Who Knew It Was Gonna Be One Of Those Days?

…and I mean one of those weekends, really.

glenne-headly-dirty-rotten-scoundrels-1988I was on my way home from work yesterday when I read the news that Glenne Headly had died.

Say what now?

She couldn’t have been that old.

<opens google>

“62?!?”, I think.

Then – I kid you not – my next thought is, “Lucky.”

What.

The.

Hell?

I’ll tell ya what the hell, I’m staring down 50 this year and I’m conflicted about a long life versus going out possibly early with a high quality of life.

I think I’ve got 50 in my cross hairs like this:aliens-ripley-geared-up

But, I think sometimes it’s more realistically this:sigourney-weaver-as-ellen-ripley-in-alien

What’s a gay to do?  This is not the culture for Oldie Hawns, and – let’s face it – America ain’t getting greater these days.  That doesn’t just impact my patriotic identity…in this case, it’s a factual planet killer.  By extension, a long-lived Xtopher can potentially look forward to some Thunderdome bullshit in his longevity.

Then I think of my parents.

They’ve both crested their eighth decade on this dying rock, call it their early 70s.  They remarried after 20-some years of divorce.  While that’s a story that I’m sure they would say is none of my business to tell, I’m not thinking of that particular life event or even that time in their lives in this particular moment.  What comes to mind isn’t their first marriage or even their second.

It’s the time betwixt.

When my parents originally split up, we were assembled in California.  My father having pre-located there for a job, my mother and the kids joining after the school year ended for her two youngest.  I joined in the move.  For reasons I won’t bore you with here.

Other than:  California.

Being California, and divorce being trendy…Bob’s your uncle – or at least your divorce lawyer – I guess, they split up a year-ish after the SoCal reunion.

Mom took off back to the fairer pastures of Oregon with…oh, every one of her chirrun but me, also because:  California.

What’s an early 20s newly minted gay to do?

It was a decision that was quite beyond my control.

Ironically, I ended up living only blocks from my dad in SoCal, so I had a good seat as to how he stared down his own demons in his 40s.

I’ll be damned if it wasn’t quietly, as is his style.  While simultaneously doing what needed to be done.

He sure as fuck didn’t start a poorly-trafficked blog.  You know, sharing this on your social media pages would hardly kill you people.  I’m just gonna leave that hanging.

I had a chance to change my geographic scenery a few times in my early and mid-20s, be it for the wrong reasons – like a boy – or for slightly less easily judged reasons – like work – and ended up back in Oregon.

The prodigal gay.

That gave me the opportunity to witness how my mother stared down her own adversaries in her 40s.

Well, she’s my Ellen Ripley.  That same quiet acceptance of what must be done that my father demonstrated, but with the additional obstacle of responsibilities like – oh, no big deal – being a single mother.

I don’t know when this turned into some sort of vague-albeit-late Mother’s Day card or a slightly early Father’s Day post…but, well, sometimes my digressions can give you a little insight into the people – the real people – that shaped who I am.

Don’t make it weird, people.

Anyway, my psyche checks me when that unbidden “Lucky” pops into my head over Glenne Headly’s death with a “What the fuck, you little wuss…buck up.  Your shit is nothing like your parents’!”

And, so I buck uply and put dear Glenne out of my head-ly.

Sorry about that.

You know what fuckery I am met with the following day?  The reward for shoring myself up as all things nearly 50 converge on my weak-assed self?

Any guesses?

Here’s a little hint:Launch Party For The "Family Guy" Game

Adam West.

Batman.

Not to mention a killer caricature of himself.

Dead.

Aged 88.

And still cooler than I ever will be.  Just look at that bad ass.

My weak-assed little self’s least favorite counterpart – my self-bullying-snarky-assed self – was right on point to ask the big question, “Do you think your parents hear this news and think, ‘Lucky’?” because he had to live soooo long?

