I Might Be Insatiable

I also might be watching too much TV.

Twice last week I finished binge watching a series – one on the Netflix and the other on Amazon.

Twice last week I said to Myrtle, “There’s a lot going on there for such a small town”.

I kid you not. Talking to my cat…

My intent here is to write about the semi-controversial Netflix show called Insatiable Before I get there, let me give you a quick rundown of what I mean by “a lot going on” using the other show I watched last week as an example. The Kettering Incident takes place in a small town in Tasmania. A doctor returns to town from the city for her dad’s retirement. He’s the Tasmanian equivalent of the Chief of Police.

What you learn soon after her return home is that she was considered a suspect in the childhood disappearance of her best friend. When this comes around, I think to myself, “OK, we can make a show of this”.

Nonono. That’s merely the Tip o’the Iceberg!

The disappearance might really be caused by an alien abduction. It seems literally nothing has happened in this town since the disappearance except maybe there’s aliens.

Just kidding, here’s everything else that’s happening in this podunk town:

Immediately after our good doctor returns, someone else is murdered.

Then there’s a drug ring. You find out later it’s led by one of the cops investigating the murder – in which our heroine is an instant suspect.

Eco-terrorists.

Secret toxic waste disposal.

A man returns from the dead and is later found murdered.

The town is being overrun – people included – by erratically fast growing moss.

In a strange wtf moment, the drug kingpin cop sleeps with his prime suspect…which is still our doctor.

Another murder. <yawn>

Secret government conspiracy.

A kidnapping.

Clones!

What. The. Eff?

In the final episode, new plot lines are still dropping and then the damn show just ends.

One plot line is actually wrapped up in the finale. So for as much as this show has going on, it ended and just let most of the balls it had in the air drop and bounce away.

It’s like these writers think that the audience is incapable – probably correctly so – of focusing on a plot point from start to finish in a season. To compensate, and by “compensate” I mean “continually re-focus our attention from our phone screens back to the TV screens”, the writers seem to figuratively blow something up every episode. They don’t end up wrapping up the storyline they blow up, they just use it to keep our interest until the next explosion.

Believe it or not, I think Insatiable has even more bizarre stuff going on. For what it’s worth, these writers at least tidy up before they wander off at the end of the season. Not everything, but at the end of the 12 episodes, you’re at least left feeling relieved versus abandoned.

I wanted to watch this show after hearing its pre-release buzz about fat shaming…hence, the controversy. The critical position – including a 200,000 signature demand to pull the show before it aired – was that celebrating a large person’s weight loss with a story about their pursuit of a beauty pageant title was offensive.

Taken that flatly, I would agree. However, having seen the trailer and not been offended, I watched the show and learned that the actual issues with the program are the wacky plot lines the 90 second trailer doesn’t even touch on.

The show’s response to the criticism was that it was exploring the damage that that fat shaming does to a person’s psyche.

Boy, did that response undersell the word damage.

I also wanted to watch this because it’s been almost 20 years since Drop Dead Gorgeous and I needed a fucked up beauty pageant fix!

This show certainly delivered on the fucked up-ness criteria.

But it all started off so normal.

Bullied small town Georgia fat girl, Fatty Patty, gets her jaw broken while defending her candy bar from a homeless person. She ends up losing a ton of weight due to having her jaw wired shut to heal.

Duh. Nothing special here.

The Homeless Guy presses charges against her.

That’s kinda unique…

Which is when she meets her rather fey attorney, who coincidentally is a frustrated beauty queen coach. Having just lost a title with his most recent adopted-Chinese-beauty-queen-wanna-be to his never-loses-a-pageant-nemesis, who just happens to be his former high school jock tormenter and the city’s district attorney, he has sworn off beauty pageants…until he meets the now beautiful Patty.

Did ya follow all that?

Because after that the train for Crazy Town leaves the station.

Patty is a smart kid, so she turns her attorney’s pageant coaching offer down. However, after a day at school, realizing the different treatment she gets being suddenly outwardly beautiful and mistaken for a transfer student versus Fatty Patty, she snaps and takes her attorney up on his offer saying, “I’d rather have revenge”.

Remember that.

It’s after that moment where the show loses its equilibrium. From that point, you can tell a story that kinda sounds like the First Mrs Trump’s post-divorce mantra.

Patty struggles with the attention of boys. From the convenience store clerk that she flashes to get what she wants to the high school jock son of her flamboyant attorney/pageant coach to the bad boy son of the town minister.

Normal enough high school stuff, even without the extreme weight loss storyline.

But instead of pursuing that arc, the writers decide to take us on a shark jumping tour.

