Brian

Thu, 21 Aug 2008 13:15:55 GMT

is not in the least bit hungover.

Skirt versus kilt

Mon, 18 Aug 2008 15:40:09 GMT

As soon as she saw me sitting at the table near the stage, Stormy walked over and leaned over from the waist, which put her face level with mine, and not-coincidentally showed off her tits. "Hi! You're not usually in here so late."

"Right. But here I am." I'd started the night at a different bar but still wanted to hang out with Stormy.

I pointed at the tiny skirt she was wearing, which was little more than a four-inch wide ribbon of pleated plaid wrapped around her waist. "I have a kilt at home that's the same tartan!"

"This skirt? A kilt?" She posed and held out the sides. "Is it this short?" She turned around and flounced the back up and bent over again from the waist, looking back at me. "Can people see your butt when you wear it, like this one?"

I laughed. "No. Oh, hell no. No one wants to see that."

I was glad to be here. Stormy always makes me smile.

Thu, 07 Aug 2008 15:39:05 GMT

is living la vida lo-cal.

Tue, 29 Jul 2008 22:22:22 GMT

loves you. Seriously. Like, buy you flowers and candy loves you. But not the fattening kind of candy. The good shit.

Tattoos and hair

Sun, 20 Jul 2008 02:16:00 GMT

I've been thinking of getting a tattoo, but I've got some questions about getting, and maintaining, one.

Y'see, I'm male, and I come from hirsute stock. I'm covered in hair.

Is it worth it to get a tattoo if it's just going to be hidden by a layer of body hair?

Would the hair present a problem in even getting the ink done in the first place? How about healing afterward?

Should I actually get a tattoo, am I just condemning myself to shaving and/or waxing the body part in question? And I mean shoulder, arm or lower leg, not anything else, ya perverts.

Any advice is appreciated, but particularly from actual tattoo artists is highly prized. And if you want to mock me for being a throwback, gorilla or caveman, or other insults and taunts, g'head, because creative insults like that just are too few and far between these days.

Fri, 18 Jul 2008 14:47:41 GMT

is gonna start his own theme park, with blackjack and strippers. In fact, forget the theme park!

Tue, 15 Jul 2008 13:50:00 GMT

is slightly lighter today. Yay, diet!

Lost in space

Sun, 25 May 2008 17:09:11 GMT

In May 1981, I was already a huge nerd for movies. Specifically movies from George Lucas and Steven Spielberg. Lucas had come to my attention due to his writing and directing a little popcorn flick called "Star Wars" (which, not so coincidentally, opened 31 years ago today), and had followed it up by writing and producing the much-darker and almost universally acknowledged superior "Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back".

"Star Wars" was for me, like many men of my generation, a turning point. But I didn't get to see the movie until late in the summer, as I recall. It opened while I was still in school, sixth grade at North Oak Grove Elementary School. The following fall, I would be going to Oak Grove Junior High, so there was already a sense of change in the air for me; new school, new routine. But my friends all got to see this movie long before me. After Memorial Day weekend, they returned to the classroom and playground with tales of Jedi, and Sith Lords, and Millennium Falcons, and TIE Fighters, and Artoo and Threepio. I couldn't make heads or tails of what they were talking about, but it all sounded like the most fascinating thing in the world - even more fascinating to me than Julie Phillips, the brunette muse that had attracted my shy attention but whom I never actually spoke to.

When I would ask about going to see this movie, my dad would refuse outright. The movie was so popular that there were lines at the theaters. Lines! Can you imagine! "No way in hell am I going to stand in line for a fucking movie!" my dad declared. This nearly broke my heart. However, through my Science Fiction Book Club membership, I sent away for a copy of the novelization for the movie, and devoured it in a single sitting. I would tell my parents and sister all about how this was just one chapter in the Adventures of Luke Skywalker, and explain that the Old Republic was legendary, but how it had fallen to the predation of Palpatine, who declared himself Emperor. It was as much, if not more, nonsense to them as my friends' explanations had be to me. OK, maybe far more. Now I knew the story but I still ached to see the actual movie.