“No.  They probably fucking don’t, because they had to work for what they have:  a comfortable retirement in which to enjoy their family and each other – reconciliation after two decades of divorce is a goddamned gift, albeit an in the moment costly one – they didn’t have their shit handed to them by fame…so buck up, Buttercup.”

Sometimes I just want to punch my snarky-assed self in the balls.  Other times, I’m sure most everyone else does.

Looking at you, Silver Fox.

Knowing my parents, they probably think something more along the lines of, “Poor Bastard” because, while his death will be mourned by the fans accrued over the course of decades of Batman notoriety, they measure their success not in fans or dollars, but rather in their shared pride in the family they built and will leave behind.

Whatever legacy Adam and Glenne leave behind, we – as adoring and appreciative fans – cannot measure or judge the pride they leave behind for their own families; merely in the absence of their future celluloid impact.  What I’ve learned from my family…parents, grandparents, extended family and chosen family, is that that’s the yardstick.

Right there.

The so called wake of your existence.

So, I’ll get up tomorrow and honor the example that real people set for me and set aside this morose nostalgia for people I’ve not met and live a life that will make my parents proud.

Quietly.

As quietly as grumpy, old Xtopher can, anyway.

Who Knew It Was Gonna Be One Of Those Days?

Next Stop, Crazy Town

On Monday, I got a text from a friend that simply said, “Maybe you should take an Uber to work”.

This was in response to a post I’d made on the Facebook that morning.  I’d been on MAX heading into work at about 5:30 am.  The train was largely empty, just me and another airport worker, a guy that was dressed for construction work and a bloke with a suitcase.  We were all keeping to ourselves.  

Public Anonymity.

As you can usually depend, a crazy guy got on at the stop after mine.  There’s always a crazy person on MAX.  It’s like the toy surprise in a box of cereal.  

Sometimes they stink.

Sometimes they sleep.

Sometimes they dance.

Occasionally, they vomit.

On the very rare occasion, they go on a murder spree.

That’s what had happened the prior Friday during the evening rush hour.  The crazy person in question was – in an especially heinous bonus – also a radical racist.  As the very brave are wont to do, he started picking on a young woman wearing a hijab.

He was verbally abusing her and causing a scene.  Several standers-by intervened, only to learn our bully wasn’t only a crazed racist.

He was one of those knife carrying crazed racists.

Two of these good samaritans ended up dead for their trouble and a third was sent to the hospital in grave condition.

So, the few of us this Monday morning were a bit on edge…unified in our discomfort with the shambly, smelling toothpick of a human in Hammer-style pants that were shredded up one side.

The key is not making eye-contact, I reminded myself as the train pulled into the Hollywood stop – the site of Friday’s misfortunes – and our shaky friend made his way past me and presumably got off the train.  

I was reading about the murders on my phone as we pulled away from the memorial for the fallen.

He hadn’t gotten off.

I know this because he shambled back to the front of the train and sat right in front of me, deep in conversation with himself.  I leaned back in my seat, contemplating a quiet move to anywhere else on the train.  Once he turned sideways and put his feet up on the seat, my opportunity for a stealth move was gone.  Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I sat tight while he finished his argument.

I was relieved when he got up to move.

I was horrified when thumped the back of my head after passing out of my peripheral.  I turned to see what was happening and he was standing there, body canted toward me aggressively and his hand held in the shape of a pistol.

Do.

Not.

Touch.

Me.

I said.  I think I scared the construction worker guy with the impressive display of eye-whites I was sporting.  Seriously, visible sclera all around my irises, I’m sure!

Obviously, the situation warranted this display of crazy eyes.

Not a great start to my day.

Just for fun…the return commute wasn’t any less maddening.

I was sitting alone most of the way, there was once again just a handful of folks in my part of the train.  Ironically, at the Hollywood stop – the scene of Friday’s tragedy – a group of five kids got on.  A couple sat behind me.  A young man in front of me.  A young lady beside me and her friend across the aisle from her.

