Maybe I Can’t Blame Lack Of Sleep…

I was talking to the Silver Fox over a beer last night at Big Legrowlski. It was kind of touch and go for us last week when he floated the notion of not drinking any more. I’m fine with not drinking any more, of course, it was the realization that he meant that maybe he should drink less.

Like zero.

He was trying to blame his acid reflux on beer and wine. I – unsurprisingly – was not having it.

Of course, my not sleep deprived brain got weird with it and made it into a song, a la Duran Duran’s song The Reflex.

The Reflux.

Flux.

Flux.

Flu-flu-flu-flu-flux.

I distracted myself from this ear worm with a story about my mother’s new contact info.

Yeah. I’m one of those guys. With just a hint of this guy, but only for comedic effect. Swearsies.

My contact info is separated out into three solid categories with a couple of fringe elements:

Nicknames: people I love

Names: friends I regularly associate with

Numbers: people I don’t know whether I like yet or not

These unsaved numbers used to just get a first name, but then I ended up with a whole bunch of people saved by first name only – and really, how many Mikes and Peters does one phone list need? Also, there were a lot of people with the surnames Scruff and Hookup.

So I did a clean sweep and deleted all those one name wonders. Haven’t missed them since. Now, I don’t save a contact until I know the person’s first and last name and they prove they aren’t a flake.

There are exceptions, of course.

The Fox taught me his best practice for eliminating phone clutter. Consider this a bonus Today I Learned: if someone calls from an unrecognized number and doesn’t leave a message, he blocks the number. I had been saving the number to a contact called Likely Scam. I just changed all that. Now I do as the Silver Fox do!

The other exception actually occurred last Thursday when I got a lot of attention – and a special freebie – from a very bored stripper. I was texting The Fox (and by texting, I mean accidentally waking up at 1:30) and this stripper came back from his set. In a fit of pay attention to me-ness, he took my phone out of my hands and then texted himself and created his own contact.

So, now I’ve got a stripper’s phone number. Again.

Oh, well.

He’ll either upgrade of get deleted.

And unless I’ve been sleep deprived my whole life, I can’t blame any of that nonsense on lack of sleep.

Because of evidence like this, which is years old.

Look, ma…no asocial media apps!

I dunno. Maybe I’m just weird. I am a native Portlander.

Maybe I Can’t Blame Lack Of Sleep…

Home From Hood River

There was a cook out at Syncline, a winery on the Washington side of the Gorge across from Hood River this past Sunday. The Silver Fox got me a +1 and we joined some friends for a foursome out.

I got to drive!

Turns out, not only had the owner of the winery managed perfect weather: clear, blue skies, no wind – which is a feat in the Gorge, and 55 degrees all afternoon; he’d also just been elected Winemaker of the Year by some winemaker’s association. So this was a good get for me.

The beauty on the way out as the deciduous tree leaves showed off their roadside golds and reds against the evergreen background of the pines and firs ahead was breathtaking, to be sure.

But on the way back, the sun was setting – at about 4:30, go figure – and the highway through the Gorge was dark, but the sunset! From edge to edge, the dusk blackened hillsides framed the beauty of the pink sunset!

Someone in the car wondered if the color was due to the California fires. We all decided it was not, and just waited for the next curve in the road to get a fresh view of Mother Nature just showing off.

Poor Sallory, she had gone over to the beach house, which has provided my text threads with her and The Fox with many a gorgeous sunset…it really is beautiful to look out at the sunset over the bluff the cottage sits on. But not this time.

I was busy being the DD, so I couldn’t get a picture, but you can trust me.

Now, here’s the deal. Our little foursome had a great conversation both out the Gorge and back in. The Silver Fox took a little disco nap on the way back, but it didn’t stop the rest of us.

After a few minutes of being lost in the sunset, I wondered aloud whether anyone thought old what’s-his-name that wrote The National Anthem/America the Beautiful had actually ever been west before writing it.

Of course, this devolved into several minutes of trivial arguments about who wrote the damn song.

John Philip Sousa?

No…that’s not right.

Is it?

No, no…that’s who it was, I know it!

I had to google it when I got home. Suffice it to say, I was under immense pressure as the owner of the youngest – and, most preserved, I should point out – brain to know the answer.

All that on top of driving! Something I rarely do…outside the bedroom.

Turns out, well…who had Francis Scott Key?

Bully! Partial credit for you!

It turns out, FSK’s poem became the lyrics for the music composed by John Stafford Smith.

Yeah, we weren’t in any danger of winning any Jeopardy prizes.

My point was, though, I’m throwing my typically and randomly insane question out to the car…wouldn’t you think that if Francis Scott Key had ever been to the west coast we would have gotten a better shout out? Yes, I am complaining about the west, specifically the Pacific Northwest, only getting a 50% stake in

From sea to shining sea!

I’m not dissing purple mountains majesty or amber waves of grain, but c’mon! If you’ve ever been here, you’ll know that we deserve better.

Again, you can trust me.

No matter, though. When the west coast breaks off and liberates Red America – I mean, abandons it to its own devices – we can join British Columbia and write a Cascadia national anthem that will do our west coast beauty justice.

But if Cali comes along, we’re gonna have to deal with Fresno feeling left out…that poor place will go from being the armpit of California to being the sphincter of Cascadia.

Can’t win ’em all!

Home From Hood River

No Regrets

Writing about my good old times at The Old and The New Old Lompocs yesterday reminded me of this little nugget of a story languishing in draft-land from waaaaay back.

