The Stoner Cafe

Longtime readers will recognize the name of this entry as what I named the vending machines in the basement of what my friend D-Slice called The Adult Dorm. We were neighbors there when I lived in Seattle.

The vending machines were on the basement level for five or so years after the building went condo. Maybe this was a construction leftover. However, since this was also the laundry level from when the building was apartments, something tells me they had been there quite some time before the construction guys arrived to rehab the building.

Also, there were Zagnuts in it.

Eventually, the machines were removed. This was actually a fairly sad realization for many residents, I learned. I had thought I was the only loser that frequented them, reinventing the walk of shame as I took my 14 floor elevator ride with a handful of change.

At least it was usually well after most of the residents’ bedtime, so I was usually able to do so undetected.

This nostalgia is top of mind again for me recently. Not because I sit around thinking about my glory days, no. Rather, because I have seemingly found a way to reinvent this phenomenon…if a vending machine can be considered a phenomenon.

Call it The Stoner Cafe 2.0.

Check that homepage out!

An aptly named app for my nostalgia, to be sure. The Stoner Cafe and this GoPuff app both wink at the reputation marijuana has for inciting the munchies.

Now, I’m not a big user when it comes to pot. Tried it in college, didn’t see the point. Tried it again when I moved from Seattle back to Portland, frankly, I’ve found that I can take it or leave it.

As I continue to struggle with an IPA induced increasing waistline, I wish I could actually “take it” – shut up, Diezel – in order to replace my beer penchant with zero calorie pot in order to unwind.

Alas…

The last time I used any marijuana product was 2016, and that was CBD derivative edibles rather than the THC counterparts. The THC being the intoxicating component of weed.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t get my own form of the munchies. Usually, this is my brain struggling to stave off boredom, versus any legitimate hunger. My mom pointed out this habit of mine to eat when I’m bored back before I even hit a double digit age. So it’s been around a while.

Knowing that about myself, I usually try to apply some discipline – believe it, or more likely, not – when purchasing junk food. I might pick up corn chips if I can fool myself into thinking I’ll make a nacho. If I go to the Costco, I’ll buy a big bag of snackage…because who can resist a good deal?!? Otherwise, I try to make my junk food consumption inconvenient so that I have to really want it.

Ergo, I’ll make myself get up and go to the store.

But a few months ago – maybe around Halloween – I discovered GoPuff. Seriously, did you see that pic of the homepage of the app? It’s like a convenience store on my phone.

I’d seen ads for this app while playing Words With Friends. I didn’t think too much of it at first, just a nuisance to be endured like all the other ads we put up with in our online lives.

Then one night, I was up…couldn’t sleep. There was no food in the house. Not even cheese, which usually goes a long way with me as a snack.

Or a meal.

I was trying to be good and hadn’t ordered a pizza or used Postmates to get some Thai delivered. I thought that if I could just make it past the restaurant’s closing time, I’d be out of danger.

My brain had other OCD thoughts in mind though. Once 11 PM hit, my cravings ramped up. Significantly.

Fine.

Amazon Prime to the rescue.

Nope. My earliest delivery option was the next morning.

Then I remembered…GoPuff.

Problem solved!

Salt & Vinegar chips. Check.

Pringles. Check.

Ice Cream. Check!

Monster for the morning? Check. Times two.

Frozen Pizza. Why not?

Oh, I can order beer and wine on this app, too? Don’t mind if I do!

Unlike Amazon Prime, there’s no extra charge for ASAP delivery. Again, consider the target audience. That means that I didn’t have to wait two hours for delivery.

On top of that, the prices are pretty solid. Somewhere between grocery store and convenience store. I didn’t have to feel guilty over anything but what was in my cart because I wasn’t overpaying.

This is on my mind today, of course, since I’ve been procrastinating a post-holiday diet. My white elephant gift was labeled

To: Fatty

From: Santa Claus

So, yeah…that’s great. It was also a Nutri Bullet blender and my sister helpfully pointed out that they juice great. What is that, a hint? Luckily, I’m meaner to myself than any helpful life tip could ever be.

I just needed to get to a point where I could do some self-care without any temptations. Er, distractions. I thought that would be last week, but then the Silver Fox suggested a Golden Globe viewing party and offered up three bottles of wine.

“It’s a long show!” he offered when I countered with two bottles. Fair point.