Here’s some of the shark storylines we viewers have to jump:

That adopted Chinese wanna be pageant queen? Yeah, her mom blames her daughter’s loss on their coach, claiming he was molesting her.

In a head scratching fit of irony, a few episodes later it’s revealed that the mother is actually having an ongoing sexual affair with the high school jock. Who – remember – is the son of her daughter’s pageant coach.

This story needed to take place in a bigger town.

As Patty’s pageant success grows, the frustrated adopted Chinese wanna be spirals more and more out of control in her jealousy. This seems to reach its peak when she attacks Patty in front of most of the town and in defending herself, Patty ends up unintentionally crippling the girl.

The town turns on Patty and blames her for the incident, calling it bullying. Which is insane enough, given the facts that A) the girl was one of Patty’s tormentors when she was Fatty Patty and was never held accountable as the bully she was; and, B) once again, Patty was only defending herself, which unfortunately resulted in an injury to the instigator.

Icing that cake is the fact that the girl was faking her paralysis at the encouragement of her mother. Patty tries to prove this in a horribly thought out plan and just makes things worse for herself. Even once her claim is validated, she can’t catch a break from the townsfolk. That right there is a – probably unintentional – mirror of the behaviors Trump supporters demonstrate daily: throwing your support behind a terrible human and never wavering in their loyalty.

Because the town can’t see that Patty’s situation is the result of her bullies’ ineptitude, things are required to get worse.

The next shark is exactly that…what could possibly be causing Patty to behave so hatefully?

Teenage pregnancy. Hormones are making her nuts.

Obviously.

Except…not pregnant. It’s just your maybe conjoined twin that you “absorbed” during pregnancy. Yup, she’s such a Fatty Patty that she ate her sibling in utero. This storyline progresses – or devolves into demon possession.

Luckily, the minister’s son – also the erstwhile father to Patty’s baby that isn’t – is there to guide her on a path to controlling the demon within her.

Ok

The last shark that I want to mention – but certainly not even the last in this school of sharks – is the adversarial relationship between the two lawyers/beauty pageant coaches. They loathe one another. The perfectly manicured fey attorney and the shirt off at every opportunity jock district attorney are constantly sabotaging one another and somehow unable to avoid each other on a daily basis.

Yup.

Gay.

But because that’s not a crazy enough scenario, while the district attorney seamlessly divorces his wife our fey lawyer can’t bear to live without his wife, even after Patty our the two lawyers.

The only solution?

Thruple.

Seriously, this is a small town that needs more people to carry these crazy storylines. And I haven’t even mentioned them all. In 12 episodes, these writers serve up a real dog’s breakfast of topical social issues. All of the above, obviously, but also addiction/AA, interracial marriage, app or “swipe” culture, lesbians, stalking, drag queens, drugs, kidnapping…why not top it all off with murder and then – y’know – cover it up.

All of these sharky threads weave into a story that is just chockablock full of my least favorite character trait in America today:

It’s better to look good than to be good.

I’ve been railing against that for almost two decades now, and it hasn’t gotten better. As a matter of fact, I’d say it’s gotten worse by magnitudes. When I first started getting grumpy, we didn’t have a swipe culture. Kardashians were just some celebrity lawyer’s estranged kids.

As time has gone on for me, I’ve accepted that our society seems to be on a non-stop trajectory toward selfishness and a “me culture” that makes the 80s look like a friggin’ nursery. In observing that, I’ve also had to accept that by vocalizing my discontent, I’m gonna be the Patty. Luckily for me, that manifests in accepting that I’m just a grump and I can make that into an enjoyable sur-reality.

Unfortunately for Patty, while she’s trying to find her way past all the blame her town has put on her and embrace that inside she’s a good person, she snaps. While her bad boy stalker boyfriend is trying to nudge her into the bad girl counterpart he wants her to be – dragging her down to his level – her conflicted and tormented self absolutely snaps and while crying “I’m a good person” over and over again, she beats him to death with a tire iron.

Let’s go back now tow what I told you to remember.

In the first episode, Patty is a smart kid. She’s smart enough to know what she doesn’t want, which is the inane pursuit of popularity and celebrity based on looks. She knows she doesn’t want to be that person.

Before that episode ends, she’s folded and uttered the fateful words, “I’d rather have revenge” that take her down an 11-episode arc to her undoing and de-evolution into a murderess.

As a viewer, I can accept that first episode arc. It sets up a season of redemption. How does Patty get through the new adversities associated with beauty, which she’d never had to manage before, to return to the smart girl she was at the beginning of the story who is now fortunate enough to have outsides that match her insides?

How?

It’s totally do-able.