I’d like to say it was from a few months back, when I was working at the airport – PDX…maybe you’ve heard of it? It’s the best airport in the universe, at least according to travelers in the United States.

Six years running…no big deal.

They’ve got, like, carpet…and a clock.

Anyway, today – because this is my life and this is the way it always “just so happens” in my life – just so happens to be my 7 month anniversary of telling the company I worked for at PDX that it wasn’t me, it was them. So, this story probably starts a full year back.

Well, the draft starts a year back. The story itself? Yup, a century ago.

You see, when I wasn’t hanging out, wiling away my free time lusting over Richard, I was usually hanging out with my buddy No Regrets. Even then, I was a social prowler versus staying home. I didn’t even have a health hazard of a cat to keep me away from home. It’s kind of just how I’m built.

No Regrets was the manager of the store next to mine, so we became acquainted fairly easily. Eventually, we bonded over shared stories of I-5 shoplifting rings and after that, became friends.

Well, last year, I was in the B concourse store doing something – something that was likely Captain Can’t’s responsibility…but he, y’know…couldn’t – and who should happen by but my old pal!

Why do I call him No Regrets? Well, it’s a riff on his last name, mainly. But also, this guy was idling through or just out of so many programs when we met. These programs have a great benefit for participants – many, obviously – but for No Regrets, the main takeaway seemed to be overcoming the shame and stigma around his various struggles and being able to normalize the impulses he experienced in recovery.

Y’know, he had no regrets. Without the problems he’d overcome, he wouldn’t have become the fuller functioning person I met.

I know. Anyone in recovery hates how I just short handed that, but…here we are.

The result for me was bearing witness to private thoughts – or what many people would keep private – and stories of how he got to where he got before entering recovery. Oddly, they were rather entertaining, in a cautionary tale type of way. No Regrets’ story telling style was just rather engaging, too. He had a story teller’s voice.

Anyway, we chatted at the airport for a few, just caught up ever so briefly before he had to catch his plane. But that brief download was still so chockablock full of nostalgia for our time together a couple decades ago.

Because when I wasn’t at The Old Lompoc swilling beer, I was probably with No Regrets a few blocks away for some totally unneeded late night caffeine. Let’s see, if Lompoc was at 23rd and Savior, our hangout – CoffeeTime – was at…21st and Irving?

Yeah. 21st and Irving. I just remembered that my crashpad after moving back to PDX was right around the corner at 19th and Irving…that was a nice, warm welcome home! So when I say these hangouts were a few blocks away, 8 over, 2 up…yeah, not too far at all. Gotta love how small town-y Portland can feel!

One of his many Anons being the big A, we met at his favorite nighttime hangout. It was new to me and reminded me of the subterranean Catskeller below the student union in college, so many little twisty corners that created books for a small study table or old sofa for reading and chatting in semi-soon-to-be-necking privacy.

I loved it immediately.

Plus, there were a lot of cute, young, student body types. Guy Candy, if you will. Of course, one of No Regrets’ other Anons was S – Sex, if you didn’t get that one – he openly commented on the guy candy we were immersed in.

Look at that guy. You know he’s not wearing any underwear under his sweats, when he gets up again you can totally see his big dick flipping around.

Or,

Check out the size of those Chucks. You know that scrawny guy is packing a big, floppy dick.

A lot of his therapeutic appreciations involved genitals of the big, floppy type.

Like I complained. He amused me.

Anyway, it was here, at this time in my life – these late night chats with No Regrets – that I really learned to be self reflective. It was pre-Sacha – because he shut friendship with other gay guys down right quick – and I was new to town, not dating.

The way he talked about his struggles led me to ask questions like, “How does Sex Addiction work with dating?”

Poorly, mostly.

Was his humorous response to let me know I didn’t have to be scared to ask personal questions.

No, but seriously…not that well. But once you get into the program, they don’t want you dating anyone for at least the first year. No distractions. After the first steps are accomplished, the guideline is “If you can keep a plant alive for a year, you can date”.

“Oooh…I’m not sure I get the plant thing, but you’re…”

On my second plant.

He was only kidding, but this self-effacing wit definitely resonated with me. It was similar to my own style.

So one night, I whacked him over the head with the big, floppy part of a passerby and buried him in Forest Park.

I just love that place.

I joke.

If I recall the details of the program correctly, keeping a plant alive for a year served the dual purpose of putting someone else’s needs above your own and not letting your personal issues derail a relationship and actually being able to provide the essential support they need to thrive.

Dead plant = fail, right?

But it made sense. It got that it was a big leap from watering and fertilizing a plant to having a relationship, but the whole focus on knowing yourself before you get to know someone else and become a part of their well being was quite a takeaway from these talks.

Again, making enemies of any reader that is in any recovery program.

But thinking on these inadvertent nuggets of wisdom he brought to CoffeeTime helped me to formulate my own code when it came to dating. Namely: taking time between relationships.

I’d moved to Portland with only two relationships of any length under my belt – at 28…how pathetic, right? Let’s ignore the fact that I’ve only doubled that result in the next half-ish of my life, shall we? But I had a natural reluctance to just swing from one relationship to the next, as a monkey does with tree branches.

This helped me to define that habit or ritual of mine.

For the record, not all of his stories were about shoplifters or his life in Whatever Anonymous. Sometimes he’d tell stories about his completely strange family and growing up surrounded by mentally unwell or abusive people.

His brother was textbook crazy…I want to say schizophrenia+. But the poor kid was terrified from the inside everyday. It had to be hell being him and it didn’t sound like being around him was any picnic, either.