So, Monday, then!

Then I get a text from my ex, Rib. He’s got a 30 hour layover on Tuesday and we should hang out.

Yes. We definitely should hang out!

So…Wednesday?

Well, if I’m gonna shut The Fox’s drinking buddy down for the better part of a week…we should have a last hurrah day.

Thursday, it is!

I’m sitting here, writing this and eating the leftovers of my Pringles as a text lands from The Fox

BL at 3:30?

BL being Big Legrowlski…where our favorite beer, Pallet Jack from Barley Brown’s, is back on tap.

Junk food successfully consumed, a Pallet Jack send off, now I’m ready.

The Stoner Cafe

My Work Is Never Done

Recently, in Why I Hate the Interwebs land, I came across the tweet below.

I’m not sure why I bothered to white out his identity. Pretty sure it’s because I don’t want to inadvertently contribute to his…notoriety. He’s already a Portland-famous self-proclaimed celebrity.

I point out that his celebrity is self-proclaimed…if it were up to me, I’d choose Stupid American as a label for this clearly adrift Lost Boy.

Ok, A) yes. Right?!?

But, also, B) I wasn’t really that confident that he was joking. I think I was trying to “program” his behavior with my words.

Also, I am fairly sure this is why people sometimes refer to people who use Twitter as twits.

Another grumpopatomus response that went through my head was

Not as weird as you even asking the question.

But grandma had a strong voice when it came to appropriate behavior, so I gave her her day on the Internet.

Now, because I can exist in the simultaneous states of grumpy and self-entertained, I was having a different internal conversation with my dear departed grandma about this tweet as I typed my response. That voice was cracking me up with a running dialogue kvetching about how much work it would be to execute this plan.

I mean, the waxing, the bleaching, you’re gonna want an intensive week of leg day workouts beforehand…and then you gotta find a photographer. And it can’t be just any photographer.

“Why not? Wait…what do you know about leg day?”

Don’t you worry. But it wasn’t all water aerobics at the Y for me, let me tell you.

Now, you’d want natural light for this shoot. You’d need an outdoor photographer.

“An outdoor photographer?”

Of course! This isn’t picture day at school. You can’t just hire any old guy from Sears Portrait Studio to do this.

Obviously…?”

Quite right, you are! Imagine some poor schmuck that makes his living taking pictures of pets for family Christmas cards trying to pull this off.

“Mm-hmm. I’m sure that simply wouldn’t do.”

Correct, again.

You’re gonna want the guy who puts out a Grand Canyon calendar every year for this job.

He’s used to working with giant, gaping holes.

“That was quite a lot of set up just to backhandedly call this guy a slut, grandma.”

He’s nothing but a common tramp.

I’m not sure why, but sometimes grandma sounds like grandma in my head. Others, she has a Southern accent. I call her my imaginary Southern grandma. This time she had a New York Jewish accent. That’s new…

It’s a wonderful time to be alive, folks.

My Work Is Never Done

TIL #8: Coded Language

So, I’m trying to get through January with a post a day. I was challenged – by two followers! – after yesterday’s peek into my mental whirlpool to not cop out. There goes my Joke Monday crutch – er…idea. But I took an inventory in my Draft Hopper and there are 20 posts chilling in limbo there.

This is one of them.

No promises, though, that this is any less of a mental whirlpool. But, as my first year of the second half century of my life closes, maybe it’s time to mothball the Today I Learned theme.

So, here’s the first. We’ll see whether the others end up bearing fruit or going into the WordPress compost!

Several weeks ago, the Silver Fox and I had the good fortune to walk behind a couple of nice looking young men while on our way to see Bohemian Rhapsody.

It’s important to say “walk behind” versus “follow”. I learned that living in SoCal in the 90s.

But this TIL theme isn’t about what I learned ~20 years ago. No, on this particular day I learned something else.

I was reminded that my best friend is a better person than he is a cool person. While we crossed Couch St on Park Ave (I know…) a few blocks from our homes, these nice looking men rounded onto Park a few yards ahead of us.

There was no doubt they were each genetically gifted in their own right. Neither trying too hard in their casual clothes. One shorter and more compact, the other taller and a little more lithe.

As far as generic tastes in men go, I bemusedly noted that there was one each for the The Fox and I to enjoy.

Not that anything besides an appreciative glance was going on here.

