Tap tap tap. My Sister was knocking.
She entered my room, pulling on a vapor pen. “I didn’t charge my pen yesterday. If you want to charge this up and take it to work with you…?”
“Sure! Thanks.” She handed me the pen, I took a pull. I felt a wave of warmth sweep over me. “Wow, I felt that!”
I have been experimenting with different strains of weed, and am always open to new ways to get stoned. The orange-tipped pen was different than most; it would not get you high, but you feel it in the body. Only 7% THC, but it packs a walloping 65% CBD. That’s the stuff that makes you not feel your feet.
We discussed aches and pains, the rain must be coming. It’s been sunny and gorgeous of late, but the weatherman says that’s about to change. So do my bones. I inherited red hair and a sense of humor, as well as rheumatoid arthritis. All three are making an appearance this morning.
It’s back to work day. Marcus Annoious has had a stroke, and no one has heard from or about him for several days. We hope he’s going to be okay, but I’m thinking if he was okay he would have called. It’s been several days. Godspeed, buddy.
On the upside, I will get at least three hours overtime this week. (More, if Giggles is his usual late self. Not bitching this week!) After two weeks of hours being cut, I am back to where I won’t sweat making the rent.
Time to make the doughnuts…
It’s a beautiful day in Portland, Oregon. My health is good, attitude partly cloudy. Work has been its usual stress, nothing much to report. The Nightclub Store is quiet, with the hotel closed and the bar being remodeled after the fire. I’ve been doing weekends at the Nightclub Store, with two days at the Waterfront Store filling out the work week. Three-day weekends are great once in a while, but I’d rather be working.
I am getting some housework done.
I was going to spend some time writing today, but it’s so gorgeous outside that I MUST go for a walk. Blue Dream in a jar on the desk, calling… It’s a peppy high, tastes great. I will burn a bit of that, and ride with Sister to work.
She’s been doing better. Realizing it’s not getting better by getting drunk, she’s mellowed out. I stand by her regardless, but I’m letting her know I like her a lot better sober. It took me a long time to realize I’m a jackass when I’m drinking. The last time I drank was a few months after I’d met Rain. “Honey, you smoke all the weed you want, but I don’t like you when you drink.” Those words hung with me. I want my sister to know I will love her either way, but I think it shows that it’s more fun when she’s sober. She’s been seeing a lot of ugly behavior at my work. She finishes at 11 PM, then walks over to where I’m working, and we ride home together. During the hour or so in between, there are a lot of obnoxious drunks to keep happy. She’s getting an education.
Time to get out and smell the roses. And any other flowers that may present themselves…
I remind myself each day how blessed I am. As the years tick off and the end approaches, I wonder if this is the last stop? Will I come back somewhere else in time, hopefully the future? I kinda doubt it; this sorta feels like a one-shot deal. But I dare to dream.
A lot has happened in the span of my lifetime. When I was a kid, if you had a phone it was attached to the kitchen wall, and everyone in the neighborhood knew your business. (It was called a party-line, and you had to wait your turn.) You could also listen in. Our neighbors were boring, but I pretended to be Gene Hackman tapping wires and spying on ne’er-do-wells. I’d record their conversations because I could. Now I have a phone I can watch TV on, make a movie on, play cards on… My dad would be blown away. He dated on horseback.
As technology advances, I try to keep a grounded view. I keep a couple acoustic guitars, a harmonica or twelve, and a set of bongos, because YouTube won’t have my favorite songs available if the lights go out. I think we have a manual typewriter in the shed; I should dig it out. But finding a ribbon for it? Note to self: Buy a few spiral notebooks to go with the dime-bag of ink pens Lucy bought me.
OTOH, I can tell you where my bus is with a couple taps of a button. I have 300 or so TV channels to choose from at home, and I could take those channels on the road with me, and watch them on my phone. Thing is, I catch myself chastising myself for staring at my phone when Mother Nature’s beauty presents itself to me. I should be staring out the window, gazing stupidly into space.
But I can do that when the battery on my phone dies.
I’m not much for holiday songs, but this ditty came out during my teen years and I felt the urge to revisit. George wasn’t my favorite Beatle, but he was one of the top four. He also did an ode to constipation that I will put up at the end, if I can find it.
But that’s later. First we’ve got to get through New Year’s Eve.
When I get the combination just right, reality looks like this. Happy Fried Day, everybody!
It’s been a long, miserable year. I’m sick of politics. I’ve seen far too many favorite people die. Laws have changed, some for the better, some not so much. It’s like the deck has been shuffled. I have the same amount of a stake, but the game has been changed.
Drugs in general have gotten harder to come by, and I’m trying to stay away from anything stronger than ibuprofen. I have my days, but I’ve been mostly good. But I *do* depend on my little green friend to get me through the day, and I don’t know what I would do without my medical card.
But there’s a chance I’m gonna find out…
We’ve been doing business for years, and he trusts me implicitly, as I do him. So a chill ran down my spine and rested near my nutsack when I heard him say the words, “Randy wants to see the books…”
I have standards.
For those too young to get the reference, Radar was the string-pulling corporal on the TV show/movie M*A*S*H*. He could sweet-talk the colonel while hornswoggling Major Burns, all the while keeping his diva doctors happy. He could horse-trade three cans of k-rations for a drivable Jeep. Dude was a straight-up hustler.
Well folks, Radar ain’t the only one who can pull a miracle out of his ass…
…The Lost Joint.
I have a safari vest that carries a bit of everything. When I wash it, the contents fill a plastic grocery bag. It’s much like a woman’s purse: None of your goddamn business what I carry around in it! (I keed, but not really. I learned at an early age to stay out of a woman’s purse, even if she tells you to go into it. No good can come from seeing in there…) I have all kinds of helpful items, and some shenanigans.
Recently one of my shenannigans turned up missing.
“Sixty-nine… Ninety-five… Give her a try…”
I’ve been writing a lot about scoring medication for other people, but every now and then one has to take care of self. So what does the provider smoke?
That’s exactly what I ask the budtenders at the dispensaries.