But, lemonade, right?

No Regrets told me about this conversation he’d had with his brother one day. He’d asked him how his day was. Surprisingly, the day had been relatively uneventful, which was a rare occasion for his brother.

Until I was walking home from the bus and the man across the street started shooting his Sex Rays at me.

…and then he just calmly continued on with telling the events of his day.

No Regrets sees my eyebrows shoot up and my mouth form a tight little circle. In response, he pulls his head down and to the left as he raises that shoulder to meet it in his version of a shrug, mimics my eyebrow rockets and half lets out a guffaw as if to say, “That’s bound to happen if you walk around long enough”.

Sex Rays?!?”, I demand.

Yup. I mean, what are ya gonna do? And it didn’t even register as more than a nuisance!

“Like a footnote in his day?”

Basically. I mean, this kid loses it over toilet paper being hung the wrong way,

“Shut up.”

but Sex Rays don’t bother him at all.

We chuckled at that for quite a while that night while I grilled him on details, knowing that he’d want to make sure his bro was truly ok. I wish I could remember the conversation better, suffice it to say, there was some frustration on his bother’s part, I just can’t remember it.

But we did get some miles out of that turned phrase. Instead of worrying about what was big and/or floppy, we’d say something like,

I’d like to shoot my Sex Rays at that!

Y’know, lighthearted nonsense.

Anyway, flash forward a year or two, Sacha is in the picture, No Regrets is out. We’d still managed occasional coffees while we worked next door to each other, but eventually, I got transferred across town and then he moved to NorCal and we completely lost touch in the pre-LinkedIn world we were trapped in.

Flash forward another few years and Sacha took off on me. I fell apart and then I fell back on the introspection I had learned from No Regrets and settled in to figuring out who I was as a single person again so that I didn’t subject a potential new mate to the damage of Sacha.

I’m sorry, not damage. Trauma? Scars? It’s just not quite right…ideally, anything that makes him sound the least bit responsible for his actions in a relationship makes him want to burn the world down, so let’s give his “At Least I Have A Friggin Glass” Google alert a treat and call it the Wrath of Sacha.

Anyway, I didn’t want to subject a new boyfriend to that particular STD, so I was single for a long damn time.

So long that I was living in Seattle the next time I found myself dating. Either work transferred me or I was single so long, the subduction zone I live in has crushed the distance between Portland and Seattle.

Who’s to really say for sure?

But a funny thing happened in between relationships.

My one job moved me to Seattle and then ended altogether a year-ish later. I’d gone to work in a crashpad of a job at Bed, Bath and Beyond. About 18 months later, I was recruited away by a customer who worked for Sur la Table.

When I was talking to some of my team about where I was going to, one of my associates – who never said anything – chimes in with,

Oh, yeah…my uncle is a District Manager for them in California.

Foreshadowing

“Well, there’s a big manager’s meeting here in Seattle (the company’s corporate HQ) so maybe I’ll meet him!”

Yup.

His uncle was No friggin Regrets.

I’m on the left, obviously.

It had been ten years since we’d first met. But we fell into an amazing and immediately comfortable rapport.

Turns out that was a good thing, since a couple years later, he got promoted and became my boss’ boss. I liked him, her…I was gonna enjoy watching this. In his many Anon learning experiences, he’d become a fan of being his genuine self. My boss…a jackhammer couldn’t reach an authentic level in her.

She was so bad that when I was with her and she’d introduce me to someone, she’d always work in an, “Oh, I love your scarf!” type compliment. I’d just stand behind her and make these little gestures

So, that was therapeutic to watch, but eventually I got recruited away and at some point – after our company sold itself into a Venture Capital form of sex slavery – he got sacrificed and we lost touch again.

Let’s see…this started in ’96. We met up again in ’06 and this last airport meeting was either in late ’16 or ’17…I really think it was ’17, but now that I type that out, I really hope this draft was older than I think.

I think it was actually. It was waaaaay down there.

But it’s funny, regardless. People come into your life for a reason. You may never know what that reason is, or that reason might simply be some low grade companionship.

But every now and then – especially if you’re an introspective S.O.B. like me that can go down for days on the couch – you realize that people you met 20 years ago and lost touch with long ago are still informing your decisions today with the fingerprint they left on you.

OK, see? I tried to just organically wrap this up with something uplifting and I typed that “.” and my inner lech whispered, “Yeah, you tell us about the fingerprint that Sex Addict left on you…”

I swear, Hannibal Lecter must have been my nanny.

Now that I realize my mistake, I know I should have tried to throw my introspection about No Regrets back to my Highlander reference earlier…because

Nonetheless, fingerprint analogy notwithstanding, you just never know who you’re going to meet that going to give you strength or joy later in life. When they show up – mentally or physically – it’s a fantastic leveling device against the daily onslaught of crushing minutia. You gotta take a second to enjoy that and toss out a thank you to the mysterious universe that keeps these people drifting through your consciousness.

Actually, now that I think about it, maybe I should reach out and see where he landed after Sur la Table. Maybe this time I could intentionally hitch my work wagon to him.

Hmmm…standby.

No Regrets

Bar of the God

The New Old Lompoc has closed.

The Filipina Fox – best wishes as you enter your fifth decade, love! – checked in on the Instagram at The New Old Lompoc up on Northwest 23rd Street last month with the caption that this was the last Miser Monday. I know that the Filipina Fox and her hubby aren’t moving away, so I figured maybe The New Old Lompoc was changing up their marketing and doing away with their popular $5 beer night.