Speaking of glances, I glanced over at my dearest friend after a few feet and was met with crazy eyes and Linda Blair caliber above the shoulder happenings.

Apparently, these young men hadn’t escaped his notice, either. I used my inconsiderable power of mental telepathy to send him a message to be cool.

We dropped back a couple paces and laughed at how they had pinged both of our gaydar at the same time. They were coming up on Burnside – the busiest East/West street in the downtown area and the divider between the NW and SW quadrants of town.

We were still talking about them, The Fox was commenting as I did above that there was one of each of our usual tastes. Obviously, I agreed with him, but both were just so easy on the eyes. They actually put off a nice vibe. As we’d passed the door to f&b cafe – our default coffee shop – the one on the inside of the sidewalk had looked to make sure no one was coming out through the door.

Just nice.

Someone raised these guys.

Actually, it’s quite a Sophie’s Choice, eh?

I found myself thinking I really would not mind sitting across from either of these fine young lads on one of my $20 first dates. Of course, we were only a week off of my most recent dating failure, so potential return on a $20 investment was top of mind.

Speaking of guys I wouldn’t mind sitting across the table from, I mentioned we were on our way to see Rami Malek as Freddie, right? The Fox is coming over in a bit to watch the Golden Globes and I’m rooting for this fella.

I had intentionally used obscure words to describe my indecisiveness over which guy I found more appealing between the two of these gents. It struck me that neither of the guys ahead of us were alive when the movie I referenced was released.

Nor had they probably ever had an opportunity to be exposed to it. No matter how well they were raised…

Perhaps my caution to prevent them from realizing we were talking about them was unnecessary, but better safe than sorry. Fortunately, our Sophie’s Choice was just a thought exercise for a couple old men versus something with potential real life trauma as described in the movie/book.

But the occurrence got me thinking about how making generational references was pretty much a coded language, allowing overt subtlety, if that makes sense. I enjoy making statements like “back before the turn of the century” that tend to invite young people to stop paying attention, but using references with a time stamp prior to their birthdate applies some extra security to conversations. Beyond

…ABBA and early Madonna music, I’m not sure guys in their 30s would get 80s pop culture reference. Forget guys in their 20s.

Actually, forget most guys in their 20s knowing anything but Drag Race or “thank u, next” until Miley or whoever drops their next single/video/what-have-you.

Heaven forbid I should refer to someone as a Mary or a Rhoda. Talk about an unbreakable code!

While two decades ago, people would go to the mattresses about whether they were the Mary or the Rhoda, the Patsy or the Edina or the Will, The Grace, the Jack or the Karen of their group; nowadays you’re likely to get a blank stare if you mention it now.

You might get some traction if you call someone a Carrie or a Miranda or a Charlotte or a – what most gays seem to aspire to – Samantha. Sadly, after seeing a friend on the Facebook complain that someone missed a Will & Grace reference – rightfully ending the date early – I wouldn’t hold my breath.

Hell, I’d be impressed to meet an industrious person who would Google an overheard something and then respond appropriately.

Let’s face it, though, being (well) over 30, the Silver Fox and I are both Gay Invisible. I’m sure the other senses of younger gays are not heightened in this particular case if blindness. Add to that shituation that we both have the audacity to exist strictly in reality versus in someone’s phone universe, and I can virtually guarantee our anonymity, regardless of our chosen conversational topic.

But good manners are good manners and if you’re going to engage in potentially unwelcome conversation about someone in your vicinity, a whispered tone and some coded lingo are a nice courtesy.

Plus, The Fox’s whisper is hilariously not quiet.

I get after him about it in the moment, but it always makes me laugh afterward.

As I’ve kicked this around, it’s made me curious about older people I’ve known and whether they engaged in such conversational subterfuge.

Looking at younger generations, I’m not confident that there’s a substance to create a generational code. Again, there’s a great communal enthusiasm for all things RuPaul, Kardashian and pop diva…outside of that all I can think of is “yeet“, which for all my inquiring only makes me want to develop a nuke that targets people who use “yeet” conversationally.

For my part as a former younger person, any time my grandmother brought up her family – whom I’d met only a fraction of and then maybe only once or twice – I considered myself free to do some mental wandering. And just about anytime my grandfather mentioned “bits” I would lose track of the conversation because in my head I was screaming

It’s a quarter or fifty cents, not two-bits or four bits!