For whatever reason, though, that’s not what was done. We’re left to watch Patty go from being an Ugly Duckling on the outside with a beautiful heart to the polar opposite…a beauty queen that’s a psychopath on the inside.

Is that the takeaway we should settle for and accept? I’m doing so, aren’t we all just Patty?

Wouldn’t we watch a show where someone learns to navigate newfound celebrity with their original intelligence and integrity intact?

Apparently, this show’s producers – and Netflix – think that we wouldn’t. They even seem to go one step further, making popular, beautiful people into unaccountable victims of their own good fortune…because that’s a reflection of itself that society can embrace.

Which is why I walked away from Insatiable asking myself

I gotta get a job…

I Might Be Insatiable

Manopause

I’ve never felt bad for women who declare, “Oh, god…I’ve turned into my mother”. However, I never really expected the thought to flit through my mind.

But that’s exactly what happened last night.

No, I wasn’t drinking.

The thought had no sooner pasted a glimmer of a smile on my lips, than I’d dismissed the idea. I’m not becoming my mother – although, in my case, I wouldn’t understand why women make that sound so bad.

I settled on an even more insane sounding occurrence: I’m obviously pregnant.

Here’s the scenario: I was actually – well, let me save you some time.

If a picture is, indeed, worth a thousand words…you’re welcome. I’ve clearly spared your eyes some strain.

If you need a little more context to interpret those two pictures, I’m happy to oblige. Read on, I’ll be as brief as possible…

I was eating ice cream for dinner. Why? I dunno. It just ended up in my hands while I was looking at my fridge for dinner ideas.

I was actually standing there, staring slack-jawed at my options of almost literally nothing to eat.

Fridge door open.

Freezer drawer pulled out.

This had the added benefit of blasting me with cold air on yet another 90+ degree day in Portland.

Seriously, we do not need this information getting out, but Portland has beautiful summers. That rain for next Saturday? Yeah, we heard that promise last week, but the rain was only a rumor.

If it does rain next Saturday, that’ll be the end of at least a three week dry spell. If it doesn’t rain…well.

Ugh.

Things could be worse.

Anyway, back to cooling the house with an open refrigerator. Realizing I was doing so, I closed everything up and stood in my kitchen undecided. I was conflicted about cooking and heating up the house, but I didn’t want to order in.

Ice cream seemed like a really good triple whammy to that conundrum because it’s cold food, right? It had the added benefit of not being beer or wine, too. But I was having trouble rationalizing executing the decision to eat ice cream as a meal.

I blamed the Silver Fox. He’d invited me along to Trader Joe’s last week. Probably because he needed bananas – seriously, if he needs bananas: TJs; if he needs milk: Costco – and invited me along.

$55 dollars later, my fridge was full. Of course, I’d only needed one thing when I agreed to go along…

Actually, he’d needed to go for some chocolatey good treats for some chocoholic friends that were coming to dinner the next night. By his endorsement, Trader Joe’s has the best chocolate ice cream.

I chose a different path.

I was not disappointed in my selection. Additionally, I’ve had two servings and still have more. Take that Ben & Jerry’s and your single serving containers!

This is all about excusing my dinner decision last night. Truth of the matter? Once I saw the ice cream in my freezer, I couldn’t not think about it. I had to have it.

It was a craving.

I addition to Portland’s current heat wave driving me to not cook and enjoy frosty beers and chilled rose deliciousness too frequently, it’s also limited my outdoor activity.

Meaning: no hiking or bike riding.

Also, meaning: fat Xtopher.

Seriously.

Fat.

I’ve put on 10 pounds in the last three months. Actually, I put on 10 lbs in a month, I’ve just been holding steady for the last two…trying to limit the damage. That’s 10 on top of 10 that I gained in the first quarter of the year, by the way. Not a good way to follow up last year’s fitfy initiative.

It’s a real shitshow over here at Chez Galby.

I look pregnant.

Well, I think that’s about 1000 words on the picture of my Facebook post about last nights dinner.

Moving on…

I sat down with my ice cream supper and decided to watch the movie Battleship. There’s always a little time for a stupid Rihanna-slash- action movie and after seeing Mission Impossible: Fallout last week…I was jonesing for another Adrenalin hit.

I cried during the movie.

What.

The.

F.

I mean…I’m not super surprised. I cried at the end of Rocky. But at least that was a story about believing in yourself and accomplishing a goal against all odds.

Sure, Battleship has a tenuous similarity. But, c’mon…at least Rocky is quasi tethered to reality. I have an equal belief in boxers and aliens. However, I’ve yet to meet an alien, so that diminishes the reality aspect of the movie Battleship by comparison.

