I’m surprised I’m not seeing little piles of gluteus maximus all over downtown. I almost froze my ass off last night.
I texted Dr T; “If Giggles is still there, tell him I’m gonna punch him in the head if he’s late tonight. We had to sit almost two hours to catch the last and only bus. That ain’t happenin’ again.”
I was pissed.
It was a four-hour shift. I spent almost that long at the bus stop.
It was spitting snow when I left the house. By the time Southie left the West End Store, a white blanket covered the intersection. By the time I got off work, YakTrax were required, and there were no buses or MAX crossing downtown. That’s not unusual after 10 PM.
I hurried to the bus stop. The tracker wasn’t working, but the bus was due at the top and bottom of the hour. Eventually I would catch a ride. I had a nice post-work buzz going, and the landscape was pretty. I could wait a while.
And I waited. I checked Transit Tracker for MAX, there was a train scheduled to leave four blocks away in ten minutes. I’d head there, while keeping an eye out for the Hawthorne bus. I passed a familiar looking group at the Madison stop. I went to the light rail stop. I hadn’t seen a train going any direction in a while. The sign at the MAX said, “You might want to consider not using public transportation tonight.” Great. I went to a different bus stop, on 6th Avenue. There was one of the #14 buses, sitting sideways blocking the entrance to Broadway on Main Street.
I tripped back to the MAX, still no sign of train. Midnight rolled around, and little by little people started walking. At 12:35 AM, I saw a bus taking an odd turn, and I got walking. I made it to 4th and Madison just as the #14 Hawthorne pulled up. The driver waved off my fare.
He was the only bus still in service.
We conquered. He turned and made one more pass. I hope he made it, for everyone’s sake.
Now I am heading back to work, for a full shift this time. If I leave three hours early I might make it on time.
Ice storm!Snowmageddon!Close the schools! It’s the end of times!
SPOILER ALERT: I survive. In fact, I came out of it pretty good.
We haven’t had a real winter for a couple years, so Mother Nature is making up for it in spades. The past week hosted non-stop sub-freezing temperatures, and the past few days have added liberal doses of precipitation, leading to enhanced thrills and spills. Cue Paul Simon; “Slip slidin’ awaaay…”
Since the election, Trumpers have been walking around gloating, and the HRC camp (under-forty) are pissed and rioting in the streets. (“Voicing their opinion” as they call it.) Opinions are like assholes, and downtown has been full of opinions since the election.
I just wanna go home!
Ten years ago I’d have been called a weed dealer. These days I’m a “caregiver.”
I’m not trying to be cynical or sarcastic. This is wonderful! I’ve gone from that Dude in the Alley to “The Nice Man that helps Uncle’Jeff’s back.” It’s about time! I do miss the shady side of weed. Getting away with it was half the fun.
These days it’s more about getting through the day than the latest episode of Thrillseekers. Instead of looking for something that will “fuck your shit up”, these days people can choose major, little or no effect. Just read the label!
Laffy Taffys, as my clique calls them, are a workday staple. Costing $5-$25 and varying in strength, these portable godsends can make the difference between a pleasant workshift and a night on the milk crates, praying for the clock to hurry up and tick so you can go home and crawl into bed. You can get comfortable, pain-free or all fucked up. Just read the label.
Silver Label: Regular Strength, THC content 70+mg. One of these early in the morning is great for a day off, say a Saturday brunch and nap. If you are a lightweight, this might be too much. Anyone who has eaten ten beeswax caps can handle one of these. Don’t drive.
Blue Label: Double-strength, THC content 170 mg. I eat half, then the other half an hour or so later. It gives the THC time to creep, instead of putting you to sleep. These cover me for a whole work day.
Purple Label: Indica, 177 mg. This was a pleasant surprise. At $10, and 177 mg, this is cost-effective AND fucking potent. I split one with my sister before running errands. I was all teeth and no eyes. NOT for work.
Black Label: The Fatty, 261 mg, 2.+ mg CBD. These are my sister’s favorite. She quarters them for work. I ate a third of one as I began typing this, and am getting a warm feeling in my bones. (Warm, not burning. Big difference.) A whole one would put me in a coma, so sneak up on this one. It will knock you out, said mama.