For all that internalized resistance, though, now I do the same damn thing. Usually at my aforementioned coffee house where a refill is fourbits.

That’s a very reasonable price for a cup of coffee in this day and age.

Who knows, maybe my attempt at using supposedly coded language when I want my conversation to be semi-private is just my way of having fun with the reality that – regardless of what generation we belong to – we all be a little attention centric toward our particular age group.

But that’s just my two-bits.

TIL #8: Coded Language

Noah’s Ark

That’s really the only way to describe the weird coincidences that popped up in my day yesterday. But, since I kinda low-key committed to writing every day in January – mostly as a procrastination technique to avoid editing my NaNoWriMo book – by god, I’m gonna tell you about it.

Yesterday was definitely a Noah’s Ark day.

If something happened, it happened twice. And since this is my life, it was random and bizarre.

Two-by-two weirdness, if you will.

First, out of nowhere, I got an extremely welcome check-in IM from a high school classmate, the Notorious KPG. She’s pretty damn inspirational – makes me feel a little guilty for the aforementioned procrastinating, actually. After raising her family, she’s gone back to college and is taking what seems to be a full damn load. She still balances family time and date nights with the hubster. Her Insta and FB are full of pix of her and her family or just her making crazy faces at the camera. She’s a delight!

Plus, she knows me well enough to send this lil gift along with her IM

She says Baby JGL. I say

JGL, baby!

Tomato, to-mah-to.

I didn’t think much of it at the time. Just enjoyed the quick check-in and the Guy Candy.

Chrisism.

Until later when this happened.

I’d been late responding to the Silver Fox because I was tapping out a lil blog. He didn’t mind and seemed to think me writing was an acceptable excuse for my delayed reply. Actually, the gif he sent is animated…

Better, right? If I can’t get a little Joseph Gordon-Levitt action, I’ll take a little JGL in action.

In and of itself, I’d go about my day without giving that coincidence more than a bemused Instagram post.

Except…

Last night I was watching a series that Bachelor #4 from last year’s Dating Into Oblivion theme got me hooked on during our late night on/off again texting and IMing – Lucifer. They won’t be at the Golden Globes tomorrow, by any means, but it’s entertaining enough to pass the time.

It beats baseball.

This guy popped up in an episode.

He looked very familiar – and I decided to obsess about what I’d seen him in rather than focus on his piss poor gay interracial love triangle with a married man.

Seriously, talk about an overworked plot point. Just to make it completely eye roll worthy, the boyfriend ended up murdered.

Lucky bastard.

Clearly an IMDb rabbit hole was preferable to watching that play out too closely.

Turns out, he played Anna Kendrick’s boyfriend in Twilight.

It’s true, Anna. And this guy was your love interest…

Since I was avoiding paying too much attention to last nights episode, I dove into his IMDb “did you know” section. That’s where I saw this.

Now, Aaron Himelstein is what one might call an uncommon name. It jumped out at me and I couldn’t shake the feeling of

Who the fuck is that and why does that name sound so familiar?!?

So…off to see if he had an IMDb page…

In scrolling through his credits, I realized he’d been in a couple of Marvel movies. That got my attention. As a matter of fact, Google usually throws a good half dozen Marvel related articles on my radar a week…and I’d just read one that morning.

I went back into my Google history – no shame there, it’s all geek guy stuff and settling argument searches! – and reread the story from earlier.

Yup.

There it was, typo and all.

Does that seem like a lot of work?

Welcome to my brain.

Sadly, all this unbridled curiosity ain’t curing cancer.

It’s just minutia.

Drivel.

But it keeps me from trying to edit my novel and applying that shotgun attention span to something important that needs focus. Plus, it reminds me that while Michael Welch might have been in Twilight, he was also in one of the favorite movie franchises of my life.

Much better to be able to geek out over his Star Trek role than Twilight, right? I’ll call it the highlight of his career.

And, no…since I know you wanna know I’m those depraved little hearts of yours that I just adore. I didn’t get laid twice yesterday.

Or once.

But god bless you for thinking I could…

Good lord. Did I actually type that I wanted to blog every day this month?!?

Yikes.

Procrastinating on that goal might actually drive me to the gym!

Noah’s Ark

So, It’s Gonna Be Like That…

Eh, Universe?

Just before New Years, I got an email from my property management company. They were letting me know they’d be raising my rent…effective March 31.

