#thesilverfox

Letting Go & Moving On

galby68, , 9 Comments

Ok, first…the Silver Fox isn’t dead! That said, he’s not yet out of hospital, this being day 15.

“What the fuck” does not convey the level of conflict I have over that length of stay. Mind you, this is also with no immediate end to the stay on the horizon.

My conflict is between relief that he survived an aneurysm and that his doctor said if he wasn’t in such good shape, he wouldn’t have. That last part sounds like praise for good living, but for a man who didn’t want to live past 75 because of his belief that quality of life decreases beyond that point…surviving without thriving seems less like a blessing than a curse.

Not to say he won’t thrive, but it’s hard to see that potential over the current horizon.

It hurts me to see him imprisoned in this limbo and absolutely cripples me to think that a worse outcome two weeks back might have been his unspoken desire.

Hence, the title. I can’t imagine having to let go of my life with him in it. But I also can’t see how he moves on from here. He’s stronger than I am, so I know he will show me how it’s done. Until then, though, I feel like his limbo is absolutely my own.

And since the titular topics are just too for me, I thought I’d share some nonsensical things that I can’t let go of that at some point during my recent move I held in my hand and thought, “I’m absolutely keeping this”.

Because I need that return to my regularly scheduled insanity.

Those cans are all empty. Well, that’s how I remembered them. Turns out the Izzy can was sealed with what felt like 1/3 of a serving, so I did let that go. The two Coke Zero cans were both sealed up empty.

Why in the Willy Wonka Hell can’t I just recycle them?

These assorted beads and ticket stubs. I may die alone in my loft like a shut in, but I guess these mementos prove I left my home at some point. I also tend to keep the Age Verification wristbands longer than I probably ought. Recently I added a couple of patient ID bands to that mix, but I think I finally divested that weird collection during my move. Or it’s in a drawer and I already forgot where I stashed it.

Real toss up, that one.

This festive wine bottle sweater and cap. This is the only bottle it’s ever adorned, so I guess I also can’t let go of that bottle. The bottle started as a reminder of a tasty wine I needed more of but have never found again.

If there’s a reason to get rid of these plastic dinosaurs, I can’t figure it out. Not that that’s a reason to keep them. My stubbornness is at an impasse, so here they are. If anyone even notices them, they never say anything about them. But I know they are there and it makes me happy.

The weirdest thing about these…keepsakes isn’t the lack of prestige these souvenirs carry. No, it’s that I’m kind of a natural purger. I have enough stuff to never be confused with a minimalist, but not so much to ever be mistaken for a hoarder. And all that stuff actually means something. Maybe it’s useful, maybe it somehow reinforces my style or identity. Heck, to that end, maybe it’s just quirky so I keep it around.

But this stuff is all basically – sometimes literally – garbage. And I can’t get rid of it…so I literally packed it and moved it from one home to another.

Clearly I’m mad as a hatter. Maybe more from pickling myself more than mercury poisoning, but still…

Letting Go & Moving On

Staund Buy

galby68, 11 Comments

That title seem like it has an unnecessary U or two in it to you?

Yeah, well, that’s because I’m currently on stand by to see if my morning will have the inevitable U in it that awaits us all at some point in our lives or not.

The Silver Fox went into surgery at around 530. When I let his ex-wife into his condo for the night – and parked her car in the garage for her, because she’s infamously bad in a crisis and her car doesn’t have a “beep-beep on it” (her words) for backing up – she told me that either the surgeon or the hospitalist had asked “Well, what if you don’t make it?” to which he cavalierly replied, “Call her”.

Ok, A) do try to take this seriously, Foxy; and B) fuck you, I’m supposed to be the one who gets the call.

Well, I expected to be the one, anyway. This is due to the decade-old pact the SF made me pinky swear to so that I’d be the first one into his place and could do a sweep for whatever the modern day equivalent is for “straightening up” before his family arrived.

Heaven forbid his adult kids find out he had a sex life. Or one that was even less of a <ahem> straight line than they realized.

Well, how did my jaded ass not see around this particular corner to his ex-wife spending his potential last night on Earth in his condo?!?

I’m very disappointed in me.

I mean, pessimism is supposed to be my thing, y’know?

Mostly, I think my disappointment in myself is to keep me from being mad at him for not taking his illness more seriously and waiting until today to go to the hospital. Or for coming into town from 90 minutes away to be at the hospital his doc has privileges at instead of going to one closer to his ex-wife’s, where he’s been happily decamped since lockdown in 2020.

Or some other thing that I’m not thinking about now because I’m not being mad at him until I find out he’s ok.

Then that daft bastard is in for some ear music.

Right now, I’m just hoping I don’t have to stage a break-in at his condo tonight to keep my promise to him. While his ex-wife may not be good in a crisis, I suspect she could still kick my ass if I caught her off guard and she felt cornered. She doesn’t have that look, necessarily, it’s just that it’s that type of thinking that has kept me alive this long.

I’m not giving that up now. But I am writing instead of drinking just in case I have to drive her up to the hospital later. But once I get the surgical all-clear, it’s bottoms up.

Until then, I sip.

Staund Buy

Busted Up & Busy

galby68, , , , , , 18 Comments

Welcome back to me…to my own blog…once again!

I feel like I need my own Yoda. Someone who will hear me say weak assed things like “I’m going to try and write more consistently” and remind me

Luckily, I verbally hedge my bets with that approach, so…no broken promises!

As alluded to in the title, I’ve been busy. Work keeps me pretty occupied. My workdays are a frenzied pace from start to finish, leaving me pretty wiped out at the end of them.