Gold Label: All CBD, and the most expensive. I haven’t tried this one, because if I’m spending $25 I want to catch a buzz. Works amazingly for pain, I hear.
All of these team up splendidly with opiates. If you have oxycodone, morphine etc… you can make your dope go twice as far my eating half a taffy with your pills. You’ll be functionally drunk, and it feels like a hug from within. But… Don’t get too attached to this feeling. It’s a bitch if you get addicted.
Opiates, as a way of life, appear to be on the way out. As much as it pains me, (see what I did there?) the doctors are right. Ibuprofen works better long-term. (Opiates are more fun, though.) There will always be heroin, but I’m not fond of the buzz enough to subject myself to that kind of life change. I know me. I could never maintain a heroin lifestyle. It would kill me, one way or another.
So I am enjoying my Laffy Taffy this morning, about to price-check some CBD cartridges, pick up some goodies for my friends. Even though they can go do it themselves, they prefer me to shop for them. That’s okay with me. Yesterday my new Senior Discount was substantial enough to pay for a Black Label taffy. It will be gone by the time I get to the Pickles game tonight. Baseball oughta be a hoot!
Happy Tuesday, everybody.
It’s great being thick as thieves with your little sister. She’s been my best friend for life, sometimes despite me treating her less than perfectly. She’s loving, forgiving, and a lot of fun. We take care of each other, because no one else will. Not like the special way we do.
When it comes to partying, drugs and alcohol, she’s from the “I learned it by watching you” school. We’ve enabled each other over time. In my heavy stages of alcoholism, she would go fetch beers for me, until she realized, before I did, that I was dying from it. She refused to buy me booze, a moratorium that exists today. And some days she’s the only reason I don’t guzzle half a gallon of bourbon. We are good bad examples for each other.
Weed is a different story. I kept her in weed when she was our mother’s caregiver. I would visit as often as allowed, living in the cabin and bringing stories of the big city. We developed habits, some okay, some not so good.
So when she had a cancer scare a few months back and quit drinking, I got her interested in medibles. It’s like having a drinking buddy in the house again! The best part? She hates to shop, so she hands me a wad of cash (or in this case her ATM card) and says, “You know what I like.” Then it’s up to me to cull the Leafly listings to see what the best bang for the buck would be.
It was the last of my days off, and she said, “I want something to come home to.”
I was off to the races.
My dad was an easy touch when it came to helping other people with their gardens. He’d rototill for ya, weed your garden if needed. I’m not that useful, but I do have an altruistic streak when it comes to helping friends stay comfortable. I’ve never considered myself a weed dealer, but I have facilitated a lot of transactions. Mostly because I want to take care of those I love, and want them treated the way I’d want to be treated.
When Dizzy realized I wasn’t full of shit after I took her to an eastside dispensary and she got a quarter-ounce $20 cheaper, she waits until I am working to request a hookup. (My medical card dispenses with silly limits, and I don’t have to pay 25% sales tax.) I have offered to just do it, but she says, “You need to be fuckin’ somebody to get that kind of service!” I suggested we negotiate, but negotiations have stalled.
I have a friend with a bad back, and he wanted something that would work besides pain pills. While I have benefited greatly from his transference from opiates to cannabinoids, he’s doing it for a reason. Little by little all the old-timers are being cut off. The pill sources around Portland have dried up almost completely, and it’s for the best. I need to step away from the pills, and what better way than to do it the old organic way. I’ll smoke weed!
My friend provided a healthy budget to work with. After discussing what benefits he sought, we settled on beeswax capsules for edibles, and a vapor pen with high CBD dosages. You don’t get high, but the pain in your feet magically disappear. It’s a miracle!
I knew what I wanted, so I began calling around. The perfect mix would be like what Dizzy had given me, 21% THC and 35% CBD. It was perfect for work. A little buzz, a lot of relief.
Unfortunately, the Great Opiate Crackledown has sent all the old hippies to the weed stores to scoop up all the good pain relief. Several calls netted only hopes of deliveries in a week or two. Sigh. My friend needed it before then. What to do?