Nice to get plenty of notice.

I signed a 15 month lease last year – well, 2017 – in mid-December. This was after my landlord in the unit right next door refused to negotiate my rent after this unit sat on the market for $200 less than mine…for six months!

When she finally agreed to talk pricing, my current unit had dropped another $100. When she came to me with a $50 reduction, I wished her well and opted to save $300/month on my largest expense. I iced my decision-making cake by telling myself that having a property management company versus a weird mix of hippy and dilettante for a landlord would be better, anyway.

When a property management company can’t figure out how to change the batteries in a smoke detector, run! That was indicative of each of the issues I’ve had since I moved in.

Garbage Disposal: 2 weeks to get a repairman here, 10 minutes to fix.

Balcony Doors Warping: 2 weeks to schedule a handyman, they show up to assess and three weeks later, still not fixed.

But it’s ok…it’s just winter and cold air is just pouring in around the edges of the door.

By all means, though…send me that rent increase email while you’re proving you’re not worth it. That 7% increase is pretty high, given that rents overall in Portland decreased 3% year-over-year from ’17-’18.

But at the same time, I knew I was getting a fairly good value. If they hadn’t been such foot draggers about repairs, I wouldn’t think twice about the $100.

However, since my old land lady had yet to rent my old unit, I thought about reaching out to her. I was curious about her plans for the unit. I thought maybe losing $20,400 over the year versus dropping my rent $200/month might have put her in a mood to negotiate.

Plus, the board president had let slip that her HOAs were in arrears. Oops.

I figured, get past the New Year holiday and see how she felt about a March move-in.

Then a BBQ showed up on my old balcony.

Eight months after I moved out, she put my old unit on the market for $50 more than what I last paid.

Remember how rents went down 3%?

Yeah, she didn’t get the memo.

Two months later, she drops the rent to what I wanted to pay before I moved out. It still took a month to rent and the new tenant moved in this month.

The BBQ was disappointing enough to see show up – our building doesn’t allow them. But now I’m wishing it was just a BBQ.

He’s gonna be one of those neighbors.

So, here I am, thinking of moving out of a building and area that I really love living in. I don’t have much else to do besides think – ok, obsess – go to the gym and write. This was a good lil back burner thought exercise.

Then, out of the blue, I get an email from MudBay about a job. It is a position I applied for in mid-November at the urging of an old colleague of mine. She works for them in Seattle and thinks of me every time there’s an open position.

I applied a couple of years ago, but nothing happened.

This time around, she not only insisted I apply, she arranged a drop-in with a former manager of hers who had moved down here to Portland to open a store for them.

Alright, alright…I’ll go!

The District Manager just happens to be there the day of the drop-in and we all talk for 45 minutes in what felt less like a drop-in conversation and more like a full-on interview. It also felt like they were trying to talk me out of the position. They both kept reiterating how hard it was for people to come from outside retailers because their culture is so different.

Well, at the end of that conversation, I offered to send the DM my resume and asked for her card or contact info.

Oh, that’s ok. If you applied, I’ll find your resume.

“But you said that hundreds of people applied…”, I say, not adding that the job has been posted for five months.

Oh, I’ll be able to find you.

“But you don’t know my last name…” Yeah, this is sounding like the end of a bad date.

But you were referred, so that’ll narrow it down!

She sounds so peppy and sure of herself. Still, I’m thinking for a company that’s so different from other retailers, this feels the same as a lot of other “don’t call us, we’ll call you” interviews I’ve had.

Ah, the joys of the great job hunt.

Whatever, happy-fucking-holidays.

To say I was surprised to get an email requesting a phone interview…well, that would be an understatement. Nowhere in my mind was the thought that she had actually liked me as a candidate. Or even a person.

That she forgot who I was, well…that was firmly planted at the front of my mind.

I debated reminding her, but then as the conversation began

Before we start, you read the job description – and that’s just the framework of the responsibilities of the role – but do you have any questions about it before we start?

…it really became obvious that she didn’t remember me. At the second question, I was really feeling like we were covering redundant territory.

So, I stopped her and asked, “Just out of curiosity, you aren’t the same person I spoke with in November at the store on Hawthorne, are you?”

I don’t think so…no.

– she says, sounding rather uncertain.

There are two District Managers for Portland.

