The Blues

I’ve been sick for the last day and a half-ish.  

I was supposed to have breakfast with The Silver Fox and his former missus, Sallory – who had just returned from a weekend trip to NYC and I wanted to hear all about it.  Only, I couldn’t get out of bed.  I mean, I did, eventually, but it took me long enough to get my act together that morning that I just met them after for coffee.

At the time, I just chalked it up to too much fresh air.  I’d been sleeping with the patio door ajar so Myrtle could come in and out during the night.  I’m always looking for a way to tip the scales of her affection in my favor.

I figured affording her the option to chase the little nocturnal creepy-crawlies on my deck paired with my charming tendency to sleep with my mouth wide-open had simple given my throat a tickle. This was a three day period of perfect Xtopher weather: high 70s during the day, mid-50s at night…and I sleep beautifully in a cold room.

Wide-open mouth-breathing notwithstanding.



You people are so critical.  

So, having chalked my late morning zombie conditionup to a sleep hangover, I stumbled out for coffee.

I met them at a fancy-ish breakfast joint a couple of blocks from my place.  A place where all three of us could agree had coffee that was essentially a caffeine hate crime.  That’s a big concession, considering The Fox and I typically get coffee at separate coffee houses and then meet up at a secondary location to sip and chat.

I took this as an opportunity to show Sallory my current fave, Nossa Familia – which is a convenient two blocks from The Fox’s favorite caffeine den, Black Rock.  Now, Black Rock is one of the few coffee places in The Pearl with anything approaching ample seating, so after grabbing our Joe to go we made our way back there to meet up with The Fox.  

He met us outside – because this is my life, which means there would be no seating on this particular morning.  

The options I was presented with as fallbacks were walk around or head back to my place to sit and chat.

My morning being admittedly sluggish, I hadn’t cleaned up from the previous night’s Myrtle shenanigans.  She recently received a new corrugated scratching bed from her hostage – er – human.  A gift she has spent a significant portion of recent nights clawing her way through…so I am met each morning by a 6 foot radius of cardboard shrapnel around said bed.  

Luckily, she’s not using her honed claws on me.

Unfortunately, this means I did not leave my place ready for company.

So, we walked.

Sallory telling us the story of how the half-hearted drizzle we were walking through had followed her home from NYC.  The presence of which her east coast traveling companions had also credited her with.

When I did eventually return – alone, of course – to my place, my external moistness was accompanied by a nifty throat tickle.


It follows that I’ve spent most of my time since either on my couch watching Supernatural – hey, I’ve burned through a season and a half! – or sleeping off a NyQuil bender.  

That brings us to tonight.  

First Thursday in The Pearl District.

Myrtle scratched the door to the balcony until I relented and propped it open so she could come in and out as she pleased. And so that I could be sure to end up with pneumonia…of course.

Or, maybe this being First Thursday, she just wanted to be sure I heard the saxophonist playing his bluesy ditties for the intrepid First Thursday crowd, classic Portland drizzle-be-damned.

At least I got a little culture from my death couch!

Thanks, Myrtle.

I feel like I’ve missed an opportunity to work the word “catastrophe” into this post…

The Blues

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