! And you’ll probably hear all about it.
As I stared at my bag of doughnuts, Dr T walked in. “Just got word the bookkeeper is going to be okay. They got her into treatment within thirty minutes, and you’d never know she was sick to talk to her. She was mostly worried about Otis, her dog.”
Praise the deities for that.
Let the waiting begin. I must wait until after work for the doughnuts. I must wait until Thursday for, well, other things. But, for a couple of hours last night, all was right with the world. Counting the minutes until I can hang with my special one. Feeling grateful that the bullets I’ve dodged of late have been of the Nerf (and not lead) varieties.
Somewhere in the ether, I could hear my Dad’s voice. “Take a deep breath, son. At your age, rushing the clock is not in your best interests.”
The Summer of Slayer
Dr T is an enabler when it comes to my library habits. He lives a couple blocks away from Central, is an almost daily visitor, and often picks up and returns items for me. His taste for classical and Old World meets my love of things depraved and profane, sometimes with hilarious results.
He related one occurrence: As he checked out CDs by Beethoven, Bach, Brahms, Stravinsky, the nice middle-aged lady next to him smiled approvingly. The look melted, an “I just sucked a bitter lemon” expression replacing it as Dr T put the autobiography of Sammy Hagar on top of his stack. Old World cred? Peeeeeeeew… BOOM!
A couple days ago, I stopped by the Waterfront store to pick up my latest grab. Dannyboy was working. Dannyboy is a 67-year-old perennial youngster, whose love of show tunes is topped only by his love for God. He’s a cool Christian; he won’t spend his entire lunch hour trying to save my soul. But if he sees me weaving off the path, he’s not above asking, “You sure that’s a good idea?”
“What are you doing here, kiddo?” I like that someone still calls me Kiddo.
“I came to pick up a CD. Considering its content, I’ll just grab it so you don’t have to touch it…”
“Why wouldn’t I want to touch it? I put out the porn magazines now, you know…”
“The title might make you squeamish?”
“Oh, just tell me what it is already!” He’s cute when he gets huffy.
“Slayer. God Hates Us All.” I braced for the backlash. I come from a family where my shit would be packed and outside if I ever brought such demonic filth into a house of God.
“Oh.” He shrugged. “I judge not. You just march to the beat of a different demon, that’s all.”
Wow. I like that!
My introduction to Slayer came in 1986, when they opened for WHAM. It seemed an odd pairing, and even odder when my little sister insisted on attending. I chaperoned by waiting outside the Starry Night, now the Roseland. Slayer was a bashing, gnarly never-ending set. WHAM sounded nothing like I’d imagined. Hmm, they must bring out the saxophone just for Careless Whisper. About halfway through their set, someone corrected me: It’s not WHAM. It’s W.A.S.P.
Oh. That’s completely different. Never mind…
A couple years later, the Portland area got its first real heavy metal station, broadcast out of Texas. Z-Rock. It transmitted out of the old KRDR shack, former home of Buck Owens and Conway Twitty. Now I was hearing Green Jello, Metallica and Motorhead, albeit on AM radio. Still, it was opening new horizons musically.
Slayer’s South of Heaven came out about that time, and was one of the last vinyl records I purchased. The other two were Metallica’s And Justice For All and Black Sabbath’s Headless Cross. I wore them out until the turntable belt broke.
Except for a concert video, I was not particularly familiar with Slayer’s body of work. I loved South of Heaven; did I need to spoil that by hearing a bunch of stuff I didn’t like?
I was listening to South of Heaven around the time Osama bin Laden was killed.
Ambushed by machine gun fire;
Count the bullet holes in your head…
It mixed well with the bottle of whiskey I made love to about that time. Time to investigate further.
I picked up all the available albums from the library, and have been jamming to them on the commute. Not even a pack of bitch-slap-rappin ‘hood rats can penetrate the cacophony of Reign in Blood. After an aggravating night, there is release to be found in all that angry music.
Plus, it’ll help being familiar with more than a couple tunes, as I’m officially losing my Slayer cherry later this summer. With a Slayer/Rob Zombie co-headliner show at Memorial Coliseum, how could I not go?
Dannyboy asked what the appeal was? “Can you even tell the songs apart?”