I was thinking she was worried about stepping on someone else’s toes. But the way she said it made me reconsider.

She doesn’t like her counterpart. I was pretty damn sure I was right, but resisted sharing my experience to suss out my suspicion. Frankly, I found that to be a plus for me.

Sure enough, we went on to have a fantastic hour-long conversation. I think my only obstacle as a candidate for her is my salary; my floor is $2k over their max.

That could be a sticking point.

However, the landlord story above? Yeah…I live in one of the most expensive parts of town. If I get further into the interview process and she/they begin to understand where their openings will be…I could move closer to my assigned store and save a couple hundred bucks a month. That puts me back in the salary/expense ballpark I want to be in.

The Silver Fox would hate that plan – not that I’d be wild about losing the spontaneous nature of our neighborly friendship. But for a job with a company I want to work for? Maybe it would be the right thing to do.

To that, I say

C’mon, 2019!

So, It’s Gonna Be Like That…

Probably, I’d Bitch…

…if I were hung with a new rope.

To paraphrase one of my grandfather’s favorite gripes.

Lately, though, it seems the Silver Fox and I are able to walk into one of our preferred watering holes and complain about something.

Big Legrowlski: no Pallet Jack

Tanner Creek Tavern: inexplicably rotating Breakside IPA off their tap list

Even when we randomly wander into a “bar”. We were at the Safeway, buying lottery tickets and just happened into their taproom.

We were thrice rewarded.

First, they had Breakside. Naturally, we had to order one. It would be disloyal to not, right?

Secondly, they were $3 a pint. Unheard of! Normally, $5 is a good happy hour price. $6 is the accepted norm and $7 is “aren’t we precious” pricing.

Third, the Filipina Fox and her hubby just happened by and totally busted us day drinking in a friggin’ grocery store.

But we still found our way to a gripe.

There’s no head on this beer!

That was totally The Fox, BTW.

This observation was on our second beer – I mean, they’re $3 pints!! I had actually spent some time staring at the first two pints as they say there on the mat and The Fox chatted the bartender up over the realization that our tab was $6.

That’s $6.

I’m getting them both, actually – The Fox

Yeah, $6.

They’re only $3 each?!?

Right?!?

We’re gonna have to come back here!

And I’m just standing there wondering if it’s bad form to grab my pint and take a sip. So I happened to notice that there was a head on the glasses.

Regardless, they certainly hit the spot, I mean…we handily talked ourselves into a second pint. How could we not?

But I assured The Fox that there had been a head on the first pints and then we both made generic affirmation sounds for a minute or two. I think we were both searching our data banks for an explanation as to why beer loses its foam.

All of this came back to me today while I was having a beer with Diezel at Big Legrowlski. I had ordered a second pint while D nursed his first – he had to drive. One of my favorite bartendresses checked in on us a few minutes later to see how I liked the new beer I was reluctantly sipping.

I had commented that the back to back holiday weeks must have been good for them. Four of their 18 taps were empty. Halfway into my second beer, Boneyard had delivered five kegs and Owl X put four of them into immediate rotation. The IPA I was sipping was new to me, but from one of my favorite breweries, so where’s the risk?

Wow, look at that head!

That was all she had to say and I was immediately I was pulled back to the taproom in the Safeway.

For the record, it was a particularly creamy foam. It was like head plus, so I can see why Owl X was amazed when she saw it!

Ain’t no complaining about that!

Probably, I’d Bitch…

Some People Call Me A Pessimist

Rightly so, I’m sure they could successfully argue. Others may offer a case for labeling me an optimist.

But just look at the name of this blog…

That’s why my real friends skip the argument altogether and just call me a grump.

Fair enough.

And what’s got this grumpopatomus feeling reflective this morning?

Our dirtbag President, of course. The offending tweet:

Amongst friends who shared a respectfully snarky relationship, this would make me chuckle. From our Idiot in Chief, this is just more woman-hating vitriol.

Just like when he called her Pocahontas or Sacajawea in the first place. She had made a statement about having Native American ancestry, and possessing all the visual genetic characteristics of someone who’d “like to talk to the manager”, this claim left her open to attack.

No. Let’s call it what it was, given the source: bullying.

What was most bizarre about this to me – having become inured to our President’s shitty behavior – was the fire that Warren took from the actual Native American population. Well, spokespeople, at any rate.

