World Of Confusion.

This is it, maybe. Well, I guess this is not it, but still…it quite possibly could be.

Do you use Pandora? I do, I’m proud to have every room – not a huge feat in my 700 square feet – in my place set up with a Sonos speaker. And I love it.

There’s not even walls between my kitchen and living room, but I have a speaker in each. Well, a sound bar in the living room for the TV, but I can also stream music through it. Likewise, when I’m watching a show, I can link the bathroom speaker to the TV so if Nature calls, I can answer without having to pause.

Unless it’s porn, of course. There’s two activities I’d like to keep at least an appearance of separation between.

I joke.

I don’t watch porn.

In my living room.

There’s no curtains.

Nonetheless, the TV and music sound situation is quite handled. It would appear that I’ve got my entertainment game all together.

So, Pandora…there’s this feature called Thumbprint. Have you heard of it? Used it?

I love it. It culls music from your playlists and just lavishes your favorite music upon you. I’ve noticed that sometimes Thumbprint will get stuck on a certain artist or decade or what-have-you…but, again – favorite music, so who cares?

Then this happened today while I was folding laundry.

Yeah.

Phil fucking Collins.

Basically, I made the same face.

And I’m just wandering from utility room to kitchen with clothes to be folded and then to my bedroom and dresser to put stuff away without really realizing what’s happening until that needle skip moment occurs.

I realize it’s not an acceptable Phil fucking Collins song, like In The Air Tonight.

It’s Land Of Confusion.

That’s just not ok.

I actually kind of enable a slight prophetic moment, as I think back to the last couple of years in America. Maybe Phil saw it all coming vaguely down the pike.

Doubtful.

Semi-comforting to think that someone at least saw this shift in sensibilities coming. Actually, then again…no. If someone knew this was coming and didn’t stop it.

The Doctor could have stopped it.

But not Phil…no.

I’m going back to the dryer for the rest of my laundry, thinking that I can just grab the rest of it. My utility room is kind of a shotgun situation.

Long and narrow. My bike is in there during winter months, too. Right by the spare tires in the left corner. I walk in and I’m loading my arms with the remaining tee shirts, socks, undies and whatnot and I’m thinking I got it.

I can do this.

Mistake.

Huge.

I pull out a tee shirt that has a stowaway pair of undies in it that drops to the floor. My arm is somehow full to my chin with the rest of the load – shut up, Diezel – and I’m still thinking, “Yeah, I can do this”.

I squat straight down – there’s no room to bend at the waist in this room – and grab the pants.

Admit it, you’re glad I stopped saying “undies”, right?

A single sock falls out of my arm as I tuck the pants under my chin.

Great.

I reach down and am fishing around with my hand, feeling for the sock because I can’t risk moving my head to look down. I don’t know why, but moving my eyes side to side helps me focus my intensity on the search. Maybe it’s that looking around keeps my attention divided just enough that I don’t stress out and overthink and overcorrect…I. Don’t. Know.

But my eyes swiveling in their sockets take in the mayhem of the room and the song clicks.

I bet you were wondering when I’d get back to that.

This is the world I live in?

There’s a paper bag of recyclables from when I ran out of the green BottleDrop bags – some of them were carried over by The Fox because he supports my redemption habit…probably I should square up with him by buying him a beer. But once I bought more green bags, I never transferred the accumulated cans into it. Now, as you can see in the front right, the bag is too full.

There’s a black trash bag of donations that Myrtle likes to pull at if I leave the utility room door open. Have I taken them? No. No, I have not.

And I wasn’t able to see it from where I was squatting, but in my mind’s eye, I was looking at the dustpan that has the remnants of the glass lamp shade that Myrtle broke one night about a month ago now.

So, it’s been there through about 3 trash bag changes…you’d think I could’ve taken those shards to the trash by now, right?

No.

Having successfully retrieved the errant sock, I start to stand up, expecting to hit my head either on the dryer door or the shelf. I usually do this once a month or so…but miraculously, not today.

I leave the utility room with the last of my laundry and look right at the naked lamp as I exit.