“It’s like standing inside a jet engine, I suppose. But if you know what to listen for, there are all kinds of, um, subtleties. Like the difference between a lawn mower and a chainsaw, for example.”
“Well, you just go ahead and ruin what’s left of your hearing. I’ll stick to Mary Poppins, thank you!”
She is touring as well. But Rob Zombie isn’t opening for her…
Coming Down From My High Horse
Live-blogging my impending old age is kinda fun. Since I’ve turned fifty, things have changed. One would think the date would make no difference. Maybe I’m just more self-conscious now?
That’s probably not the term. I’m hardly shy about sharing all the gory details. You’ve heard about girl-chasing in the form of my endless pursuit/infatuation/attraction/obsession with Clairissa. I bitch about work when I feel like it. I’ve shared medical stories ad nauseum, with everything from skin tag removal to homegrown dentistry to peeling toenails. The prostate exam is a good example. (First one wasn’t so fun. The second time I wanted to slip her a $20 and ask if she’d do it again.)
So I’m not easily embarrassed, but I recently faced a quandary. As I turned fifty, I realized I may have to do some things I swore I’d never do. (I fear not the colonoscopy. That ain’t it.) I’m not shy about buying tampons, condoms, crab medicine, etc… although I haven’t had to buy crab medicine since 1984. I bought support hose/compression stockings without batting an eye. I rather enjoyed it when the boys at the pharmacy joked, teased and pondered their mortality as I bought a bottle of Old Spice. (The after-shave in the white bottle, not the fancy stink-pretty stuff.)
But there’s at least one thing I’m struggling with. I’ve been meaning to go to the drug store across the street and take care of it, but I just can’t do it.
Thank the gods for the internet. With a couple clicks of a button, I was spared the shame and indignity of having to confront the fresh-faced whippersnappers at the pharmacy. There will be no snickering, no whispering behind the counter. After I leave, they won’t be saying to each other, “I’ll never become *that* guy!”
So I’m watching the mail for a discreet brown package. While I’m not aquiver with anticipation at its arrival, it will take me into the next phase of life.
What are these items that have me so freaked out?
In Stride with Pride
What a lovely day to return to work. Having been off for five days, with all the mental anguish etc… I was hoping for a quiet come-back. When I saw the dude at the mall with the Burt Reynolds mustache and gold lame dress, I wondered if I’d finished hallucinating?
Oh yeah, it’s Pride Parade day.
A Dark and Scary Place
It’s been a rough week.
From missing work, to missing teeth, to missing my weekend.
But I’m much better now!
Excuse Me While I Kiss This Guy
My mother, bless her dearly departed heart, wanted me to live forever. To do so I needed God’s approval, and if God could see and know all, he’d know I’d never be his house-mouse. Mom tried to save me from the perils of evil, and protected my virtue every way she thought possible.
I chose the perhaps less colorful path. I couldn’t make myself gay to save (or condemn) my life. I’d often wished I’d been born gay or black, so I’d have a real reason to feel picked on. Until I was about seventeen, drugs made no sense. Then I discovered LSD. (“It’s dyslexic Mormon, Mom!”)
All that's missing is Jagger's tongue...
The Devil appeared in many forms, but mostly in the form of tempestuous young women and rock and roll lyrics. Whenever Purple Haze by Jimi Hendrix would play, Mom would threaten to break the radio. Yup, she’d misinterpret the lyrics and get all hot and bothered. “That song is about queers! Turn it off!” The word ‘queer’ was spat out like a turd in her mouth.
Mom, I wish you were still around to see this. While on the MAX home last Saturday, I looked out the window and saw the cosmic lip-lock. There were no drugs or homoerotic activities anywhere near. TriMet security hadn’t a clue.
Yes…
It can…
It will…
It has been done!
Am I excused?
Rosy Times at the Mothership
When I saw the schedule, I cringed. Work until midnight, commute home, then return by 11 AM to work a ten-hour shift at the busiest store? The look I gave Grinder must have been withering. He handed me the schedule and asked, “See anything you like better?”
I didn’t, until I noticed Saturday night. Working until 3 AM with Dr T at the Waterfront Store?
I could do that…
Dingleberry Gazette 