Then, after school had let out for summer, came word that "Star Wars" was playing at a tiny little theater in tiny little Estacada, about 25 miles south east along the Clackamas River. There were no lines there. There was also no Dolby Sound and no 70mm film print in all its widescreen glory, but I was 12. I had few options unless I was willing to compromise. Mom, Dad, my sister, myself, and my Grandma Hayner all drove out one summer afternoon, and for the first and last time in my life I sat in that theater and watched what had only been words on a page become real. Even on the smaller screen, even with "normal" sound, even surrounded by the dank smell of summer sweat and popcorn... "Star Wars" took me away. All other viewings of that movie don't compare to that one instance. And believe me, I have seen that movie many many times since then.

Spielberg had directed "Jaws" in 1975, which I have never seen to this day in its entirety but was a source of conversation to my grade-school buddies, and in 1977, "Close Encounters of the Third Kind". It was a much gentler alien invasion flick. The first time I saw CE3K, I and my nephew had to convince my dad to drive clear across town to the Eastgate theater, which he did, grumbling all the way, and taking back streets to avoid the horrible traffic of SE 82nd Ave. We arrived late, after the movie had already started, a huge source of annoyance to me at the time. I wouldn't argue with my dad, though; well, maybe a sarcastic remark in passing. Kevin and I had to sit near the back, and right in front of a speaker tower for the then-new Dolby sound system. If you remember the climactic chase at the end of the movie, that particular speaker was solely responsible for the sounds of the helicopters which chased Roy around Devil's Tower. Helicopters are loud.

So much so was I captured by the vision of Lucas' galaxy far, far away that it became the central obsession in my life, neatly supplanting Star Trek. So much so that when the sequel, "The Empire Strikes Back" came out in 1980, that I and my friends read the novelization, read the comic books, bought (and stole - I'm not proud of that now but I'm sure the statute of limitations is long since up by now) the action figures, listened to the soundtrack and "The Story of" LPs... everything. Everything. I was a sophomore at Milwaukie High School now. My mom drove me and Kevin out to the Westgate theater for opening night. And, yes, we stood in line. We were almost turned away, but when the theater employees came out to say there were three seats left, but not all together, we were ushered inside. I had to sit in the very front row, waaaaay off to one side, but it didn't matter. I knew that this would be one viewing out of many. And for the rest of the summer, when Terry and I had nothing else to do, we would take the long bus ride from Milwaukie to Beaverton to see "Empire".

Spielberg was also the director of the amusing but under-rated "1941", which made me and my high school budies, Terry, Andy, and Rodney, laugh at the time, but which I no longer remember many details of. I remember John Belushi in a WWII Airman's uniform, and a ferris wheel breaking free and rolling into the Pacific after being attacked by Japanese Zeroes. And that's about it. We liked it because it was from Spielberg.

So in the summer of 1981, I was now a junior in high school. I had more interest in girls but still lacked any sort of courage. I remember most of high school as hanging out with my buddies, playing Dungeons and Dragons, talking about "Star Wars", and an unending series of crushes on cute girls. I was smart enough that my classes posed no challenge to me - well, except for the obstacle of actually doing my classwork. I was distracted and often late in my work. Didn't they understand? There was a galaxy at war, people! Far more important matters were at hand. I fantasized about the Millennium Falcon landing on the high school football field and taking me away, and Han Solo reluctantly allowing me to pilot the ship, and being amazed at how well I flew for a kid.

And as summer approached that year, so did news of the first-ever collaboration between Lucas and Spielberg. It starred Han Solo - I mean, Harrison Ford. I had been burned before by learning early that Darth Vader was Luke's father, so this time around I avoided reading much about the movie. I knew it was a throwback to the pulp stories of the 1930s... and that's about it.

The movie opened on 12 June 1981, which I remember being the last Friday of the school year. I went by myself to the Southgate theater, a theater that has been not just closed, but completely eradicated from existence since those days. The building was a cinder-block warehouse, with two large theaters and two smaller ones. "Raiders" was playing in the largest theater, and for some reason I remember the crowd for that showing being rather small. There were empty seats. And as I watched and enjoyed the movie, I kept getting distracted by a couple sitting ahead of me.

It was Karen Hatton and her boyfriend, Trey.

Karen was my then-current crush. Snarky before snarky was a word, funny, imaginative, blonde-ish, thin. She was just as much into "Star Wars" as I was, which made her that much cooler. Oh, and she had gone out with my best friend, Terry Mantia, waaaaaay back in junior high, and they remained friends, so Karen was a part of my circle of friends. And so was Amy Dinkler, Karen's best friend. The four of us shared a few classes, including Drama class, and we would talk about all the important things in the world, like whether Princess Leia would choose Luke or Han (little did we know), and whether the Emperor could afford decent marksmanship training for stormtroopers, and if there was anything a lightsaber could not cut.