My last word on this crying jag? Copious.

Big, round, flowing tears. Not a quick hit of emotion like in other bouts of ridiculous crying I’ll admit to. This shit just kept on coming. I literally did not have the control to stop. As it was continuing to not end, the movie moves on to a scene – where I know what’s going to happen – and I’m so caught up in this ridiculous moment that I uttered “Oh, no!” before Rihanna comes out of nowhere to save her stereotypically every Irish person from Boston shipmate.

Craziness.

But, just like with the ice cream, I couldn’t stop myself.

Irrational emotions and emotional decisions.

I need pregnancy hormones to even begin to excuse my present shape and recent decision making history.

Since I’m stubborn I decided to watch a potentially feely movie after Battleship ended. It had dropped recently on Netflix called Like Father. I figured it had the potential to make me emotional and that might help me justify the emotional outburst.

I know. Completely backward timing, but I was just looking for a lifeline for my dignity.

It failed to deliver.

As I’m sitting there, not being moved to tears, I emotionally decide to make the French Fries from my freezer.

C’mon!

It’s after 10 PM.

As I’m watching my oven timer count down, my rational Hyde brain is trying to assert itself and take control back from my Jekyll emotions. He’s been trying to come back to the forefront of my personality lately. That makes me sad. Hyde used to be my default personality. Now, I feel like Jekyll is too present.

Enabling idleness.

Eating and drinking to excess.

I know that it’s depression about feeling driven out of my last job for expecting my fellow leadership peers to follow corporate policies. Naturally, compounded by the challenge of finding a new job. With just a dash of frustration at too often being passed over for an internal candidate.

Yeah, that’s a recipe for depression, right there.

But knowing that in some trapped, logical part of my brain as 10:30 approaches didn’t stop the irrational and sad part of my brain from eating that entire package of French Fries while I finished that stupid movie. No, it wasn’t a movie, it was a mehvie. Hehe.

So I woke up this morning – having slept a straight eight interrupted hours and picked up where I’d left off last night: something has to change.

During the last few weeks of not going outside, I’ve been thinking about rejoining my gym. My resistance there is two-fold: primarily my fear of re-injuring my treasonous shoulder joints; secondarily, I’m too cheap to pay the initiation fee again.

My alternative was to go back to my spin gym. I’ve been talking about it since January. Last week, I actually went back to look at class packages. I was unhappy to discover that the drop in rate has increased to $25.

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.

They gym seems to prefer class packages over drop ins. Fine. To that end, the owner offers 10-pack classes at a discount. That used to be $180, recently that increased to $190 and if I was having trouble pulling the trigger on the value of an $18 spin class in January…well, that extra buck didn’t help.

What was a surprise when I dug a little deeper last week was the offering of a 20 class package for $300. My grinchy fat ass can support a $15 class.

Except.

Budgeting goes well with no income. Splurging on a $300 luxury does not. I even joined AARP knowing that I was still too young to qualify for the Silver Sneaker program – which pays your gym membership in order to encourage us oldies to exercise – but thinking there might at least be a discount to get me by in the meantime.

There was not.

I’ve spent the last week or so vacillating between spending the money on re-joining my gym or buying a spin package or just forcing myself into the streets to cycle in extreme heat. Neither seems like a great idea. However, when I got back from coffee with The Fox this morning, bitching about my mild sweaty discomfort after walking just under two miles round trip in mid-morning heat, I decided on a compromise: I bought the lunch package of spin classes. They net out to $11 per half hour class. Not a great deal comparatively, but I was kind of fretting collapsing off my spin cycle during a full class, anyway. Hence the “compromise”. This will be a good compromise to get me back in the groove.

That’s what I’m telling myself.

This has the added benefit of pleasing the Filipina Fox, who teaches at the spin gym I go to. She doesn’t do the lunch class, but she’ll be glad that I’m at least getting back in the (bike) saddle.

Wish me luck…I’ve got work clothes that I’ve got to – hopefully – fit back into at some point. Time to push (mano)pause and banish my pregnancy body and Jekyll mindset.

Manopause

Staycation

Admittedly, this is not as exciting or fulfilling as my August vacation with the family.  To be honest, this vacation is the result of my testing the new vacation request system at work so I knew how it worked.

But, The Boss approved it…so, Bob’s your uncle.

Speaking of uncles, mine flew in on Wednesday from Houston.  Coming to Oregon from Texas for some dry weather, I reckon.  I didn’t get to see him when he landed because I had a meeting that ran long.  I’m not entirely sure when I will see him, actually!  Mom-Donna threw out a few weekend ideas for get togethers, but I had commitments both days and had to pass.