Nope.

Closing.

Forever, it seemed.

This shiny new incarnation of one of my old haunts was shutting down. Overextended and unable to keep up with rising commercial costs in hipster Portland.

Sometimes I feel like life has passed so quickly, I can’t possibly be this old already. Others, like now, it’s as if I’ve lived through a couple of ice ages.

Back before the turn of the century, Trendy-Third, as it’s referred to, was kind of at the upper fringe of Portland’s Alphabet District. The Pearl District wasn’t even a real sub-neighborhood in Portland’s NW quadrant. Twenty-Third was a burgeoning street of retail shops and restaurants that ran from B – Burnside – down to about L – Lovejoy Streets. The hospital I was born in kind of broke things up from there with J – Johnson – to V – Vaughn – kind of becoming known as the ass-end of the street. There wasn’t much going on there other than the McMenamin’s Pub and a now relocated and replaced breakfast joint called Besaw’s that kind of helped start the idiotic Portland culture of standing in line for 45 minutes for a waffle.

But at Savior Street there was a dumpy old building that was home to my favorite dive bar, The Old Lompoc.

No new here.

My Black Sheep Bro and I used to hang out there on occasion. Other times, I’d take my best friend, Becky Boobalini…go ahead, guess how she got her nickname.

Still other times?

I’d go alone.

Why?

What made this dive bar so worth the near 30 block commute from my place on the waterfront?

The bartender, of course.

Richard was one of those guys that you look at and you can pretty much figure out: notba lot of words, no ambition, no plan, not a care in the fucking world.

I adored him.

Sometimes his motorcycle would break down and that was about the most emotion you ever got out of him. Then it was like his spouse of a half century was sick. They had quite a bond, this boy and his bike. I have no clue about motorcycles, aside from the time one of my college roommates tried to teach me to ride hers. But if he was talking about it while I was bellied up to the bar, I’d listen to his bad-ass boy talk about it all night.

He had shoulder length straight brown hair that never looked clean but was never on the verge of becoming dreads, either and a face that struggled to grow hair, but was always well beyond a simple stubble. He wore straight hipped, loose fitting blue jeans and biker boots every day. A mixture of black or white undershirts rounded out his uniform, and those shirts just never quite fit his frame perfectly. He was a little too tall for the shirt to cover his waist when he squatted or bent down. And when he raised his arms to brush his hair back I’d either get a peek at his stomach or a flash of underarm…sometimes both.

<swoon>

He was an Adonis from the wrong side of the tracks, to be sure.

Yeah, Richard was what the place had going for it. For me, anyway. Some of the other clientele looked like they were waiting for a fight or for a sucker to roll to walk in…which should have been me, but I’d already paid that toll at this point a half my life ago and wasn’t afraid of them. I’d wander in in my preppy work clothes after closing my store or meet Black Sheep Bro there to shoot some pool on my day off wearing a pastel polo that treated my waist like Richard’s tee shirt treated his.

I didn’t care.

Frankly, I think I established myself as both harmless and untouchable early on by being a much better tipper than the biker crowd. Back in the twilight of the 20th century, a buck a beer was a great tip. My party always did way better than that. So I personally thought that Richard had put the word out to leave me alone. It was either that or somehow Black Sheep Bro had put out the warning…but he’s not the type that can convincingly pull off menacing.

I think it was Richard.

Still another, more ridiculous than normal part of me is screaming at the back of my mind that Richard adored me back. Even as a young man, I had old man fantasies.

My early onset lech world came crumbling down when Richard mentioned one night that he was taking a job on the other side of the river. Turns out, that old bike of his was done for and he needed a place closer to home.

It’s called Bar of the Gods, over on Hawthorne.

“That tracks”, I’d said under my breath as I slowly nodded my head and pursed my lips at the impending loss of my Adonis of a bartender.

You’ll have to come over and check it out.

I convinced myself that he was – once again – hitting on me in that confusing low key manner of his. Pleats were still in, which was good, because when he talked like this…woo, sometimes I miss being in my mid 20s.

“I hang out at the Galaxy Room every now and then”, I told him. “I’ll definitely make a point of dropping in on you!”

But inside, I was dying…crying big pathetic sloppy tears of woe.

Yeah! That’s just up the street a ways. Come see me!

It was the end of an era. I still went to The Old Lompoc with friends, but never solo after that. I started going to Embers – a gay dance bar that happened to be the closest gay bar to my apartment – for my solo drinking. My friends weren’t that upset when they ended up tagging along, it was quite a fun place. It’s here that I met Sacha, so…thanks for that, Richard.

The Old Lompoc sold a while after Richard left. The new owners made some minor changes, including the yellow paint job shown above from its earlier neglected shade of white. They started brewing their own beer under The Old Lompoc label, and this was before small batch breweries took over as a legit industry in Oregon. I’m not sure if it was a brewing mishap or something else, but allegedly, The old Old Lompoc ended up burning down at one point. At least that’s the legend.

All I know is that when I moved back to town – heck…when work started bringing me down monthly in 2014, even – The Silver Fox and his then boyfriend, Casey Adler, would take me up there to the shiny new bar in the street space of a six floor apartment building for their Miser Monday. Same place in the block as the old clapboard building, but so different.

The old Old Lompoc never did Miser Monday. Then again, I doubt beer was more than $3.00 a pint back then, either.