I stopped by the Dispensary near the Waterfront Store. I had a loose ten-spot, a Laffy Taffy might make my thought process work better. My Hawaiian buddy was behind the counter, and it was slow. Perfect!
I told him what I wanted, and he pondered. “You know, people have been snatching up the CBD stuff as fast as it hits the shelf. We may have a delivery this week, but it’ll probably just be high THC stuff. Not that that’s a bad thing…” He grinned. Then a light went off in his head. “Be right back,” he said as he ducked into the office.
“I have a sampler model of this. It’s a straight CBD, you get a gram, with pen, battery, and recharger. With your discount, you could afford this and a gram of the high THC stuff. The cartridges are interchangeable; just unscrew the THC one and put on the CBD one if that’s what you want.” I told him of my woes, and he came back from the office once again. We’ll sneak this in on your discount. It’s a 79% THC sativa, and will work with that pen you showed me the other day. Merry Christmas, Charles.”
We bumped knuckles, and I thanked him profusely. I have never had the nerve to ask what kind of discount I’m getting. It’s a blessing, and I accept graciously. Other than giving him some private information once when I thought he was in someone’s crosshairs, he has no reason to be in my debt. But goddammit, if he’s going to give me a discount, I’m going to say thank you and be fucking grateful! Even *if* the sativa cartridge has a pink tip. Electric Virginia Slim.
I have a couple more errands to run before I drop my buddy’s package off. Who knows, the rewards from good deeds have been plentiful today, and the day’s not over.
I love my smartphone. It was a tough sell. I can be a bit of a Luddite until technology proves itself to me. But once the hook is in, ya got me.
I particularly love how I can blog from my phone. Catch all those important thoughts. Because I can doesn’t mean I do, but I love having the option.
Mostly I use the phone for transit-tracking and text-message flirtation. (Or the occasional dope deal. 😆) Recently I reactivated an old eBay-related account, and now I get notifications when there is activity. I’m not sure if I am reassured or unnerved.
Since the Pokemon Go phenomenon started, I feel guilty walking down the street staring at my phone, thinking others will think I’m playing that stupid fucking game. Two fully-grown ladies went into the Mothership while Festus was working, madly searching for a Pokemon near the wine aisle. He figured they were just drunk.On my way to an important date? I will flirt as I travel, which tends to annoy Rain. But if I have a bag of weed for Dizzy, like I did the other day, the updates couldn’t come often enough.
As the MAX pulled into Old Town, I alerted Dizzy. I began typing “the eagle has landed,” but when I looked at the auto-fill, it had projected “the eagle has” diarrhea.
I still laugh picturing it. Since the average bird shits every fifteen minutes anyway, would diarrhea constitute a steady stream?
As Dizzy replied, “How majestic.”
It was 10:30 PM, and I was answering my phone in front of the Mothership. “I’d love to talk, but I have to move a TV.”
“But it’s 10:30 at night…”
“Yeah.” I hung up. It did sound kinda bad.
Rain was with me, and asked, “What’s this about free TVs?”
“The hotel where my sister work is getting all new TVs for the rooms. We’re scoring one for my Nephew.”
“I want one!”
Of course you do.
Rain’s new apartment is well-furnished, but her TV is a small 32-inch table model. When she moved out of her nice apartment, she’d had two 50-inch big screen models. I told her I’d see what I could do. But first, I had to get mine home…
“Oh, this and that. Off work. Why you ask?”
“Because I have to come downtown for court, and I’ve missed you. Thought I’d say hi, and maybe even reapply to work with you…”
My heart hit the ceiling of my brain before bouncing southward to my crotch and back to chest level. “Angel back in town? I’m stumbling and stuttering with excitement already!”
“My court is at 1 PM. Want to meet before or after?”
“Do you have someone to go to court with you?”
“No. I’ve never even been in a courthouse, don’t even know which one to go to.”
“Would you like me to go with you?”
I was grinning ear-to-ear. “Text me the address of the courthouse. I will be happy to go with you. But… I have some marijuana to deliver first…”