Yay…surrounded.

Plus, they brought with them the pungent odor of cheap weed.

I was also about to learn she was far from lady like.

They were as oblivious to social skills as you’d expect of a group of kids in their late teens or early 20s.  Icing that cake, my neighbor decided it was completely acceptable to blast music from the portable speaker she was holding.  Sixty percent of this pack being black, you can imagine where the musical tastes lay.

Damn.

Bitch.

Fuck.

Nigger.

Of all the words in the English language…why so many rap songs have to include such a limited range of words is beyond me.  But I had had enough.  I popped out an earbud and asked if I should be able to hear her music over my headphones.

“What?”, followed by nervous laughter.  

The guy in front of us turned around and suggested that maybe my music wasn’t loud enough.

“Turn it down.  I don’t want to hear that word yelled out.”  Not my most eloquent phrasing.  

“What word?” 

“TURN OFF YOUR MUSIC.  NOW!”, yelled our driver, who had stepped out of his cab to put a stop to this stoner madness.

You’d think we would have ridden in silence.  At least for a bit.  

Nah.

These kids had to be all disgruntled and mumble objections for a few stops.

Shortly thereafter, the kid behind me flicked my ear.

Seriously.

What the hell, people…are we not even teaching kids boundaries any longer?

For the second time in a day a stranger had put hands on me.  Still trapped by these five kids, I refused to take their shithead shenanigans silently.  I turned and told the kid to keep his hands to himself.

He tried playing innocent, but his girlfriend’s giggles betrayed him.

“I’m not kidding, you’re already on the driver’s shit list.”

“What about her, can’t I touch her?” he asked doing a palms up with both hands, one of which was draped over his girlfriend’s shoulders.

“What people with questionable judgment allow you to do is their business.  Don’t touch me again.”

Of course he did…before bravely slipping out of his seat and out the train doors at the Rose Quarter stop.

Friggin’ punk ass kids.

The most disturbing thing about the day of commuter hell was that it highlighted how vulnerable we are.  Sure, my ordeal was nowhere near the magnitude of the previous Friday…but there wasn’t much separating the two events, aside from weaponry.  

It was unnerving.

I vented about it to The Silver Fox and thought that was the end of it.  I anticipated a return to my assumed safety in short order.

Yesterday we went out to the Big Legrowlski for a beer and on the way home I saw something that made me doubt that restoration of my peace of mind.  

We were walking back toward our homes through the North Park Blocks and out in the park in the block behind us there were a few homeless peeps sunbathing.  

Well, camping.

Except.

Two of them were chasing each other and yelling.  One of them was brandishing a knife.  Seriously, who hasn’t learned not to run with sharp objects?

“Should we call the cops?” I asked, realizing after I said it that my phone was already in my hand.  

“Nah…how are the cops gonna find a homeless guy?” was the The Fox’s paraphrased reply.

That’s when I realized that Crazy Town isn’t the next stop…culturally, we’re already there.  Some of us just enjoy it.

Next Stop, Crazy Town

Fitfy: 49.18

Well, there’s a break in my weekly fitness accountability updates.

Perhaps I should just call this one Fatfy.

Six weeks off between posts.  I blame The Silver Fox, but only recreationally.  Overall, I’m in charge of me, but here’s the story…you may enjoy it.

It all started with The Fox taking one of his ever more present weekend trips away.  While also having cataloged the rest of his upcoming weekend getaways.

It might have been our Friday coffee before his family vacation in Bend, OR where he, his ex-wife and son from south of Portland and his Seattle son and his family all rendezvoused in this Oregon high desert brewer’s delight of a town.

Perhaps it was the weekend after, where he went north to Seattle to dog sit while his Seattle son’s family went to the in-laws for a visit.

Or the weekend when he popped down to the coast to work on the beach house renovation his ex-wife – the perfectly lovely Sallory – and he were embarking on.