Yeah, I haven’t even taken the rest of the broken shade off the damn lamp. I think that’s partly because I want the base of the shade for when I replace it.

Probably, mostly as a potential punishment for Myrtle if she tries to get frisky with the lamp again.

This is the world I live in.

As I’m looking at the lamp, I’m reminded that I have yet to replace the battery in the thermostat directly above the lamp. I’m meeting Diezel for a couple beers at 3:45 and wanted to check the time on the thermostat to see how much time I have left.

An hour, I realize after mentally adjusting for Daylight Savings fuckery.

All of the clocks in my house are set to one of two times: right or wrong. Every six months, that switches. Some of the clocks adjust automatically, like my phone, microwave and oven clocks. Typically, the bathroom, living room and – inexplicably – thermostat clocks do not.

So, I change them mentally, depending on the time of year. Sometimes all the clocks are set to right, others, only half of them.

Unless

Like in the case with the thermostat, I need to change a battery. Then that clock gets set to the correct time.

I gave old Phil a thumbs down, finished folding my laundry and mused that with as crazy as the outside world is these days, it’s even crazier that I’m not controlling all the minutia I can in my own four walled world.

I’ve got a half hour before I need to leave, I think I’ll spruce the place up a bit. Undo some of the non-Myrtle chaos. That’s a fair starting point. I’d self-diagnose Myrtle’s mayhem as a partial root to my housekeeping apathy. The way she sheds incessantly and kicks litter out of her box and shreds cardboard boxes to literal litter creates such a mess that I’ve kind of given up.

On everything.

I don’t know why

But I can clean some dishes and switch out a battery at least. Hell, maybe I’ll even dust!

I’ll make this a world worth living in…

World Of Confusion.

I’m Mad As Hell…

…and I’m just going to passive-aggressively bitch about it.

I’m from Portland, after all, and that’s simply our way.

But Pallet Jack is on tap at Big Legrowlski so I’m going to enjoy one of those while I rage. I’ve also been tasked by the Silver Fox to have one for him in absentia while he’s visiting the grand-family.

Should a third come on board…

A few Hemingway factoids:

He was 62 when he died. He looks way older than that! But in a good way.

He was born in 1899. Why does that shock me so?

Perhaps I can avoid Hemingway-ing if I stop the tangents and just get on with it.

This is me mad, btw. I’m pretty mellow. So, what is it that got me all riled up?

Portland made the news on Monday. What I’m assuming is a Proud Boy decided to take his impotence out on a lesbian couple that was out enjoying a walk in their neighborhood.

Look how proud he is, indeed, as he posts his IQ for the world to see. You know you’re dumb when you aren’t smart enough to shut the hell up when someone pulls out their phone.

Or you’re unable to control yourself even when your friends encourage you to hushify yourself.

Embarrassingly enough, this is our second incident of overt bigotry in just under a month, after this broad posted her IQ on her social media page.

My struggle is figuring out which of these folks is dumber, Lori or Nathaniel.

Lori posted herself being stupid, Nate – I feel like I can call him Nate, now that I know him so well – was just too stupid to shut his mouth.

But Lori lives in Corvallis, an Aggie college town, so she might be a hick…does that offset the stupidity of her action somehow?

Maybe.

Maybe I’m just extra Chris-py these days after months of the immigrant children situation and a week of fresh TrumPutin antics. Then there was yesterday’s outright fib fest as Trump tried to walk back his support of Putin by openly disagreeing with his own intelligence agencies by saying “I don’t see why it would be Russia” meddling in our 2016 election.

What a shitshow of an administration. His walkback statement was basically, “I meant to say ‘wouldn’t‘”. That’s how you earn this internet fame

I guess that’s a silver lining of sorts. In addition to phenomenal beer, seeing humiliating web occurrences like that – that you just know will accelerate his hopefully impending stroke – afford me some solace.

The fact that our country is basically a runaway train to hell is further offset by the fact that I live in Oregon. Seriously, the best state of any state I have lived…sure, I’ve only lived in six different states, but I’d put Oregon against any state for overall awesomeness.

Why is it so great?

How can I possibly think it’s that great with human skid marks like Lori and Nate in our mix?