I crushed hard on Karen. I didn't notice Amy until senior year, when I discovered that she had been crushing on me for a year or more.

Sitting in the Southgate theater, my attention was split between the fantastic adventure on the screen and the practical drama in front of me. Trey and Karen were making out in the dark. After the movie, my head filled with images of giant rolling boulders and melting faces, my sights were filled with Karen and Trey holding hands and walking out into the parking lot and into his car. Trey, you see, was a senior. An older man.

The following week, we still had a few days of school left, but mentally everyone had checked out. The only reason we came back, I think, was to pick up our yearbooks and get them signed. As I wandered around the hallways with Terry, his gray fedora perched on his head, I alternated between telling him about "Raiders" and complaining about Karen. His advice was to stay away from Karen. "She's got issues."

Don't we all?

Self-aware

Thu, 08 May 2008 17:56:16 GMT

A recurring theme last night, while hanging out with Kevin, was the question of how to behave in public. Specifically, how different would we behave if we were filthy rich.

The evening began with a viewing (my second, Kevin's first) of "Iron Man", in which ultra-rich corporate executive and weapons dealer Tony Stark gets the awesomest toy ever, a red-and-gold suit of flying armor. He's also got a self-aware computerized butler called Jarvis, and holographic and touch-screen controls for said computer. Even his off-the-shelf toys are envy-producing: an Audi R8, a Bentley limo, various personal jets (I think I counted two different types but am not an aeronautics buff enough to identify them) complete with on board stripper-stewardesses and requisite pole, a Malibu mansion. And backed by the confidence that billions in assets can provide, his cocky manner becomes charm.

After the movie, Kevin and I went to dinner at Montage. The crowd there, even early, is largely made up of young and beautiful people, and I had serious eye contact with a breath-taking brunette who reminded me a bit of Alyssa Milano. But I could not get up and approach her, strike up a conversation. As I related a story from last week to my friend, which was about a similar situation of brief contact with an attractive and possibly interested Asian woman, Kevin berated me and (jokingly) threatened to strike me about the head and face for failing to follow-up.

His theory, which he himself is unable to put into practice without jeopardizing his marriage to the lovely M, is that one should discard all care and worry, and just act. He suggested that such an attitude was a perk of being über-rich. Merely pretending to be a billionaire would produce the same results. I digested his ideas as I devoured my green pesto mac and cheese and cornbread. This idea was not new to me, but still I seem unable to manage the leap that would let me attempt it on a regular basis. Is there some trick I could use to put myself in the right mental state?

It is perhaps a measure of my depressed mental state that when I think "act like you don't care" my first thought is not of the freedom that having an unlimited bucket of money, but instead the sense of looming inevitability that comes with knowing you'll be dead in six months. That's just the first place my mind takes me, lately.

We continued talking about this idea for the rest of the night, and when we reached Papa Haydn's for dessert, Kevin became a bit more show-y and assertive, and I followed his lead. A little bit. I still felt self-conscious and inwardly was a bit shocked at some of the things he said or did, but, honestly, afterward, what was the harm done? He said, out loud and where she could hear it, that the hostess was cute. He asked to be seated in the section where the cute waitress was serving. He joked about not tipping the waitress when she needed her pen back. All harmless and fun. Although perhaps socially transgressive and perhaps the staff and other customers were uncomfortable. Who knows? Maybe they were secretly enjoying it, maybe they were offended.

Either way they are not likely to forget it soon.

When I joked, "Would I look like this if I were rich?" Kevin stated, flatly, "No." I laughed and said, "Yeah, probably. I really like this t-shirt."

He said, "But you'd probably wear clothes that fit you better." Yes, probably so.

The most taboo thing I did was pick my fork up by its tines and tried to eat with the handle. And even then, I felt awkward and had to stop after just a few seconds.

But I laughed and had fun all evening. I think Kevin did, too.

At the end of the night, when Kevin drove home, and I sat and reflected on the night, I remembered having a lottery ticket in my pocket. A ticket I had not checked to see if it was a winner or not. Likely, not.

But wouldn't it make a great story if, all throughout the evening, I had had on my person, stuck away in my wallet, a piece of paper worth millions? It would be like the story of a callow farm boy who is, secretly, a prince, heir to a royal throne.