It was nice, this new joint; good company and good beer…it just wasn’t the same as The original Old Lompoc. After Casey and The Silver Fox split up, the Filipina Fox and her hubby moved into the building that now housed the tavern and discovered it for themselves. My life was so horrible that the universe just wouldn’t let this place that was a source of comfort for me for so long fall out of my social orbit. And it kept putting important people in my life conveniently nearby so that I’d have company that mattered to me to share new experiences with there.

I can definitely muster some gratitude for my Foxes – who are both such important pieces of my life – being the tether that kept The Lompoc, in any incarnation, in my life. Alas, now, I’ll have to journey to Portland’s fifth quadrant of town to visit my Lompoc memories since that outpost is the closest I’ll be able to come to the real deal.

Bar of the God

Dating Into Oblivion ep7

Bachelor #11: The Transplant.

I know! I’m so behind. Episode 5 & 6 are stuck in draft limbo, but whuddyagunnado?

You could call this one the “Fresh Off the Boat” episode or even the “When It Rains” edition given recent events. Honestly, I think either way you argue it, it comes down to me: I just feel better, and I think the universe is picking up on that and…showering me with rewards.

Or – and this seems likely – I’m still stuck in the dating desert that is Portland and this is all a mirage.

“But, just what is it?”, you ask.

Well, Bachelor #4 from way back in January is back on the radar. He’s the “when it rains” part of this story. Over the year, as we are still connected on actual social versus asocial media, he’ll ping my radar. This has led to occasional text-a-paloozas over the last 9 months or so.

Right meow, it looks like this last ping has some staying power for my radar. And after last night, I’d really like to ping him.

😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈

But, that remains to be seen. He’s still in Vantucky and based on some recent events, logistically unavailable.

That’s different than geographically unavailable, which is one of the factors working against us back in January. He lives in Vantucky, I’m in Portland and don’t drive.

Another thing working against us?

My neurotic self.

I feel like entering into a situation where the expectation is that he haul ass to Portland every time we want to hang out is inequitable. For me, that was a poor start to a dating relationship.

For those and a few other flags – er…reasons – I let it fizzle.

But the sexy lil bastard just. keeps. pinging.

So…stand by. We’ll see what happens.

But, back to The Transplant.

While my old friend, DP, is fond of embracing the relationship philosophy of “Either you go on a date and never see each other again or you go on a date and he never leaves”, I have another notion. It’s not a criteria, which is a designation worth making, so much as maybe that’s just a potentially positive attribute of his.

Rib was a FOB. He’d been in Shittatle for a couple months from LA when we met. I think my ROI on the four years we spent together is pretty solid: I see he and I being friends for the rest of my life.

Maybe catching them fresh off the boat before they get caught up in the tidal wave of lost boys is a strategy with some legs?

The Transplant has been here in PDX for a couple months, having relocated from Chicago.

He hit me up on OKStupid a couple weeks ago.

We’re a ninety-friggin-six percent match.

That 4% intrigues me. He’s a vegetarian, which I want to say is the entire 4%.

Alas.

He’s also as much as stated that his personal style is distinctly designed without and fucks given to making other people comfortable.

Admittedly, my style is kind of the same. However, my Zero Fucks Given fashion manifests itself in me wearing tee shirts that have been in the dryer for three days and wearing clothes that “used to fit” but I don’t have to look at it, so screw it.

His Zero Fucks Given style is less apathy and more expression. He’s prone to inconsistent color in his hair and aggressively ripped clothing versus pathetically burst clothing.

Who knows, though?

If that’s the sum total of of our 4%, I’d say Vegetarian = 3.5 and Very Alt Style = .5 of those percentage points.

Interestingly, that he also ends up working for…Amazon is a complete fit of What Could Possibly Go Wrongness. Fortunately, he’s a third party employee – which is the group of “Amazon” employees that really gets the severest of Rogerings since Jeff – we are not on a first name basis – has very little control over their fate aside from renewing their employer’s contract.

Or, not.

Those third party employees largely tend to be delivery drivers and this is the…third? Yeah, let’s say third such employee I have known personally.

So, there he is texting – because our last message on OKStupid was, “Here’s my number, shoot me a text” – me how much he hates his Amazon job. I try congratulating him on his recent raise to $15/hr. He counters with the fact that that did not trickle down to the most Rogered of “Amazon” employees and six hours later, he texts me that he got a new job.

In a vegan restaurant.

So, I’m guessing this 4% isn’t a passing phase.

Sad face.

But, still…for all the guys I’ve known without jobs or prospects, this guy moves to town, takes any job he can get a paycheck from and then finds another job when it turns out to be 12 hours of this

I’m totally taking credit for being the impetus for him finding vocational satisfaction, because I can.

Neverthemess, we’ll see what happens when we meet face to face. He seems like a responsible and nice young dude, a 96% match and just…pleasant.

How fucked up is it that pleasant is not a given in this dating world?

Wait.

Never mind.

I just remembered who I am.

We’re meeting up Sunday afternoon, so we’ll see.

And I’ll likely report back.

For now, just talking to a guy who is living his life with intention and drive is…nice.n

Dating Into Oblivion ep7

Phone Shaming

Ok, I’m the biggest proponent of setting a cell phone aside and connecting in person.

<looking at you, Silver Fox>

That said, I give in to the LTE charms of my device frequently and other times downright fail at simply focusing on the moment at hand when with my friends. Still, I oftentimes intentionally flip my phone face down – since I have no boyfriend – in order to make the most of the time I spend with Chosen Family and persons of friendly interest.