Well, like someone once said, “Ya gotta take the good with the bad”, right?

Lori got fired from her Oregon Department of Transportation job. Her homicidal racism cost her a good government job and the awesome benefits that go along with it. Her termination was a direct result of her post.

Good.

After Nate Gate on Monday, a group of neighbors showed up to make some therapeutic chalk art in front of the house Nate was visiting.

They wrote nothing offensive, but the tenant still felt compelled to come out and hose down the street.

Guess what?

The neighbors came back and did it again.

And this time, someone alerted the media.

Meanwhile, the Facebook was on the case. I know some people who know some people. People who are sleuthy. That’s how I learned Nate’s name.

That’s also how I learned the name of the owners of the house this happened in front of.

…in front of which this happened?

I dunno, I don’t want to hurt myself saving a participle from dangling.

Basically, I’m waiting on the follow up that Nate got fired and his friends got evicted.

But I’m not expecting it. The Cronens have a reputation for being dirtbag property owners, so I’m sure they don’t care that their tenants bring them shit media attention. Additionally, Nate doesn’t look super employable or high functioning. I doubt his employers are worried about him inadvertently drawing negative press to their organization.

But I did wake up to this news this morning…

So, there’s that news to lift both my spirit and hopes for our country.

On a less retaliatory note, the plant in my beer pic is mint, and the aroma therapeutic value of sipping my beer next to it is calming my frazzled protected status.

Regardless of what happens with Nate and the King of the Dipshits currently occupying the Oval, I think there is something actionable to be done on a local level. In two recent high profile incidents of hate in Portland, the Portland Police Bureau has failed to act on hate speech. In both situations, they have actually stated that as long as they don’t escalate to physical abuse, their hands are tied.

Further, the officer responding to the incident on Monday said it was “his judgment” whether or not to even take a statement and that he had more pressing calls. That partnered with the reality of Oregon’s Hate Crime Law

is where we have work to do on this issue with Portland Police.

Why would an officer’s judgment call be to err on the side of a vocally abusive person who was so barely in control that his friends had to put themselves between him and his victim?

I think that in this situation as well as similar national situations, we need to err on the side of harshness. Sadly, with a leader that cushions his comments on illegal and violent activity by following up his mention of the guilty party with statements like, “but there’s a lot of people, it could be anyone” or “there’s bad people on both sides” we have our work cut out for us.

Jeepers, that was quite a sentence! And I’ve only just started into the Silver Fox’s beer.

There’s a lot of work to do. Honestly, I loathe spending my time and space on my little piece of the internet talking about this crap.

But, you know what?

I have to.

I can’t say nothing. Remaining silent gives tacit approval to these idiots. And we saw the power of these folks as an energized – or incited – group of people in November of 2016. Lest we forget the warning of the prophet George Carlin

So, I have to write about these things. Even though it weighs heavy in my psyche to do so – incredible beer and mint aroma therapy be damned.

My call to action for you readers is to talk about these things, too. Either to educate the ignorant or energize the apathetic amongst our voting population.

Just.

Do.

It.

Otherwise, we’ll never dig ourselves out of the shituation these stupid Americans have gotten us into.

I’m Mad As Hell…

TFW

For those who don’t know, TFW translates from text shorthand to English as: That Feeling When.

It’s generally followed by some awkward inanity, for instance…

TFW: you manage to pluck that unseen ear hair – the one you can feel and hear but just. can’t. see.

This, my friends, is the glamour of aging!

Personally, I’m celebrating with a beer.

TFW

TIL 7: Early Bird Special

It was coming on to 3 AM when I started this Blog Post several weeks ago. I had realized that my 50 year every day experience is defying the stereotypes that I grew up with.

Well, beginning to…

I thought I had it figured out. I am by no means ready to start joining the elders’ dinner at 4 PM, frankly the reasoning there eludes me.

Here’s why: no, wait…here’s why not.

The older I get, the less time I want to spend in a crowded bar, late at night, struggling to hear what people are trying to say to me. Likewise, I’m not dying to face the struggle of functioning within normal parameters the next morning.

So, I get it!