Definitely not this past holiday weekend when he went down to yurt erection party at the beach house.

At one point during his laundry list of upcoming weekends away with his family and/or Sallory, I exclaimed, “You guys are retired! Why can’t you go away in the middle of the week?!?”  A thought that caught him a little off guard, I could tell he was briefly considering the worker bee ritual of maximizing one’s weekends that no longer strictly applied to him.  Ultimately, he set that aside to declare that he couldn’t do that for the yurt building party because the other folks helping still worked.

But he left me an 18 pack of Mac and Cheese from his pre-Bend provisioning Costco trip, so there’s that.  It’s great when your best friend knows you so well that a box of Kraft soothes all manner of sins.

Also, I’m quite simple.  Not basic, since my tastes tend to run either rather high brow or – as in this case, obvs – low brow in the extreme versus basic…which is just common.

I’m gonna have to think about the amount of justifying that my admission of love for the comfort of Kraft Mac and Cheese just required.  But, Myrtle likes it too!  Or the box, at any rate.

So why is my absence from blogging about – or even actually participating in – my fitness journey as I approach my 50th somehow The Fox’s fault…even if only for my amusement?  He’s one of those…motivated people.  It’s so disturbing to my natural state of procrastination.  On my Fridays off, he likes to get our coffee and chat about the week and then make for the gym, which is basically kitty corner from the coffee shop we hang out in.  Well, he hangs out there.  I am a squatter, since my caffeine tastes run to Nossa Familia down the block, but his coffee shop has better seating.  Still, the gym is right in the middle of the two, so he’s right on that we should go to the gym while we are in the area.

However, it’s not my style.  I’ve always been a post-work gym goer.  As I’ve gotten older, my energy level has…leveled off.  The result is that after ten or more hours at work, I’m just as likely to fall asleep on MAX as I am to have the energy to break out of my couch’s orbit once I get home.

Ergo, gym-going has been relegated to my days off.

While this yearlong journey is intended partially to help me find new habits that I can adopt to move forward with into the back third of my life, I have not fully explored too many things that felt like a sustainable routine.

For one of these weeks away of his, I decided that I would have coffee with The Fox and then go home, do some chores and then go to the gym afterward instead of the somewhat established routine of wake up, coffee, gym…it’s such a breakneck pace for what is essentially my Saturday morning.

Looking back, that was the last time I even planned to go to the gym over this six week hiatus.

I was busy.

Eighteen is a lot of boxes of Mac and Cheese.

Plus, I was working.

A lot.

A couple of six day weeks.

Averaging about 7.5 miles of speed-walking around PDX during those hectic workdays…it’s not like I wasn’t getting some exercise in.

So, I forgave myself my weakness and indulged my inclination to potato myself on my couch.

After a few weeks of seriously sedentary days off, I started thinking that it was getting to be bike riding weather in Portland.  Another week of not pulling that trigger and I began experiencing lower back pain.

A side effect of my sofa slouch.

Good news for the Needle Man.

Bad news for my future fit fifty year old self.

But!

You’ll be glad to know that as of last weekend, I have returned to my reluctant cyclist self.  My first ride was a shorty.  A ride that I hear others talk about as an achievement and roll my eyes – a simple 10 miler.

Uphill.

See?  That right there was an error in judgement on my part.

I was looking for a scenic ride on a sunny Portland day.  Thinking, “Hey, it’s just five miles away…” and completely forgetting that it was five miles uphill.  Crazy, windy, two-lane roads through a part of Portland’s semi-exclusive west-side hills.  It took me an hour to make the ride up.  the view I had on my beautiful city once I got there was worth it.

You can’t see the floaters in my field of vision in the pictures, but you can still see Mount St Helens and – what I think is – Mount Adams in the distance.

The ride home was – obviously – much easier.  But harrowing as I rode my brakes most of the way downhill into town.

In rush hour traffic on the Friday before Memorial Day weekend.