That doesn’t stop my beautiful friends from seizing a moment to bust. my. chops when they are gifted an opportunity.

Not recently, by any means, The Fox and I were meeting Little Buddy and her 2.0 at The Big Lebowski and what happens too often…happened. I was walking my two block commute alone, as gawd intended, and they – unbeknownst to me – were parking.

I get to the bar and am greeted with an assortment of stories on the struggle of parking in the Pearl District that were all punctuated with some sort of “and then I saw Galbs walking through the park with his phone in his face”.

Ok, I do that but I assure you that I have reasonable situational awareness the entire time! Trust me, I’d loathe encountering someone who can’t accomplish this obsessive/addictive multi-tasking, so I try to be vigilantly aware when I’m doing it…although my awareness – unsurprisingly? – and admittedly does not extend to people searching for parking.

That said, you just know I have stories.

I was reminded of this shituational conundrum today while innocently waiting for a barista to manufacture a half dozen shots. I’m in Sunriver – my heaven on Earth, but don’t tell everyone because the last thing I want is to see this lil high desert resort in Oregon overrun by people – and had just hit the halfway point on a high desert resort version of an urban hike with my sister, bro-in-law and aunt. We decided – no, predecided at the outset of our hike – to get a coffee at Brewed Awakenings as a reward.

My bro-in-law and I ordered, then he took some water outside for his pooch while I waited.

Left unattended, out came my phone.

“The Instagram will not be ignored, Dan!” – the bitchy guy that walked up behind me.

He wasn’t even super-bitchy. Just your basic passive-aggressive Portland BS…so how can I even complain?

My blog, that’s why.

I’m waiting by the counter with my back to the door – and a good three feet betwixt myself and either the register or the door. I’m ready for new customers coming in behind me or existing patrons approaching the barista for seconds.

But that won’t stop our intrepid Portland-y version of Spalding Gray looking grumpapotamus motherfucker that walked in behind me.

I chose this particular picture for two to three reasons, depending on how you tally.

First, I know this wasn’t the late, great Spalding Gray because he passed himself away in 2004.

Second, since he did suicide himself, I found the quote in the photo…intriguing.

And third, I forgot the third reason.

Anyway.

Zombie Spalding Gray walks in behind me and I know it when I hear, “Heaven forbid we put down our devices for a moment” as he walks by me, completely not at all impacted by my or my phone’s presence. I just look at him and choose to not be a dick – for once – by replying, “I just took my phone out of my pocket for the first time in almost an hour, Oldie Hawn”.

Because I’m mature.

The funny thing is, he had earbuds in his ears.

The shooting spree in ‘Murica thing is, he didn’t buy anything.

Rat bastard.

But at least he passive-aggressively sniped at me as he passed by. I’d hate to know that he had to pay for therapy to cure what mentally ails him.

The really funny thing was that I’d literally just explained to my aunt maybe a mile back how everyone in Sunriver was always super nice-ish, greeting you whenever your path crossed theirs. We’d passed several other guests during our walk and without fail, received a kind verbal greeting from them. My aunt, leading us past a group of construction workers working on bike path improvements, had even greeted the workers as we passed by.

She’s from Texas, but overall a pretty nice person in her own right. But her greeting of the non-big-haired-blue-collar-types has led me to share the story of the openly friendly behaviors that Sunriver offers.

I’m not gonna lie, I think it’s because there are literally zero minorities here and people are just letting their guard down.

I also think they have zero awareness that that is why they are doing it. And they look so proud of themselves for being so friendly. I really hate to judge their motivation.

Yet, I haven’t let that stop me from surmising their hopefully unconscious M.O.

Stupid Americans.

Then, there’s the Lady on the Bike.

And, trust me…she was no lady.

I had just left my condo in the Park Blocks and was checking my phone to react as needed to any alerts. I’d just woken up and donned a hat to cover my bed head so I could venture out for provisions for a lazy day. I was still in my slept in, wrinkled tee shirt and cut off sweat pants, and, yeah…freeballing in public after a short night.

I just wanted a Monster.

At least I had bothered to brush my teeth.

Sidebar: the whole time I’ve been writing this, there been an owl hooting intermittently outside my window. I’m not gonna lie, at first I thought it was one of my relatives getting down.

Apparently, I need to get laid so I can stop projecting my lewd thoughts onto hapless wildlife.

Anyway, I allow myself the distraction of deleting junky emails in the block from my place off Flanders to the busier arterial surface street of Everett. Then I drop my phone to my side and wait for a break in traffic.

When it’s safe to cross without feeling like I’m in a game of Frogged, I proceed….only to be stopped before reaching the far corner by an old hippie lady riding her bike across the side street.

From sidewalk to sidewalk.

It shouldn’t surprise you to learn that cyclists in Portland are expected to ride on the street and follow the basic rules of the old road.

Not this broad. Nor far too many e-scooter riders, but that’s another story. That I’ve already told. LOL.

“Of course, I wouldn’t expect you to put down your phone” she says under her wheeze as she peddles onto the sidewalk I should be walking onto. Mind you, I’m standing in one of the two busiest East/West streets in the Pearl while she breaks basic traffic laws.

But I have my phone in my hand, so it’s ok. Thank gawd I could save her the trouble of executing me, since I’m not a person of color.

I made it safely onto the far sidewalk with only a minimal lark left by her white privilege. But…still, I couldn’t shake the whole feeling of entitled victimization her attitude levied upon me.

Surrealiously.