I still haven't checked the ticket. I might not for a while. Maybe it is the trick that will allow me to act with more freedom and less crippling forethought.

Getting involved

Sat, 26 Apr 2008 16:33:33 GMT

I walked past my neighbor's house carrying a couple of bags of groceries. Had walked up to the store and back. I was on my way home.

Election coming, I had decided to do my share, so I'd stopped at the Post Office and picked up voter registration forms. This coming Tuesday is the last day to register in Oregon.

Sitting on Peggy's front stoop was Old Barfy and a buddy, 40 ouncers of cheap beer in their hands. The dark-haired one, who always wears sunglasses, used to live in the building but hasn't for a year or so. I think he got evicted. I don't pay a lot of attention to the drama in my building.

Remembering the forms in my bag, I turned to the older men and shouted, "Hey, are you guys registered to vote?"

Old Barfy nodded, and the other guy said "Yeah," so I kept walking.

But Sunglasses continued "...but we're registered Republicans!" He said it in a challenging way.

I turned back, stopped. "Huh?" The answer confused me. Or maybe his attitude about it. Or the underlying assumption he'd made. I wanted him to repeat it.

There was an awkward pause.

"Are you askin' from the left, or the right?" he said, again making assumptions that I didn't really get.

I shouted back, laughing. "I don't give a fuck! I just wanted to know if you were registered." I turned away, my question answered, and wanting to make a larger point. "There's an election coming up. Just wanted everyone to have their say."

And besides, Joke's on them. The country is largely progressive.

Generally speaking, Democrats win when more voters participate. Heh, heh

Not the same

Thu, 24 Apr 2008 04:29:06 GMT

Forcing a comparison between evolution, a well-documented and supported story of how species have differentiated over the millennia, and intelligent design, a cart-before-the-horse religious doctrine with no logical standing and no predictive ability, as an example of "freedom of thought" is...

...well, it's like someone shopping for a house, and having a friend shoving car want ads in front of them, and arguing about how they haven't really shopped for a house without considering all the options, like houses, say, and who are they to suppress the right of people to buy houses! That's repression, man!

Sure, people spend lots of time in both houses and cars, and you have to provide fuel for a car just like you have to heat a house, and yes, they both have storage space and entertainment value, but, in the end, they're just, well, completely different things.

He eats the ICKY stuff

Thu, 17 Apr 2008 17:19:18 GMT

My favorite diner, tucked away on a semi-busy street in my neighborhood. I came in for soup but the soup special was beef noodle. Not savory enough. I was hoping for creamy red pepper, or the amazing black bean soup, or even cream of asparagus or something. Not a staple like beef noodle. So I allowed Ayesha to talk me into trying the taco special. She's persuasive. Seems straight-forward and goofy sometimes, like when she sings a little song as she delivers the bill to my table.

After I ordered, I decided I needed to wash my hands. Up, past the kitchen, and to the doorway between the dining room and the lounge. In the archway separating the two rooms, Ayesha and the bartender, another woman, fairer skinned and multi-colored long straight hair, were both leaning against the wall, eyes focused upward and their hands tucked into their chests and under their chins, almost, but not quite, as if praying. They unconsciously leaned into each other, sharing the experience of watching... something.

I muttered and smiled an "excuse me" so I could slip through the doorway and on the other side I could see that they were watching a TV hung near the door. "What's on?" I asked. The lounge was much darker, except for the pools of light created by the several TVs and a couple of lights near the pool table.

Ayesha focused back on me. "Food Network." The scene was some Asian city, ornate and antique looking, with glimpses of plates piled high with some exotic meal. "It's the dude that travels around and eats..." she looked at her co-worker as she searched for a word... "everything."

The other girl nodded, and with that curious arms-tucked-in pose, took a sip from her glass of water, through a straw. She did not take her eyes off the screen.

"Anthony Bourdain?" I asked.

"No... the other guy." Ayesha laughed and kept staring at the glowing box hung above her.

I didn't know any other guy that traveled around and ate food, so I started to step towards the restroom, but keeping an eye on the screen to catch a glimpse of this other guy.

Ayesha ran a hand over her long, black curls. "The... bald guy."

I smiled but had no suggestion. I turned away, but as I did I was caught, again, by their rapt attention and tense posture, leaning against the wall and, nearly, each other, for support. Something didn't jive. It was almost as if they were watching an accident.

"Food porn!" I blurted out. "You're watching food porn!"