Yeah, this was a super well thought out excursion.

On the decidedly plus side:  endorphins.

On the decidedly not-plus side:  my ass feels like hamburger from my saddle rash.

But, I’m not going to let that stop me.

I.

Am.

Back.

 

Fitfy: 49.18

The Red Shirt Diaries #11

Wow.  My life really is full of surprises.  Not always the kind that might comically kill me, but those are definitely present.

Hence The Red Shirt Diaries…

The specific surprise on my mind this morning is just how many of those potential humorous deaths I seem to barely avoid.

Seriously.

I really thought – and procrastinated, obviously, because I’ve got plenty of time – that TRSD11 would be The Flesh Eating Bacteria.  This morning had other ideas, as I  just barely survived my morning shower and toast.

Because good hygiene and a reasonable diet…what killers.  

I was grumbling about how, after turning on the AC yesterday, my condo was still 71 degrees when I woke up.  The grumble in question was more of a conversation with Myrtle as I turned on the shower, “What do you think?  I had the blankets on all night and didn’t feel hot…”

She wasn’t feeling chat-ty this morning.  But it’s true…when the heat is running, I feel comfortable at 70 degrees.  This morning, I was trying to figure out if I felt cold at 71.  Since Myrtle wasn’t holding up her end of the convo, I stepped onto the shower.

…nearly dying as I hopped backward to get away from the stream of steam shooting out of the shower head and cascading over my body.

Ok, it wasn’t steam, per se, but it was about five degrees cooler than lava and I was mentally picturing my body vaporizing as I reached to turn down the water.  I realized in doing so that it was already set a little cooler than normal, I have a variable handle on my shower that is oriented with hot on the left of the lever and cold on the right.  I usually have it set at about 11:00.  This morning it was at 12:00 and still too hot.  I gradually adjusted it toward the right as my body mentally continued to blister and dissolve.  I finally got to a tolerable level of pain at the 2:00 position and made the best of it as I tried to figure out what was happening.

I decided that it was the AC.  Not the same type of weird mind trick like me being hot at 70 when the AC is on and cold at 70 when the heat is on.  

Legit weird.

My furnace heats my home by running hot water from the water heater somehow – the guy explained it to me, but I only cared that my house was warm.  All I can figure is that with the heat off, the water in the water heater remains hotter.

Good to know…I’m sure that bastard that installed it didn’t mention that little tidbit.

Anyway, having survived the shower, I threw on some pants and went to the kitchen to make toast.  Little did I know that my morning of misfortune was just getting warmed up.

Apparently, sleeping with the AC on had dried out my sinuses and the steam from the molten shower had perked them up a bit.  

The result:  a sneezing fit while I waited for my bread slices to toast.

My mother used to freak out about my sneezes when I was a child.  Apparently, I was such a control freak as a child <gasp> that I held my sneezes in instead of letting them out.  

You know me and germs.

Anyhoo…several trips to the doctor and a remedial sneezing class at the junior college later and nothing changed.  

My poor mother.

I still do it.  No sneeze splatter from control freak/germiphobe Xtopher!  I’ve thrown out my back holding in sneezes, that’s the result of trying to keep a sneeze traveling at 100 mph – seriously, check WebMD – from leaving your body.

My toast pops out and I’m buttering it.  One final sneeze creeping up on me.  Tensing every muscle in my body to control the uncontrollable, I keep my sneeze to the minor convulsion I’m accustomed to…although, I’m not accustomed to doing it while also holding a buttery knife.

I almost stabbed myself through my eye.

I swear, it’s like Agatha Christie took a hit of opium and then started writing.  The result was my life story.  Well, then end of it, anyway.

The Red Shirt Diaries #11

The Three-Way of Abject Sorrow

First off, get your mind out of the damned gutter.

But as long as we’re talking about sex, this title would totally work for a story about a lackluster sexcapade with two other people.  We’ve all had that bad three-way, amirite?

I’m not?