I traded in my dance shoes for a Happy Hour menu and I couldn’t be more satisfied.

I stop off – when I’m working – on my way home for a drink or two to wash the day down and I’m likely home by 6:00 for Mistress Myrtle’s dinner time. Occasionally, I’m late, but generally have her settled by 7:00.

Other times, like when I’m not working, the Silver Fox and I might head out for a beer or glass of wine around 3:00. Still others, well grab a bottle of wine and head to his rooftop in the late afternoon for some RNR – Rose oN the Roof.

The key here is that the evenings socializing is generally wrapped up well before any young ‘uns would even consider beginning their pre-funk.

Sidebar: when I was a kid, we wanted to get to the bars around 10:00, maybe a little earlier depending on how broke we were and when they started charging cover. Nowadays, the pre-funk seems to start around 10:00 with 11:00 being the target barrival time. I’ve got one younger friend – one of my Bachelors – who doesn’t even seem to plan anything for a Saturday night until around 10:00. That manifest as a Facebook post along the lines of “Anyone going out tonight?”

Kids.

Nevertheless, I figure that I’m figuring this whole early bird thing out in true TIL style.

Except

I can’t quite reconcile the eating dinner at 4:00 PM thing.

Lately, The Fox and I have both kind of changed our eating habits. Occasionally, well grab a breakfast sandwich at coffee, but more often than not, we both seem to be pushing through to lunch around noon or 1:00. Then we might have something at HH or go to our respective homes after for a post-happy meal.

Even more recently, I’ve found myself powering through to about 3:00 – after a handful of almonds or dried mango in the morning – and then eating one big meal for the day.

Oddly, I’ve gained about 15 lbs in the last few months.

Hint: It’s the beer! Don’t tell me, though, let it be a surprise.

Anyway, I’m almost into the Early Bird routine, but just not quite nailing it. It’s a bummer, too, since it would be nice to include my parents in these adventures and still have them be able to get home before dark.

However, something about the whole concept has been bugging me. Here in the Pearl District, we’ve a bevy of boutique-y restaurants. Walking in for dinner around 4:00 might give you a slight Happy Hour crowd in a bar, but in a real restaurant it’s still largely a pretty solitary dining room. Needless to say, Portland – or any urban area – would probably never successfully claim to be the birthplace of the Early Bird special.

My money here would be on someplace like Clearwater, Florida. I’ve lived there…trust me.

Regardless of where it started, it spread pretty quickly. Likely due to both local restaurant competition but also a slightly viral nationwide spread from snowbirds taking the practice back home with them to middle America in the off season.

And you can bet that it was quick casual or cafeteria style chains that nurtured this Early Bird dinner phenomenon.

Ruby’s, Sayler’s, Sizzler (RIP), Old Country Buffet, Cracker Barrel…probably some Applebee’s, Olive Garden and Cheesecake Factory type joints, too, could probably all be relied upon to have some sort of Early Bird menu or well known and heavily trafficked seniors discount.

But like I mentioned, that seems counter intuitive to me.

Assuming for the moment that I’m – ahem – normal in going out early in an effort to avoid crowds.

These chain style restaurants are going to be packed early with seniors taking the marketing bait…that seems like something that would irritate me. Sure, I’ll get my own table and no worries there, but if the kitchen is overwhelmed by a generally crowded dining room?

Well, some poor server is going to be dealing with a specifically grumpy Xtopher.

Clearly, I still have a few lessons to master before I can claim to fully understand the brilliance of the Early Bird routine. But between the Silver Fox and my parents, I’ve got some good resources – and reasons – to figure it out.

Well, them and the cast of Grace & Frankie, so

Okay?!?

Plus, I’m really more of a Grace-type, anyway.

So what’s the hurry?

TIL 7: Early Bird Special

What Could Possibl…

Yeah, ok…the hell with that question.

I’m torn about whether it will be my death certificate or my tombstone that says, “Well, that answers that question…”

I forwarded my acupuncture appointment reminder to voicemail earlier and when I went in to delete the message, saw that I actually had two. Now, this would hardly be the first time I’ve received two reminder calls, but that wasn’t the case today.