Of course, both things fell through, because this is my life…where the Galby Effect originated.

So, here I sit.  Balancing bursts of housebitch activity on this vacation Saturday with bouts of couch surfing…and now WordPressing.

Couch Surfing round 1 was Miss Congeniality.

I’ve got Miss Congeniality queued up and ready to watch, but I’m not quite ready to commit to that…yet.

Which means, a lil vacay update for you all instead of finishing one of my two dozen blog drafts.  

It’s my vacation…rhymes with procrastination.

Let’s not pretend that’s a surprising development.

Let’s see.  My vacation started after a six day stretch at work, which ended only an hour later than I projected.  Good thing, too.  That gave me just enough time to get home, change and let The Silver Fox cajole me into an inaugural vacation beer before the hotel tour I had arranged to see the guest facilities of the new hotel next door.

I’d see the bar, that’s for sure.  Besides serving one of the best Oregon beers – Breakside IPA – Turner Creek Tavern also offers up some pretty tasty morsels.

Some of them are even on the menu,

But after watching my view over the last 18 months go from this

To this

To this

And, finally…this

I felt like a view from their rooftop patio was in order.

Plus, The Fox has a great nephew that is going to PSU and he’d love to have the boy’s parents stay so close by when they visit.

You could say that our recent twice weekly and now this tour was recon.

It was a good start to my work break.  It’ll be my last break until probably March/April next year.  I’m hoarding the last two weeks and rolling them over into 2018.  I’m not sure I’ll stay in my present job later than that – it’s frustratingly dysfunctional and I simply don’t earn enough money to secure my financial present and future on my salary.  So, if I leave within that timeframe, I’ll have four or five weeks of vacation time – and hopefully a bonus – to take with me when I leave.

Anyhoo.

A few days before my vacation started, I’d told The Fox that I had been thinking maybe I should date again.

If you ask him, he might tell you I was trying to kill him by saying that to him.  But, it’s about time.

After Sacha left me on our “seventh” anniversary (it was our sixth) I was alone for six years before meeting Rib.  He and I were together for four.  I released him back into the wilds of Capital Hill three and a half years ago, so…math.

Math says that it’s time.  My process is complete.

Actually, when I broke up with Rib, I did so with full cognizance of the fact that it might have been a reasonable assumption that he’d be my last boyfriend.  I’m gonna be 50 in a few months.

Maybe – definitely – I was past my gay expiration date.

But that’s another blog.

Maybe.

Having said the words out loud, I wasn’t surprised to find myself attracted to the guy giving us the hotel tour.  What did kind of surprise me was that in my thank you email, I gave him my phone number and offered to take him out for a beer.

That also afforded me the opportunity to creep myself out, since I’d basically hit on him at work…breaking my dating rule about hitting on guys in their work place.  Obviously, that’s what Missed Connections are for!  

Sure, it was just an email and a fairly innocuous one, at that.  It’s not like I told him I wanted to put my Tab D into his Slot B. 

It’s just a beer.

And he’s new in town and said he loved IPAs.

Speaking of dating rules – well, this is more relationship advice – get one that’s new in town.  Especially small towns like Shittatle and PDX.  Less cross-pollination.

Unless his boyfriend followed him to Oregon.  But I’m pretty sure that only happened to him because he and I would eventually cross paths, share an attraction and this is my life.

Of course he’s going to be in anunfilfilling relationship.  Because that’s what could possibly go wrong.

But, we’ll still have a beer.

It’s not like I have anything else to do this weekend since I’m on vacation, my weekend plans fell through and The Fox is out of town.

I can’t watch Netflix the entire weekend!

But, I can go do my recycling and then hit the sofa for round two of couch surfing for today.

I am going to potato my couch so hard…

Staycation

Goodbye To Love

When your life is a Carpenters’ song…you know, let’s just say that there are worse things.  Because while the title-slash-theme to this blog entry may seem a little on the morose or even – since it’s me, here – maudlin side, you’ve got to remember that if the Carpenters are going to suddenly be revealed to be the folks responsible for scoring my life, I can also count on being On Top Of The World at some point.  And who’s to say that isn’t now?

So, there is all that.

But lest you think that this is a post about giving up, rest assured it’s not.  Over the last year, I’ve watched people start dating, stop dating, get married, get divorced and face all variety of conflict and joy in between.  Personally, I have had opportunities to participate in dating and romance and have – I think rather objectively – chosen to pass.

I (don’t) Need To Be In Love.

I see people my age dating after divorce following a long term marriage and absolutely loving the experience.  I know.  Dating is a euphoric rush.  I get a little contact high from following their sexploits.