We haven’t?

Just me?

Ok, moving on then…

I was talking with the Needle Man last night during my acupuncture and we started discussing movies.  We were – no idea why – veering all over the place and I commented that he really had a wide range of cinematic tastes.  

Naturally, I had to ask, “Bit if you were stranded on a desert island with only one type of movie…”

He kinda verbally processed his response.  Slowly he disqualified each class of movies until he landed somewhere between comedies and inspiring biopics.  It was interesting to me that he specifically tossed horror films and scary movies out because the creepiness followed his mood out of the theater and he liked to go to movies to feel good.

I knew what he meant.  Still, I’d totally take comedies between the two, because I had a bad experience with biopics a couple decades ago.  It could have been because the movie in question – Shadowlands – was the third movie in a row that was just sad.

I think the first in this miserable movie ménage a trois was The Piano.  I mean, a movie about a mute woman sold into marriage, loaded onto a ship with her daughter and belongings and then shipped off to New Zealand – Australia, maybe?  How could that not be a thrill ride of a movie?

Secretly, I’ve decided that it was made simply to provide Anna Paquin with the acting Fred to later share screen time with Sir Patrick Stewart, Halle Berry and Hugh Jackman in the X-Men movies.

Anyway.

A bit later in that same movie season – I swear it was Christmastime and I saw these movies over the course of two weeks – I saw Philadelphia.

We all know how that goes.  But it was important to see, particularly for me as a 25 year old gay man still struggling to find my community and Chosen Family.  It might have helped if I didn’t move cities every couple of years.  Plus, this film was one of the first times a mainstream Hollywood actor played gay.  

At this time in my life, I was living outside Houston, TX.  The theater chains there had little wooden waiters outside the theaters holding giant bowls of mints.  I thought it was a nice touch since buttery popcorn and diet soda usually gives me bad breath.  I generally grabbed a couple on my way out.

The final movie in this series of movie misfortunes was Shadowlands.

I’d seen two serious drama, I wanted something a little more uplifting.  The story of TS Eliot finding love sounded like just the ticket.

Wrong.

Finding love in a marriage for the wrong reasons only to have that love suddenly ripped from him by cancer…yee friggin’ haw.

At least it was only Anthony Hopkins playing the lead.  Yeah, he fucking destroyed mourning and sorrow.  Watching him lose it wrecked me.  I remember thinking of how I must look in the theater:  hand hanging suspended over my uneaten popcorn, mouth hanging open, tears spilling from my eyes.

At the end of the movie, I was angry-sad.  I remember walking out of that theater, not caring that my face was slick with buttery smears and tears.  Dropping my mostly uneaten popcorn and soda aggressively in the trash, and angrily grabbing a handful of mints as I stomped past the wooden waiter.

That was how I felt after these three films:  wooden.

So, yeah…I like comedies.

The Three-Way of Abject Sorrow

Missed Poopertunity!

There I am this morning, tapping out a blog entry on my way to work.  Part of my effort to do something productive on my way to work instead of getting sucked into the Facebook.  Granted, it was about poop, but still…I never said my MAX Blog Challenge entries couldn’t be frivolous.

The challenge of writing on a deadline is that you may miss the opportunity to really reflect on your topic and make the most of the opportunity.

Case in point…or two.

I’m unusually triggered by things in my day to day life that pull me back to the pop culture of my past.  Or, the advertising campaigns of my past, I’m not sure those would fall under the pop culture umbrella.

I say “jinkies” more often than is probably cool.  I’m pretty sure zero is the number of acceptable times a cool person utters jinkies.  Here I’ve done it twice now in one paragraph.

Jinkies.

I’m also unusually attracted to the absurdity – and probable 70s era unchecked misogyny – of feminine hygiene ads of my childhood.  There’s two scenarios that frequently pop into my head.  Things I rarely say aloud, but are there, bouncing around my head as potential rejoinders in conversation.