The second call was a follow up to a kick ass interview that I had last week. Just wanted to let me know that they went with an internal.

If you have been reading The Great Job Hunt series, you know how lovely I find those words.

So, instead of dwelling and falling into the same trap that I did last time I got the internal candidate rash, I decided to refocus on some funnier “What could possibly go wrong” moments and other recent examples of my quirk-centric existence.

A much better use of my energy.

It’s amazing to me how many of these humorous situations are actually crowd sourced while I’m with friends versus my solo adventures. But let’s start with one of those rarer gems, shall we?

Because, it just happened.

I was at the pharmacy picking up a refill before the weekend – because I’m not working, pretty much have every day to get this errand done but for some reason would rather wait until 4:45 on a Friday to do so.

Maybe it’s that I wanna trot my keg belly across town at the hottest part of the day. Perhaps since it’s a Friday, I figured there’d be some guycandy knocking off early along the way to reward me for completing this task.

Maybe it was both.

I had called ahead, but there were still a few minutes needed to finish up my refill. Taking a seat, I heard the door open behind me and was treated to my guy candy.

Dressed in a cropped mesh football-ish jersey and cut off denim shorts, I assumed he couldn’t be coming from work. He might be heading to work, I mused, since my pharmacy is near one of Portland’s two gay strip clubs.

I got a little distracted when leaned over the counter and pushed his butt out toward me, but I did vaguely hear him say he needed a refill over the rushing of my pulse. My first thought was absolutely unmentionable but my second thought was, “This guy looks like he could have starred in a gay remake of an 80s Whitesnake video.

I was abruptly ripped back to reality by eight numbers: 11171996.

11

17

1996

He’s 22.

Of course, I had to share this with my friend, Diezel. He would certainly enjoy my discomfiture.

He certainly didn’t disappoint.

I couldn’t resist throwing a little shade in my jealousy over the carefree existence young gays have thanks to science, hence my “whore” comment.

Naturally, he sat down three feet from me and began finessing the fringe on his shorts. Picking at a thread here, lifting a knee to the side of his head to get a look at the backside of his shorts.

Seriously, kid…I’m looking. Let’s not overdo it, shall we?

Nevertheless, this St Lucille Bluth meme just captured my inner grumpy old man so perfectly in the moment…me, being all bitter over what I know I can’t have.

It was quite delicious – and responsible – that this kid was picking up his PrEP prescription moments before the weekend began. All the while, teasing the defenseless old man. It’s 90 degrees, kid. I’m too dehydrated to drool, don’t take it personally.

Earlier today, Jortis took some time to take a swipe at my figurative chops on the Facebook. He had seen a video about how to tell if there are sharks in the water before you swim in it.

He thought to tag me, which made me chuckle. Still, I watched the video through my fingers, ready to throw my phone aside at the first sign of a shark attack.

The video proudly touts the simple secret of detecting a shark infested body of water using only a spoon.

Step 1) Use spoon to taste a sample of the water

That’s it.

If the water tastes like salt there’s sharks in it.

I’ll wait while you recover from that subtle shock.

I’m of the mind that just because sharks are rarely found in fresh or brackish waters it doesn’t mean theyaren’t ever found there. As a matter of fact, I think every time you go into fresh water without encountering a shark, it just makes it more likely that it might happen the next time.

Yes, rivers.

Yes, lakes.

Yes, yes, yes, swimming pools, jacuzzis and bath tubs.

Fears are supposed to be irrational!

Also, I failed Probabilities & Statistics. In my defense, I took it at 8 am while I was working swing shift from 11 PM to 7 AM at Hoag Hospital.

This galeophobia of mine has been responsible for some rather amusing moments for my friends recently. At my expense, naturally. Not that I mind. With all the shit I sling, I best be able to take some in return!

Interesting side note, galeophobia is derived from the Greek word for weasel or polecat. Have you all become at least virtually acquainted with my murderous feline?

Not to be outdone, Little Buddy can generally be relied upon to insert an “irrational fear of sharks” bon mot into any given situation. And they’re usually pretty friggin’ hilarious.

This floor decal, for instance

Surely, there’s a shower curtain available.