Chrisism.

I think that contact high is enough for me right now.

Goodbye doesn’t have to be forever.

It’s not a statement that comes out of bitterness, I’m just focusing elsewhere.  I know that I had my chance and now it’s time to face my relationship status with the same grace as Hilary faced the tragic 2016 election results.

I had a wonderful relationship experience with Rib a few years back – even though sometimes it feels like it was Only Yesterday – and if that ends up being my final relationship, it’s not a bad note to exit dating on.  I think our time together helped make him the man he was when he met his current boyfriend, and for that, I feel a little pride.  For me, exiting that relationship in the manner that I did, with my eyes wide open, prepared me for the acceptability of being alone.  Even if it’s for the long run and I don’t date again.  And, like Hilary – who may never run for public office again after this past election cycle – went to the Traffic Cone’s inauguration, I would certainly be comfortable going to Rib’s wedding if the invitation ever arose.

So, there’s all that, too.

One of my recently single friends – Diezel – sent me this meme in a text the other day.  

I laughed out loud and told him so.

Of course, this was after a few minutes of thought about where the motivation for this text came from, he could have been standing on a building rooftop for all I knew.  He was pretty blindsided by his boyfriend’s sudden exodus.  While Diezel was thinking We’ve Only Just Begun, The Marine was considering that it was time to end (T)his Masquerade.

And he was kind of – totally not “kind of” but rather, completely – an ass about it, making what should have been a Christmas Song for the couple’s first Christmas together his swan song in the relationship and breaking up with Diezel over the holiday.

Like I said, The Marine was a complete ass in this matter.

So, when contemplating whether to share with Diezel that I had guffawed at his meme while at work – in the middle of a busy airport concourse like a completely crazy person – I also had to consider where he was emotionally.  I know the whole emotional overcorrection that is swearing to never date again.  But I trust Diezel’s emotional depth enough to differentiate between pushing tough feelings down and covering them up with a cast made of sweatpants and pony tails as you make a show of strength out of basically giving up on love versus taking the time one deserves to heal and get back to a place where he is a whole individual again and also not overcorrecting by jumping into a new relationship just to put a temporary salve on the emotional pain of a recent heartbreak.img_1748

My response to him ultimately, was what I try to always be with my friends – especially one that I consider family, like Diezel – respectful and honest and completely Xtopher.

“I know that’s your depression talking, but that’s still friggin’ hilarious.  I lolled.”

Because, when should one pass up an opportunity to paraphrase Under The Tuscan Sun?

Never.

Never is the correct answer, especially when the discussion is centered on relationship pain, as this one certainly was.  But that we could somehow shift gears from appropriate gloom to boy bands…well, like Diezel said in the subsequent texts, “It’s why we are friends.”

True fucking story, Diezel.

While It’s Going To Take Some Time for Diezel to return to his fully functional single self, I saw last night at our MNSC dinner that he was definitely well on his way.  And, no – since I’m busy trying to cram as many Carpenters song titles into this blog post – our meal last night was not Jambalaya.

For me, it’s my birthday.  I know…maudlin and morose timing, but that’s all it is, timing.  As I begin the final year of my fifth decade, I have a lot of other things in my life to focus on this year.  Things that actually define me as an individual, not things that validate my self worth.  That’s where I want to put my energy because it’s never going to be Yesterday Once More.  Those days past are behind me, and while there are always happy memories to reflect back upon, I’m not – and forgive the Bruce Springsteen intrusion here – ready to invest my future happiness in my Glory Days.  I’m forward focused and embracing the future because…

I’ve Only Just Begun, suckers, so watch out.

Goodbye To Love

The Red Shirt Diaries #2

breakfast-of-sickosI’ve been sick since last week…and it’s a weak, yet persistent little bug.  It’s annoying.

But, at least being medicated gives you some interesting dreams!  And this morning, with the help of NyQuil and wine before bed, followed by DayQuil and a breakfast of Monster Lo-Carb and black RedVines for breakfast…I finally feel like sitting up long enough to scribble down some of them.

Or one, in particular.

We’ll see if I have any mojo left for the others.

Not to bury the lede, or anything, but I’m not particularly afraid of spiders.  I’m not the type of guy that runs around picking them up and taking them outside…but after the initial revulsion, I tend to tolerate their presence.

So, I’m laying in bed the other morning – wheezing – trying to go back to sleep.  My throat is on fire, probably from sleeping with my patio door open so that the murderous Myrtle can go in and out as she pleases…which is solidly just defensive thinking to hopefully get as much undisturbed sleep for the night as possible.  It’s 6:58 in the morning and I can hear the construction team warming up outside my bedroom window prior to beginning their work on the hotel project next door.