Any moron with a minimum of accountability should know to shut up when riding their bike on the sidewalk. That she didn’t is surprising…but not at surprising as the ease with which she projected blame on to me for her transgression.

The Pearl is on the cusp of a huge project two blocks from my home. The 9 block parcel that houses Portland’s main Post Office building is scheduled to be torn down and redeveloped into nine blocks of housing…operations there have already scaled back. It’s really just a parcel service counter and PO Boxes these days. Sorting and bulk delivery have moved to their new location, meaning that the major truck traffic I’d grown used to on Pearl District streets has been diverted and eliminated as those businesses are re-routed to the new base of operations.

This chunk of land was even the major part of the Portland Design Commission’s submission to Amazon for its second world HQ – although, I’m pretty sure the PDC didn’t want to be seriously considered.

It was a self defense submission. Kinda like registering for a crock pot on your wedding wish list: it’s expected and if you don’t at least tell people what you’re willing to accept in a crock pot…you’re going to get screwed. And you’re also going to get five crock pots from your crackpot friends with the best intentions.

So, PDC threw in a bid do they could at least say that they participated.

For the briefest flicker of a moment, I missed the semi trucks bound for the Post Office. While this judgy, deflecting cyclist could capriciously disregard my presence…the old normal Post Office traffic would have reduced her to road pizza.

I’m not okay with that idea, per se. But I am aware that change in our country is going to come from people abandoning their “me first” mentality and living as a part of a whole, America. People who can’t do that, including the Trumpster Fire at the White House, should self select out.

Of life.

Let’s all go out and do something nice today, for no other reason than to just make an effort to change our collective culture. I know this will be easy for most of my readers, because based on your previous comments, I know I have great people reading my drivel.

Thanks for that! And thanks in advance for helping me to pay it forward by being a part of the solution to our country’s brokenness.

Phone Shaming

My Favorite Seattle Things

…all came to Portland last weekend. It was perfect.

Well, most of my favorite Seattle things. My ex, Rib, and his boyfriend were coincidentally in town in addition to the overdue but planned visit from my former Seattle neighbor and podcast co-host, D-Slice and her “new” girlfriend.

If DP and his boyfriend had come here instead of going to Greece and any of these folks had shown up carrying a Hot Mama’s pizza…that would have been perfect!

Surrealiously, who goes to Greece when you can visit Portland instead?

D-Slice had arranged an overnight visit a few weeks back, so I had taken the night off work – or what I’m calling work these days, but that’s another post – to spend some time with her. But, since I’m working graveyards, I wouldn’t get home until around 5 AM on the day of their visit.

No biggie, they were planning to arrive around 1 in the afternoon, so plenty of time for a nap before meeting up and then racing our way into the nearest gutter.

Enter, Rib.

He’d come to town, Rib-style a couple weeks ago with a text at around 8 PM saying that they were just finishing dinner in Olympia – about halfway between Portland and Shittatle – and decided to spend the night in Portland. I kind of envy that type of spontaneity, but since I was packing lunch and getting ready to hop on the bike for my evening commute, I had to tap out. This type of spur of the moment planning can also work against me since I prefer Happy Hour or afternoon drinking versus spending evenings out because bars are so people-y later. If I wasn’t due to work, I might have been finishing up around the time his text landed. <hiccup>

But, having been skunked two weeks ago, Rib gave me three days notice that he’d booked a trip with a 30 hour layover and would get in late Friday and leave early Sunday. His BF was gonna fly with him both ways. I think that’s a pretty fun piece of their relationship…kind of like spontaneously popping into town after dinner in Oly.

It makes me happy.

Anyway, Saturday morning rolls around and I get home from work, shower (very necessary), then debate just staying up for the day versus going to bed as the sun rises. With D-Slice and I, dinner and drinks can go a while. I was pretty sure I could go til 9 PM with no sleep, but not <gulp> closing time!

I popped a mellie and went to bed.

I awoke at 11 to a text from Rib. It was a picture of their Chicken Breakfast Sandwich, Chicken and Waffles and Cinnamon Roll breakfast at Tilt, right up the street from me.

Devil. Hate missing that!

Checking in, I learn they are at another Portland “in the know” experience.

Huber’s is famous for their dramatic table-side Spanish Coffees. Now they are iced, too! Well played, Huber’s…well played.

I missed two of those. But the boys were looking to meet up and get some US Open viewing in.

The request was rooftop bar. There’s only one (two, really…but one is too terribly bro-tastic to entertain) option in the Pearl, so I chased them that way while sucking down an iced coffee to shake off the lingering effects of my mellie before jumping into a pint.

They arrived just before I did, walked up to the rooftop, decided it was too douche-y and went back downstairs, heading out around the hostess station as I came in, went toward the stairs on the other side of the hostess station, got upstairs, groaned inwardly and then patted myself on my old man back for beating the youngsters to the bar.

Then I got their text.

Boo!

The important thing is that they validated my opinion of this bar. I’ve been there a dozen times in the 2-3 years it’s been open and never spent a dollar there because it’s just…so. ugh.

Back to the chase.

My whole life: chasing guys half my age.

<sigh>

I caught them a half block away and then amused myself be seeing how long I could follow them before they noticed me. Still texting them, of course.

We ended up back at Tilt because they have TVs.

And beer.

Two pitchers, some great conversation and one very upset Serena Williams later and we were caught up and ready for a D-Slice rendezvous.

It really was a nice couple of hours. Comfortably slipping between catching up, commenting on the match, chatting with the guys next to us and sniping at each other over beer choices – “anything but IPA!” – is a delightful afternoon, in my opinion.