Not only was it considered poor form for her to politicize this ancestry in the first place, using a commercial DNA kit to verify it was also a bad decision. Incidentally, a decision she made after months of bullying from Trump. The culmination of this bullying was Warren calling Trump on his pledge to donate $1 million to charity if she could prove her claim.

Maybe without really considering the full implications – or maybe just without foreseeing an objection from left field – she called out our petty blowhard of a President and took the test. I think this was more to prove the President wouldn’t honor his word than to prove her word was true.

Shocker. He didn’t.

But then the tribal spokespeople weighed in. Their point was that their tribal pride wasn’t based on a swab mailed off to a lab. That recreational DNA testing not only minimized their genealogical pride, it opened up the floodgates for potential abuse of the governmental benefits appropriated to Native Americans.

That I understood.

When I was in Junior High – ninth grade, just before going off to High School as a Sophomore – I was one of two students pulled aside and counseled on the scholarship benefits available to me as a Native American.

<needle scratch>

I’m not Native American, except that I was born in this country. Both of my parents could probably beat out Elizabeth Warren for looking Caucasian.

Well, my mom is slightly dark complected.

And I was a kid that loved running around the neighborhood and hanging out at the pool during the Summer while my parents played tennis at the club.

See? Caucasian.

If you don’t like it, talk to the management.

But because my skin was a luscious sun kissed shade of brown, I was pulled aside and offered these potential benefits.

Reverse profiling.

I’d like to say it was honor that made me reject the offer and the advice to talk to my parents “just to be sure”. But it wasn’t. In my mind, I was sure.

But in my mind, I was also scared.

Ashamed.

It was Junior High, not exactly the time in life that kids are looking to stand out as different.

Well…there was that one boy that was always wearing a satiny scarf in the hallways.

In the 80s.

He was brave.

I was afraid of what would happen if I was a brave.

We had this librarian at my Junior High. His name was something like Mr. Rawlins. I know that’s not exactly right, but it’s important that it’s at least close for the point of this story. Anyway, he was a heavy smoker.

Yellowed hands, face nicotine-stained a dull brown and clothes filled with the noxious scent of an indoor smoker.

We kids were terrible to him. We likened his aroma to the smell of the dump our buses took us by on the way to school.

Rawlins smells like Rossman’s Landfill!

And chanting things like

B.O. Navajo Joe

over and over, passive-aggressively knowing he wasn’t out of earshot.

It makes me feel terrible to type those hateful things. I’m kind of misty-eyed as I remember how awful we were.

Of course, I was just a follower…because at that age, what kid wants to be different?

I think the meanest of us all was this little shit named Cory.

A) Totally rubbish name for a kid.

B) He was an adopted Korean (I think) orphan.

Both of which meant that he was compensating for all he was worth. What a mean kid. When he showed up one Fall wearing a distinct Polo shirt my mom had sold that Summer at a garage sale, I said nothing. That, I’d like to believe, was a kindness I offered him and not simply fear of what would happen if I embarrassed him.

So, yeah…it wasn’t a sense of honor or decency that prevented me from taking money that wasn’t mine, it was at best equal parts being a decent human being and scaredy cat.

Scared of being seen as different.

Scared of being perceived as poor or needy.

Ugh.

But here’s where I try and bring that ramble home…I sincerely don’t think E.W. was trying to cause an affront to anyone in her attempt to shut Trump’s bullying down – hopefully once and for all time.

I totally get the legitimate objections of Native Americans.

I can’t forgive someone who engages in bullying behaviors from the office of the President.

For my $.02, I think someone with Warren’s character should be able to claim a Native ancestry without the presumption that she’s staking a claim to the associated heritage that ancestry comes with.

I know, prepositions and dangling participles…

Nor, however, should it be assumed she’s pandering to a minority for political gain.

I’m going to choose to accept that she is an American that is proud of all parts of her genetic make up; good, bad or ugly. It’s what made her the person that Massachusetts sent to the Senate to represent them. That she knows that her very DNA is the DNA of America itself. Our strength as a country isn’t in the purity of our blood, rather it’s in the blending of our cultures that has created this Melting Pot that is America.

Even if there is currently a surge of off-key, Stupid American voices in the chorus of this little dinner theater drama that is our present day country.

That’s my moment of optimistic frustration…and probably why I should stay off the Twitter until our country gets a regime change.

Some People Call Me A Pessimist