I’m not suggesting at all that she goes out of her way to find these nightmare triggers for me.

The Facebook, on the other hand, seems to understand her shopping and internet browsing habits. Recently, this suggestion popped up on her Facebook feed.

She’s a crazy-talented baker, too, so I’ve no doubt about what the next birthday cake she bakes me will look like!

Finally – and I’m not suggesting that Little Buddy or Jortis is some sort of catalyst here – but last week, we all went to Portland Center Stage to see the final show of Lady Day at Emerson’s Bar and Grill.

Sidebar: if this is playing anywhere near you ever, I suggest you go see it.

Quite.

Amazing.

Anyhoo…after the show, we all cry-stumbled over to Powell’s because Jortis had a book he needed to pick up. None of us, save Jortis, knew what book he was after – and I’ve since forgotten…old – but I was surprised to find our party lost together in the sci-fi/fantasy room. This room is about a quarter of a city block, so don’t doubt me when I say we were lost together.

Plus, I had some door trouble as a result of being raised right. When I held the door for one of our foursome, eighty other people decided that Powell’s was the place to be and I got stuck at the entrance while watching the three people I was with get smaller and further and further spread out.

I caught up with LB in the Orange Room – or was it the Pink Room?

Nevertheless, there we were, waiting.

Maybe a little buzzed.

Definitely feeling the emotional weight of the show we’d just seen.

And it’s Little Buddy to our emotional rescue!

She somehow managed to catch a cluster of book titles that struck her as the perfect indicator that Jortis and I were in the right area. This is probably part of why I think it might have been the Pink Room…

Have you ever noticed how homoerotic fantasy fiction is?

I have.

Little Buddy definitely has.

Bones of the Earth?

This Side of Judgment?

How many titles in that pic have the word Queen in them?!?

Insanity.

Random insanity.

And this just happens to catch Little Buddy’s eye. I mean, c’mon! I have no question why LB is in my life, she’s prepaying her time in purgatory, obviously.

But, if I did…this moment is a perfect illustration.

For my part, not to be out-distracted, I noticed a book about 6″ – seriously, no double entendres intended – outside of the frame of the picture above.

I don’t know who this Belgarath the Sorcerer is, but his name is an anagram for my last name.

How.

Friggin’.

Random.

Ever since I’ve seen this, I’ve been trying to have a dream about Belgarath where we meet, fall in love, get married and then his name is Belgarath bal Gather.

(Like I’d tell you my real last name)

Anyway…hey, look! I distracted myself from my double-disappointing news day! I failed to mention that I’ve been summoned to Seattle next week for a preliminary round of We Hired An Internal, causing me to cancel a trip to The Gorge to christen LB and 2.0’s new wine country escape and Jortis’ birthday.

How’s that for crap timing?!?

But, like I said…channeling funny stories into my psyche in order to drive out the demons of bad news.

And it worked.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I also picked up a grocery bag of junk food earlier today as I wandered the aisles of my local RiteAid trying to figure out what it was I went in for.

Imma go comfort eat all of that.

Because, what could possibly go wrong?

It was dishwasher detergent, btw. And, no…I didn’t remember before I left.

What Could Possibl…

New Chrisism

Is it a bad sign that I’m chilling before a phone interview and decide five minutes before the call that I should find my headset, make sure it’s charged and, “oh, hey…why don’t I work on that draft from last week while I wait?”

Knowing that I’ll totally keep typing during the conversation.

Hoo, Boy.

Is that literally phoning it in or figurative since they’re calling me?

The thing that has been tickling my fingertips is the Chrisism I coined last week: Psychophant

Obviously, a portmanteau of psychotic and sycophant.

It was my response to reading the resignation letter from that nitwit Scott Pruitt. If you haven’t had the surreal displeasure, take a look.

My second thought was how BreitBarb is doing on her Trump administration bingo card…she must be getting close to a blackout card by now!

Ok, did you read it?

I’m really not sure I should be writing about resignation letters while I wait for a phone call about a potential job.

But, here I am…

Side note: the call just began

I really don’t have much to say about this resignation letter. It’s just so obsequious! Seriously, you’re quitting. Why do you care about your employer’s feelings?