My sleep window is usually a pretty tight affair.

I’m stuck between getting up for some Naproxen and Melatonin so I can just knock myself out for a few hours (I’m out of NyQuil at this point) and successfully dozing off and on.

I’m actually dreaming – or hallucinating, depending on your definitions – in my moments of unconsciousness.

img_1519I wake up, sensing something crawling on my wrist.  My hand is tucked underneath my pillow, supporting my head, but close enough to the wall that I briefly consider what might have crawled out of the crack before dismissing the sensation as my pillowcase brushing one of the hairs that grows away from my skin versus laying down with the rest of my arm hair.

I’m chuckling at what on Earth would ever lead me to believe there might be monsters under my bed.  Surely, a cat as intelligent as my murderous and blood thirsty Myrtle wouldn’t just stare at my bedskirt for no reason whatsoever…would she?

I fall back asleep.

Only to be woken up by my neighbor leaving for work.  Two doors slamming is his farewell – the first is the door to his unit, the second the fire exit door since he takes the stairs down versus the elevator.

My throat is on fire.  I decide that I’m not going to get any more sleep without serious sleep inducers and just decide to get up.  I do some serious coughing as the phlegm in my throat shifts position from the horizontal to the vertical.  I’m having trouble expelling any of it while I cough.

I hop in the shower to wash the sick sheen off my body after a night of erratic feverish sleep.  I keep coughing as the heat further loosens up my throat.  Aren’t you glad I didn’t say “phlegm” again?  I’m feeling better overall, even though I know that the heat from the shower is going to mess with my body temp for a few hours to come.  I’m finishing up, brushing my teeth and enjoying the steam wishing I could clear my throat.

Yeah, I brush my teeth in the shower…what of it?

I’m rinsing the toothpaste from my mouth when I’m hit by a huge throat tickle.  Spewing water and toothpaste suds all over the shower wall, I successfully avoid drowning myself and double-over, coughing.  I’m bracing myself against the wall with one hand, just getting in a killer ab work out as I cough.

A nearly solid chunk of phlegm flies onto the shower floor as I finally cough up what was in my throat.  It’s about the size of a date.

Gross.

I’m still coughing a little, my throat is still a little tickle-y.  I’m staring, horrified, at what just came out of me when I notice that it’s kind of darker in the core and lighter and whitish at the edges…and that there’s a…spider leg sticking out of one edge?!?

Eeewww.

I lean my body against the shower wall imagining how easily a spider could have crawled into my mouth given my tendency to lay flat on my back with my mouth wide-open when I’m congested in order to suck as much oxygen in as possible while I’m sleeping.  Snoring, some might say.

I’m hit by another round of small coughs, which result in some splatter on my hand…great, I’ve probably coughed my throat raw and am actually bleeding.

The splatter starts moving around.

My throat explodes outward with baby spiders as my body explodes upward in bed.

Well, now I’m awake.

I prop up pillows behind me and grab my iPad to read.

“Let’s search the place for Hex Bags before we go canvass the neighborhood and talk to his friends…see if anyone strange has been hanging around the neighborhood or if this guy had any enemies.”

I’ve fallen asleep again

More likely, I’m in that semi-asleep state between being truly awake and truly unconscious.  I soothe my active mind into just going with it.  I’m curious to see what has been going on with my subconscious self lately.

“Cut!” someone yells, and I push myself up from the floor of the shower just in time to see Jared Padelecki and Jensen Ackles walk away from my mostly naked self.

I really need to stop binge-watching Supernatural while I’m taking cold medicine.

The Red Shirt Diaries #2

Machete

I’m pretty sure the friend that floated the notion of wiling away a Monday watching Star Wars at Portland Center Stage prior to the release of Episode VII quit her job the week before just to be available for the endeavor.  

Allow me to introduce my Little Buddy.

That’s just a wild guess on my part, though.

Two things that I do know for sure, however:

A) I had previously committed to myself not to see the newest release until after the hubbub died down.  One of the perks of persistent unemployment is movie matinees.  With no crowds to irritate our curmudgeonly hero.

And;

B) I didn’t previously fully understand Machete Order aside from the random off-the-cuff cultural reference.

So, let’s tackle that second point first, just to make the info available to any of my friends and/or readers who may be easily pigeon-holed into the cultural Dark Side.  Machete Order is supposedly the optimal viewing order for the first two trilogies.  The overwhelming bonus would be that it eliminates ep1, effectively reducing the loathsome Jar Jar Binks to about 5 minutes of screen time and about 6 lines of dialogue.

