Merry Ex Mess
It’s been that most wonderful time of the year.
I can’t decide if it’s been a good Christmas holiday, or the saddest ever. A little of both, maybe?
For the first time in years, I spent the holiday alone. Not completely, sad-old-man alone, but by myself, watching TV, going for walks. Allowing the day to run me, instead of the other way around. As I went through the day, I wondered about Rain. She moved out a month ago, and I barely hear from her. A text once a week or so, telling me she’s coming for her stuff.
But not on Xmas. Not a peep…
Oh Xmas Tree…
Last night I showed the drunken Hawthorne Lumberjacks how it’s done.
Oregon has a long history in the timber and logging industry, and it played a big part of my childhood. I spent pre-grade school years in a lumber mill, and many relatives drove logging trucks. The smell of coffee and cigarettes, pine needles not associated with gin, and the rumble of a jake-brake all take me back to the days of Koch’s Mill in Sandy, Oregon.
So, you can see how the new fashion of looking like the Brawny Towel man might irk me some?
Now, I could get on a rant about that, but there are so many other worthy fashion targets out there, and I kinda hope that whole ‘crucify you over your outfit’ attitude died with Joan Rivers. If I want catty, I’ll pet my cats.
Or Meg’s. Which leads me to the Xmas tree…
Whacking Off Again
Rain’s departure has come with little fanfare this time. Out of respect for her (and us) I haven’t been saying much. My family and co-workers have been through our break-ups many times before. I’m sure folks say “Oh, they’re just fighting, they’ll be fine next week.” For the longest time, that was true.
But, in recovery, they talk about rock bottom. “How do you know when you have hit rock bottom?”
“You’ll know when you get there.”
I’m pretty sure I’m there.
Putting the Odd in Audubon
I looked to the sky, watching hundreds of crows circle and group on the ledge of the building. (Note to self: Step back from edge of building.) The birds have been congregating near the waterfront, making news when 30-50 were found dead. Toxicology reports claimed pesticide. I think it was avian cirrhosis. Those fuckers find a patch of fermented plums or cherries and the party is on! You can hear them for days. It’s noisier than the smoking area of a Timbers’ bar after a win.
I watch the MAX platform between customers. “I like to see the trouble coming,” said one former co-worker. The problem is, you never see the trouble coming.
Officer Paul rolled up, “Your group of shitbirds was seen by the food carts, giving one of the Middle Eastern guys a hard time. The DA has said to make them a priority, we’re going for dis-con (disorderly conduct) and anything else we can tack on.”
One of the Clean & Safe kids walked up, said hello. “I saw your spotted owl in the park!”
“Which one? The one with wings, or the one with facial tattoos?”
“Huh?”
Officer Paul laughed, “He has both…”
Guardian of the Rest Home
The call came five minutes after I’d taken over the register at the Waterfront store. It was Eva Braun, manager of the Mothership, and newly-appointed author of the weekly work schedule. “How you doink, Cholls?” She has the cutest accent, one of the few German women who doesn’t sound like she’s scolding you when she speaks.
Unless, of course, she’s scolding you.
“Fine, assuming the new position.” I’d been spending most of my time at the Nightclub store, my de facto home. A full week on the Waterfront? Someone was being punished, and it wasn’t me. “So, is this schedule an ongoing thing, or am I back to the Nightclub soon?”
“You, sir, are there for the duration, my friend. You can control the idiots…”
Oh, goody. I’m back to clean up the neighborhood.
It Was 1976…
…All over again.
Just spent my first weekend alone in a long, long time. You know, without a girlfriend to answer to, or a date to keep. Just me.
It’s weird how I’d stopped doing things for another person, things I’d loved before. Also, things that hadn’t bothered me were starting to. Rain has been leaving clothes, makeup, worldly possessions, etc… at my place for years, but she used to take them when she went away. This time I am left with a monolith of a suitcase that only fits if sitting on the edge of my bed, braced against the wall a foot away. Hey, it’s almost like sleeping with her…
It goes with the rolling suitcase at the foot of the bed. I can tolerate the five trashbags of clothes hidden around the room, or the dozens of shoes under my bed. The makeup and body lotions on the nightstand add a sense of femininity to the room, and make it seem less like a Florida motel room where old men go to drink themselves to death.
Yet, without a woman there to use those things, clog up my TV-watching with her BET shows and eat half my dinner? I get lonely as hell. So I go out for walks. And bus rides.
Long bus rides.
Drugged Drinks and Ripped Tights
Just call me Pudding Pop.
A couple weeks ago, as I was working, I got a text message from Angel. “How you doin? It’s been a while.”
I’ve been told my face lights up uncontrollably when I see someone I have a crush on. I must have been projecting beams of light at my phone. “Great! How are you?”
“Good. Dumped the BF, for good this time. Third time’s a charm.”
We’ve been sharing relationship drama for years now, both of us holding out for a day when our respective partners would see the light, that we are the bee’s knees, and why don’t you treat me right, etc… When things boil over, we run to each other.
And she was texting me on a Saturday night at 10 PM. I know her well enough that she’s always in bed or “in bed” by 9:30. And she’s thinking of me?
Oh my…
I had to brag, so I pulled out my mildly-stupid phone and Tweeted, “Runnin’ with the devil; off work, meeting a friend to do semi-responsible things. Then we gonna tear it up…”
Hit me, bartender…
“I guess I trust you, shady mister.”
So I went to the weed store, and picked up a couple of medicated vitamin waters.
Dingleberry Gazette 