It’s ridiculous, the inside of my head.

The mother/daughter walk on the beach scenario that starts off with the daughter vulnerably asking, “Do you ever have that ‘Not So Fresh’ feeling?”

Yeah.  That went through my head when my Needle Man was peppering me with questions about my digestion.

Consistency?

Color?

Clean up?

Gassiness?

“What was that third one again?” – Me

Equally absurd is the response that makes a run for my lips when I’m asked at the beginning of each session recently, “How have you been?”

You see, I’ve been quite well.  Pain, managed.  Previously unbeknownst digestion opportunities are…solid.

So, when asked, instead of saying, “Things are great!” my brain attempts to shove the words “I can ride a horse!” out of my mouth.

Because, apparently feminine hygiene products of days gone by – I hope…if not, my apologies to any frustrated equestrians – restricted ones ability to ride astride.

Yeah, Xtopher…ask yourself what topic could possibly be less comfortable to discuss than poop; which, as I recall reading…everybody does.

Apparently, before “wings” things were a little leaky in the feminine hygiene world, making ballistic activities a little haphazard.

Nonetheless, if the products haven’t improved, at least the advertising has?

But, there I am, randomly mentally sideswiped by the urge to blurt out “I can ride a horse!” when a simple “Everything is hunky-dory” will suffice.

What?

Cool people don’t say “hunky-dory” either?

Yeah, right.

Missed Poopertunity!

The Red Shirt Diaries #10

Wow.  Ten entries on weird ways I might legitimately meet my end!  Well, or amusing examples of how my psyche leaps to the worst case scenario.

What can I say?  My mind is a psychedelic trip without the messy drug habit.

Case in point:

I was walking across the tarmac today at work – yes, my subconscious tried to kill me at work again – when I noticed an ambulance adjacent to one of the Southwest gates.  This was the second time in a week I’ve seen an ambulance – no, third!  I just thought of another – parked outside a Southwest jet.

Hey, at least it wasn’t United.  

Too soon?

So, there I am, pushing a rolling rack of long sleeved Portland tees across the tarmac as fast as I can – we sold 118 in two days – so our stores were looking a little naked today.  In the back of my mind, the theme to 30Rock is playing at an insane pace.  

Duh-duh da-da-da-da dum-dum da-da-da-da-dum on incessant repeat.

The faster I walk, the faster the music plays.

I’m approaching this unlikely and probably unwelcome (to at least one person) airplane/ambulance pairing and a thought leaps unbidden to the front of my mind, “Ugh.  Some poor bastard Carrie Fishered”.

Speaking of too soon.

I acknowledge some appropriate empathy elbowing its way past my other snarky thoughts about the same time I register something flit across my peripheral field of vision as I continue walking.

Duh-duh da-da-da-da dum-dum…

“Great.  Zombies.” my mind involuntarily concludes.  Because:  of course.

And, scene!

Zombies.

Really?

WTH, brain?

Out of all the myriad ways to die on a tarmac, you’ve managed to come up with loose tigers and zombies.  Not getting sucked into a jet engine or run over by a runaway luggage cart.

Tigers and zombies.

Man.  I gotta stop drinking Chablis at lunch!

Joking.

Like I’d drink Chablis.

But, on the overthinking this hand, it’s not hard to see the corollary between tigers, zombies and reality.

What?  It’s not.

Tigers are obviously the meanest cat on the planet, who I have the thankless job of feeding on the daily.

Wow.  Zombie eyes.  Go figure.

Then there’s the zombies.  Obviously airline passengers.  AKA: the reason I’m on the tarmac in the first place.  It’s way easier to maneuver my way around airplanes and luggage carts than it is to push my rolling racks through a crowded concourse filled with people who have managed to slightly overcome their default speed of idle.  If I want to get shit done, I take them out of the equation by hitting the tarmac.  God help me if it rains.

Or if there’s zombies.

The Red Shirt Diaries #10