Need more?

The viewing order starts with epIV and V, introducing the core characters and establishing the major plot points.

Then we jump back to epII and III, skipping epI altogether and treating the other two entries in the second trilogy as kind of a mythology-origin story flashback to give you background on the whole Vader/Luke/Leia evolution.

Finish up with the almost universal favorite – well, universal in the context of planet Earth, anyway – epVI and I was up to speed and refreshed on the story lines.

Watching at PCS was delightful because they were spaced out well enough that I had about 45 minutes between shows so I could stretch my legs.  That, of course being a euphemism for “get a beer” between shows.  First film was at 9am and thanks to my wonderfully enabling LB, I was having a beer between shows at 11:15 in the morning.

Little Buddy had qualified the invite with the disclaimer that she might skip the reviled-albeit-reduced prequels and maybe – maybe – return for the finale.

She did.

Then she didn’t.

But, look at me powering through alone until the bitter end.  Also, quite literally having nothing else to do but fritter away my Monday with people who probably haven’t had sex this century.

If ever.

Ok, that was an old school pejorative stereotype.  Portland geeks are hawt.  So I got to watch movies in a room full of the elusive hot nerd types.

So, that’s Machete.  I’m a fan.  I don’t have children or cable, so I feel I could realistically live out my remaining days never coming into contact with ep1 again.

Now, onto the grumpy, old man factor…

Blockbuster movie releases – much like brunch in Portland – is a young person’s game.  That said, after my machete romance, I was primed to reconsider my crowd avoidance social tactics and wade into the crowds for early release viewing.

Naturally, my inner turmoil prompted me to do nothing.

But, I did think about going to a midnight show Thursday night/Friday morning.  My justification being that downtown Portland is certainly not going to draw the crowds found in the sub-urban wastelands bordering it.  Still, I chose to employ the “wait and see” method.  So, today I decided to jump onto my Regal app and see what the what actually was.

Turns out, shows started at 7 pm on Thursday.  So much for Friday releases.  I looked at shows for today – yesterday now – and found that the shows were all sold out until Saturday.

Fuuuuuuck!

Oh well.  It’s a sign.

A sign that I should check the 3D showings, which I normally eschew.  I think too many movies are unnecessarily made in a 3D format, but this is a reasonable exception.

Portland:  where young people come to retire…

None of those cunts (used strictly in the UK slang meaning) were gonna drop an extra $3 for a 3D ticket, it seems.  I had no difficulty procuring a seat for a 9 pm showing on the 3D screen for The Force Awakens.

So I fucking went.

A few takeaways from tonight’s experience:

BTW:  SPIOLER BELOW!!!

Seriously.  Don’t bitch at me if your idle curiosity gets the best of you and my humble blog *ruins* the show for you…

A) Hot gay nerds!  I actually struck up a conversation in line with the HGN standing behind me.  He was super nice and fun to talk to.  Also, the aforementioned HOT.  So, we sat together.  Right by another single HGN.  This poor guy…so much more G and N in his mind than H, which he totally was, that he didn’t think to even silence his phone…which promptly went off during the movie.  Twice.  Probably another of his nerd friends wanting to talk TFA reviews from lands eastward.  Poor bastard.

B) Someone BIG dies.  Oh shut up.  It’s not like I told you anything surprising…it’s prudent Hollywood story craft.  To be clear, when I say someone BIG, I’m not talking Jabba size.  I’m talking a key player.

Besides, they can always bring him back. Yeah….

C) I’m a nerd.  A gay nerd.  Well past my reasonable expectation of a “hot” designation’s expiration date, but I’m appreciating the guy candy that comes with the evolution of the HGN designation.

D) I need a fucking job.  I have way too much time on my hands.  When going to the movies for an entire day is a better use of my time than anything else…it’s time to go back to work.

I literally have some sort of trigger pulling paralysis.

I plan things.

I create routines.

Then, I procrastinate.

And I can!

I literally have all day to look for jobs.

Or go to the gym.

Or write.

So, why not ramp up to my one task for any given day with a nice slow start?  A pot of coffee with the Silver Fox or a few hours of Netflix?

What could possibly go wrong?

Well, maybe it’s another blog post, but what usually goes wrong is one of my awesome friends wanting to treat me to a happy hour or grab some grub after they get off work.

It’s not a terrible life, don’t get me wrong…

Is this a good time to mention that this is my first blog post created entirely on my iPhone?  I left the movies and felt restlessly compelled to honor a commitment to a high school friend and get a blog out.  So I stopped for a beer at one of my favorite, cheap watering holes.

This one’s for you, KPG!

Machete