But, why, Rib? Whyyyy would you get orders before heading to the bar only to come back with a pitcher of a craft version of Hamm’s?!?

Because he’s Rib. Naturally.

And because I’m me, he got a pitcher of IPA when I returned from the bar.

I was amazed that we had polished off two pitchers after their two Iced Spanish Coffees…oof.

But, in addition to the reminder of these young bucks’ alcohol tolerance, I’d been treated to an update of the new career as a flight attendant at the two-ish month mark. He’s been based in Salt Lake since graduating from flight attendant college, meaning he had to commute from Seattle to SLC for work. However, effective next month, he’ll be based in Seattle, so that’s a win.

There’s a vacation to Estonia next month, too. That reminds me of my relationship with Sacha. Collecting experiences and growing our world view together. It’s a priceless time in their lives and it excites me and gives me a nice nostalgic jolt.

Stories about the joys of owning a Tesla. Hilarious stories. OMG. I never realized the potential quirkiness of a car that runs like a smartphone! Just a quick for instance: the BF was telling me that he’d had to reboot his phone while driving and that had basically shut down the car’s computer for the minute it took to complete: no turn signals, no speedometer, no nothing…but you’re still driving.

Pass.

In addition to reinforcing my pedestrian lifestyle and dislike of the douche-y rooftop bars in the Pearl District, they also reconfirmed my condo-dwelling existence with a video of water bubbling up through their lawn from a burst water main. Poor kids. But, yeah…they are looking to sell the house and get into a condo or townhome situation. Thankfully, they have an Estonian getaway to look forward to after getting through their water main ordeal.

Anyway, there we were, heading off to meet up with the girls. It was a little intimidating – something I would have avoided 10 years ago…no, 20 – mixing new and old friends. Let alone my ex and my former neighbor’s new significant others. But I think that with the two newbies, there was enough history in their relationships to make meeting two to four new people comfortable. I refer to D-Slice’s GF as new, but she’s only new to me since they’ve been dating for a couple years now.

“Done with Voodoo Doughnuts, where should we meet?”

I’m heading to Big Legrowlski with the boys, you’re only a few blocks away!

“Of course, Big Legrowlski! Why did I even need to ask?”, D-Slice laughed in response.

We all had a couple of drinks at the BL and enjoyed a couple hours of lively, familiar chat together before the boys took off for their ritual Portland dinner experience at Katchka. They offered to take us along, but Russian food isn’t for everyone and it’s expensive – like last time I went it was ~$75 per person expensive – and then there’s the whole five people in a boutique restaurant makes for a crowded table…a pet peeve of mine is large groups forcing themselves into small venues. Plus, the girls and I needed some time for just us.

“I dunno, you just wanna grab a pizza, Galbs?”

Uh…definitely!

It’s all part of the podcast experience! Although, this podcast ended by 9 PM and without our signature podcast floor-aoke! I’m sure you can figure out that portmanteau…but comment if you need an explanation. I’m happy to provide in-person demonstrations, too.

We walked the few blocks between Big Legrowlski and Old Town Pizza – my all time favorite pizza joint.

We chatted the whole while. I love having people in my life – especially at this juncture in my life – that fit so comfortably. These people are my Chosen Family for a reason. Years can go by without a face to face meet up but you could not tell it from watching.

There was a “We’re vegetarians” hiccup at Old Town, but I rolled with it and in trusting their ordering skills ended up with a delightful pesto pizza that was so tasty. I’ll order it again, it’s perfectly reminiscent of Hot Mama’s Green Pizza (pictured up above). While they made the pizza order, I went to the adjacent bar and got drinks, meeting them upstairs.

We nibbled and sipped.

We talked about their new blended lives in D-Slice’s condo in Seattle.

I caught up on the band situation – D-Slice having pared her two band affiliation down to a single new band called Hourglasses. She sounds fulfilled in the new arrangement. Her GF also performs, which is how they originally met.

The surprising thing is that her GF is so stable. It’s a refreshing change over her last girlfriend who had closet mental issues…but, y’know, the crazy ones are awesome in bed.

Whuddyagunnado?

I fully expected a stable personality, no surprise there. But what did surprise me was how intelligent she was.

Well-spoken.

Confident.

Comfortable.

I was so utterly pleased for my friend. I expected her GF to be stable by comparison to her last attempt at dating, don’t get me wrong. Even though I personally don’t date because I have a knack for finding guys that are damaged – and sadly, crazy boys don’t bring it to bed like crazy girls do, in my experience – at worst and “will do” at best. I wasn’t projecting that gift of mine onto my friend. D-Slice looks to have found someone that clears that minimal bar of not being crazy by a wide friggin’ margin. Talking to her with my friend was an extension of that comfortable fit my Chosen Family and I share.

How friggin’ awesome is that?!?

As we were leaving Old Town, D-Slice pulled out her phone in the middle of the restaurant and reminded me of our podcast photo op tradition.

All of our podcasts are fantastic experiences. It’s a new and unusual sensation to both be leaving one so clear eyed and able to – y’know…walk.

I crammed a lot into my one day with these great people…I’m more than happy to have the next one not be as long in the making as this – I don’t think I’ve seen D-Slice since I was packing up my condo after renting it out for about 18 months when I moved from Seattle back to Portland. That was April of 2016!

I reckon the ball is in my court, though: the next podcast is gonna be in Seattle. It’s only fair.

My Favorite Seattle Things