You’re quitting because your family has been – allegedly – unfairly attacked. Did your employer defend you or try to correct the situation?

Nah…

As I recall, he’s more helpful in an inciting rage kind of way.

Of course, this tends to bother most of his employees recently in their attempts to dine peacefully at nice farm to table or Mexican restaurants.

I literally cannot bear the ironic idiocy of a Trumpster Fire employee trying to eat in a Mexican restaurant. That family pictured above that released Farah Fuckabee back into the dumpster and refused her service needs a medal. Of course, the voters using their brains as paperweights – are their brains even heavy enough to secure a piece of paper?!? – retaliated against the restaurant, causing it to close down for a period…all the while, administration employees stand on the sidelines.

But that poor psychophant Scottie P and his family have been so harassed by the media and protesters that he had no choice but to quit a job he was grossly unqualified for as head of the EPA.

Fine, he did plenty of damage in his too long a tenure.

So, quit.

Your work here is overdone.

On behalf of the media and protesters, you’re welcome, Scott. You don’t – or do – realize the size of the favor we’ve done you, your family and the planet…off of which I’d personally prefer to throw you.

What was really incomprehensible to me was the level of religious fervor he brought to the resignation.

Seriously…

I count what I consider to be eight separate incidents of religious reference in those three unctuous paragraphs.

You seem to be piling it on rather heavily, Scott. And I don’t even consider you to be at significant risk of needing a pardon in the too many remaining days/weeks/months of il Cheetos’ reign.

But, I guess from your perspective, it’s better safe than sorry.

Me? Instead of dwelling on it, imma focus on who’s next and go check the news for what I hope is Meuller’s latest indictments.

Oh, and guess who paid half attention and just got invited to Seattle for a face to face interview next week?

So, now I gotta go buy a BoltBus ticket and cancel plans…

New Chrisism

Holman Lane Hike

Ok, first off: NEVER HIKE THIS TRAIL!

After ending up on this trail a few times by accident or happenstance, I intentionally set out on it this afternoon. Well, it was my Plan B after getting to my trailhead and realizing that my trail to Pittock Mansion was closed.

It was cloudy, anyway…no mountain view.

So, I took off on the Wildwood Trail in the opposite direction. I know after my accidental 15 mile hike that you cannot hike any distance in this direction and end up at Pittock, as I had imagined until just recently.

However, I was faced with a different struggle this time: branch out on Holman Lane and face the climb or attempt an equally challenging descent to finish my circular hike by staying on Wildwood.

Knowing how my knees feel after a 10 mile hike – and seriously, I stupidly keep thinking this will change the more I get out on the trail – I decided coming down Holman Lane would end with a near-certain fail. No…fall.

I now know that Holman Lane is 6/10 of a mile of straight-up-enough-hill. I’m pretty sure I left a sweaty water slide behind me as I wheezed my way up the trail. But unlike last time, I managed to haul my keg of a belly (I cannot make fat ass statements because: no ass) up to the top without doubling over midway to catch my breath.

So there’s that.

Actually, adding insult to injury on that last hike was seeing a rather fit petite woman running down the path as I climbed upward.

“Sure, take the easy way”, I thought, only to be corrected ten minutes later when she passed me from behind.

My life really is just an exercise in chagrin.

Oooh…right here, right meow, I’m being tickled by inspiration to try out a new Chrisism: chagrinagins.

Shenanigans that lead to humiliation…thoughts?

Anyway, this petite jogger got hers when I stopped at the shoe brush that you’re supposed to use entering and exiting the forest to prevent plant contamination. I had just used it – mostly as an excuse to catch my breath again – and as I turned around, she was blowing by me.

Without using the brush.

I know she felt the burn of my grumpy old man glare as she padded away.

From my prior visits, I know Holman Lane ends at Cornell Road up in Portland’s West Hills. There’s a 130 yard road surface walk to the Birch Trail, which will then take you back to the Wildwood.

I’m learning, Little Buddy!