Ayesha nodded and kept watching.

Pirate's ears

Sat, 29 Mar 2008 17:26:08 GMT

Long day, long week. I sat on the bus, texting Tracy and surfing on my iPhone.

My peripheral vision picked up a feminine shape holding a midget pink-colored shape and by automatic response I looked up.

Mom was dressed in a warm navy wool coat and jeans, my height or a bit shorter, hair so red it was nearly black and pulled back into a practical short ponytail with a clip.

The pink bundle was a toddler, dark curly hair and dark eyes that appeared to take up a third of her face, the rest puffy cheeks, all wrapped in pink vinyl speckled with cartoon kittens.

Mom set the pink bundle down, and momentarily our eyes met. I smiled, shyly, and looked back at the screen in my hands. I could not tell if mom smiled back, so quickly did I glance away.

The little girl sat quietly, making sounds that may have been words or may have been nonsense, but not making them loudly or constantly. Just occasional cute interjections, punctuated by chubby hand gestures that may have been waving or may have been pointing. The mom just sat there, in front of me, looking around, content. Sometimes as the bus moved and turned, mom put her arm out, resting her hand against the window sill, forming a human safety belt to keep the baby girl in her seat.

I noticed that mom had no wedding ring on her hand.

I should say something, the voice in my head said. I asked what, and the voice said, Anything. Hello. Whatever.

The bus rolled on.

I noticed that mom wore two earrings in her left ear, presumably matching the pair in the right ear, out of my sight. One, a large elliptical silver hoop, the other, a small round black disk. The disk was emblazoned with a skull and crossbones.

Pardon me, the voice suggested, your earrings. The pirate ones. I like them.

I said nothing and continued surfing. I mentioned none of this to Tracy via text. I was afraid she, too, would urge me to take action.

I told my inner voice that it would be weird flirting with a mom. She might feel uncomfortable flirting around her daughter. She might be going home to a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. This is Portland, after all. Who knows? People on the bus may notice, and laugh.

The bus rolled on.

It's been too long, I thought. Too much time had passed. The four-second rule for making an initial "hello" had long since passed. The four minute rule of social coaches had passed. Too long. I'll look awkward, much as I already feel awkward.

In truth, it had probably been only a few minutes. The bus had driven maybe a half-mile, in evening city traffic, but still, not that long. The voice inside my head kept repeating, reworking, restating, some comment on the pirate earrings. Is there a story behind them? Where did you get them? Are you a pirate? Did you steal them from a pirate?

The bus stopped to load and unload passengers, and then, being early, the driver paused. In the interlude, the little girl got a bit restless, and decided to stand, awkwardly, on her tiny chubby legs. Holding on to the back of the seat, she pulled herself up. Bent over, face half-hidden in the pink vinyl hood of her pink vinyl coat, her huge eyes looked my way and, briefly, we made eye contact. Not wanting to encourage her, not wanting to seem weird or odd or creepy, I looked down at my iPhone.

She looked away, turned and looked out the window. She bubbled her babble.

Mom kept quiet herself, just paying enough attention to the young one to make sure she did not fall or lose her balance. Mom hummed encouragement, or soft questioning "hmm?" or just smiled and nodded.

The baby girl looked back at me, and again my automatic response was to look at her.

Framed in pink, topped in dark brown loose curls, dark eyes wide, she smiled at me.

I smiled, softly, showing no teeth.

She giggled.

I smiled a bit wider. I set down my iPhone.

She burbled a single word. "Daddy."

"Hmmm?" Mom turned in her seat to face the little girl and smiled, then looked at me, then back at the girl. "What's that?"

The baby girl pushed her fist in my direction and said, more questioning this time, "Daddy?"

I laughed, ruefully. "What, little girl?" I raised my hand, and wiggled my fingers at her.

She babbled something I did not catch.

Mom and I shared a glance. I smiled in a way that I hoped was not intrusive. "She's very cute," I said. "How old is she?"

"She's almost two," mom said to me, also friendly, smiling, but cautious.

"Very cute," I mumbled, and lost the energy to continue. I picked up my phone again and pretended to be immersed in operating it.

The bus began moving again and the little girl sat down. Mom congratulated the girl for sitting down without prompting.

The bus rolled on.

Now ask her about her earrings, the voice said. The ice has been broken.

I said nothing more.

Mom and daughter got out several stops later.

The bus rolled on.