I also know that there’s a creeper house between the shoe brush station and Cornell. I realize now that I don’t have a friggin’ pic of it, but it was seriously a Red Shirt Diaries moment for me when I first encountered it last year.

I’d spontaneously decided to take on the Holman Lane hill. Midway up, I realized I was following a couple of guys hiking the same trail in a meandering manner. I shifted into inspiration mode, like I did back when I was racing.

Basically, find a nice butt and let it pull you along like a tractor beam.

Once I was closer, I decided they were on a date, because: two guys in the woods not talking about sports is obviously gay. After I passed by them, I overheard their conversation turning to Grindr and Scruff. I presumed this is where they met and they had decided on a hike for their real life meet up.

I thought it was sweet that their real life meet up was an actual date and didn’t take place between someone’s sheets.

<ignores obvious Bush Bunnies potential>

Anyway, for some reason, I began to wonder if they had changed their conversation to asocial media just to mess with me after they saw and profiled me. I talked myself out of this brief panic, they were dressed too nice to be thrill murderers.

I think.

When I passed this house, with its No Trespassing sign and significant brush coverage, I started to doubt my judgment. Maybe they were baiting me…seriously, only the roof line of this house was visible.

As I’m writing this now, you know nothing happened, however, I swear I heard Dueling Banjos in my head as I panic-walked past the drive. The boys actually caught up to me as I stood at the Cornell Road trailhead wondering which way to run away – this is a pivotal moment in horror films and wrong decision results in someone hanging on a meat hook.

They were nice!

I was offered directions to what I now know is a relatively close reentry point to the Forest Park trailways.

Also, a ride back to town.

No, thank you.

Obviously.

Plus, if it was a date, I didn’t want to become a third wheel. Or a third

Anyway, this creepy house and leaving the trail for a street walk are both the icing on the cake for this too uphill of a hike. I try to avoid it, usually, but yesterday my hand was kind of situationally forced.

I used that as an excuse to have myself an exploratory lil adventure!

Now that I’m getting to know the paths and where they generally head, I decided to take off on this single track footpath prior to reaching the Creeper House.

This was a mistake.

I had figured, knowing how Holman ends and picks up 130 yards to the NW at the Birch trailhead, I decided to take it as a shortcut. Assuming, of course, that I would come off this little deer track on the Birch Trail in about a quarter mile.

This was wrong.

What I did find about 1/10 of a mile in was a park bench at a widening of the trail. It was right across from this

and I figured that some extras from Grimm had been living here since the show ended. The bench looked about 30 years old, based on style, but looked to have been “freshly” painted black sometime within the last few years.

I was somewhere – generously speaking – in the backyard of Creepy House. Maybe this was a fort their kids were making.

As I was wondering why that explanation should make me feel better, I kept walking. The narrow path became occasionally overgrown, but I could still make out my destination.

I worried slightly about spiders and critters as I walked. That changed to concern over being scratched by occasional blackberry brambles that protruded into the path. Next up was worrying that I’d lose my footing on a small descent or trip over a fallen branch and twist my ankle.

Ultimately, my concern should have been how far in I would have to go I order to connect with the Birch. I felt that I’d missed it and would actually end up on the Wildwood again.

That’s fine.

Except

Now I was starting to hear the noises of nature and tickling the back of my mind was the thought that a lot of extras on Grimm were supernatural creatures…

I was at a quarter mile off path. I decided to give it a little more time. My optimism was rewarded at the next bend in the trail with…no more trail! I thought I could barely make out where it picked up again and debated wading through the plants in that general direction.

No, there it was!

Ok, not playing that game. I turned around and made a hasty, totally not cool retreat to the main trail, half expecting to be confronted by the Predator.

But, obviously I made it. I proceeded toward Cornell Road, mentally tipping my hat to the Creepy House as I walked by and my panicked breathing returned to normal.

Comparatively speaking, the rest of my hike went without incident. I ended a little differently this time

calming my nerves with a beer at the closest bar to the trailhead I could find.

Then I wake up this morning to the suggestion from the Silver Fox that we see a movie. He suggests Leave No Trace – which is about a father who takes his daughter to live off grid in Forest Park.

Hard pass after yesterday…

Holman Lane Hike