I still try – there’s that hedging again! – to get out and do some delivery driving a couple evenings a week. It’s only a couple hours per night, a couple nights a week, but it seems like an eternity when you hate doing it. The reward is getting worse, too, which makes it harder. I finished a two-hour block last night – after the Silver Fox hyped me up when I was ready to pull the plug and bail – and my average rate was $25/hr. That’s down from around $30/hr, which is a hefty percentage.

My parting thought as I bellied up afterward was “Might as well pay me in pesos”. But where two hours’ earnings might not matter, 10 or 12 hours over the course of a month is an extra car payment, so that’s not nothing. Especially as I scramble to make my goal of paying Angela (my car) off by the end of November.

So, I needed the hype. Especially since I wouldn’t have left my home at all yesterday without it.

Nonetheless, it leaves me too burnt out to write much.

I did get a break from the hard work last month when my family met up in Sunriver for our yearly vacation. Sunriver is right outside of Bend, Oregon, so there’s always plenty to do.

Mostly, this time I just ate. Mind you, I swore I was going to spend time writing each day. I’ll save you a scroll through my blog post library: that didn’t happen.

Why would it, in the High Desert outdoor playground that is Bend, Oregon? Well, that’s where the busted up part of this post’s title comes in: I fell down.

Again.

And it was bad.

The best I could piece together was that I slipped on a cat hair tumbleweed as I walked into my apartment. Cat hair + laminate flooring = a suboptimal traction situation.

I’d been down to the local watering hole for a couple beers – two, literally. I just wasn’t feeling it, so I hoofed the 10 or so blocks to Safeway for a six-pack and snack to nosh on at home while I watched a movie before bed.

The movie – or the snackage, for that matter – never happened. As soon as I set foot in my place, it was lights out for Xtopher.

I wish I could say it was something more glamorous or exciting, a mugging, defending a stranger from danger or even a dalliance gone bad…but it was just my natural clumsiness. My friends tried to nudge me toward a more exciting, albeit alternate, truth – the aforementioned mugging, DB even suggested I’d been roofied after hearing my story – but I could not oblige.

I was actually too harsh when I said “natural clumsiness”…knowing physics and geometry, ok, remembering what I do of my high school and college courses on the subjects, what I was doing and how I ended up adds up to cat like reflexes.

You see, if I was walking in the door and slipped on something, my feet would have gone out from under me, leaving my fallen body laying head first into my unit. Certainly the final resting spots of what had been my bag of groceries supports this. Me, on the other hand ended up facing the door, which could have happened – if I had ended up on my back. But I didn’t, I wasn’t just facing the front door, I was also facing the floor.

That’s where those cat like reflexes come in. Not only had I fallen backward instead of forward, I’d also flipped midair to land on my face.

Fairly literally, by the way.

I can’t tell you the exact order – likely due to being mildly concussed by the whole ordeal – but I know I hit my chin hard enough to break my front tooth and open a cut on the bottom of my chin. I remember pushing myself up once after being unconscious long enough for blood to pool around me. That I know because when I did push up, one of my hands went out from under me and I went back down on my face.

I think that’s where I got the four splits across my forehead. Well, not so much across (because that would blend with my age based creases that I do not call wrinkles) as perpendicular to my eyebrows. However, it could have been where I split the cartilage in my ear open. Remembering two falls and having wounds on three planes of my skull further suggests a concussion.

Since I’m a typically stupid guy, though, I didn’t go to the ER for almost 24 hours, so likely is as close to a diagnosis as I could get on that concussion.

Likely concussion, broken tooth and six gashes on my head…and bruised ribs, probably from the initial impact, that’s my damage.

All because I was too bored at the bar to stick around and decided to come home.

At least my ribs were only bruised.

Until the following Sunday, that is. I’d started feeling well enough to venture out of the house and met my parents for breakfast. Afterward I was tired – from getting up early on a Sunday, eating a heavy breakfast and the actual work of walking my injured ass over to the restaurant – so I layed down on the couch to rest. About 30 minutes of blissful dozing later, I sneezed…probably a tickle from cat hair drifting through the air. That’s what I’m going with.

Ah- Pop-Pop-Choo!

That was some pain. I couldn’t take a full breath. Hell, I couldn’t get up off my back!

After another 90 minutes of shallow breathing my way through the absolute WTF worst pain I can remember, I decided I needed to go back to the ER. The pain from getting off my back almost made me forget the pain of the prior hour and a half. It for sure eclipsed it.

Back at the ER, broken.

I wasn’t at all surprised to hear that. They were somehow surprised I hadn’t recalled them telling me how to sneeze until my ribs healed on my earlier visit. Um, hello? Concussion?

I was actually surprised to hear I hadn’t broken my sternum, just a rib on either side of it. I still think I did…while they were being surprised that I’d broken my ribs sneezing, I was being surprised that them hearing my history of micro-fractures hadn’t mitigated their surprise and prompted a referral for a little nuclear medicine to double-check my sternum. Not that it was worth pursuing, anyway…there’s nothing they can do for broken ribs, so why bother?

So that’s how I ended up spending a week in Sunriver and spending most of my time eating versus biking, hiking or paddling around the high desert.

I think I was three weeks post-fall and two weeks post-sneeze when I got back home. I returned from vacation feeling about as healed as I was feeling before the sneeze.

Progress!

That’s just the condition you want to be in when you move homes, right? But sure enough, I stopped on the way home from the high desert to pick up keys to my new place.

While it is just a short distance away, right across the park from my old place…it was a long time coming. I’d started thinking I wanted to move at the end of last year. I started looking with a mind to move at the end of my current lease: the end of March. Knowing where I wanted to be, my current building, made it seem easier to accomplish but ended up taking nearly a year!

It’s silly, living in a world with people who can own a condo and let it sit empty for two years because they thought the damage a prior tenant did to the floors made it un-leasable. One of the other residents is a realtor who knows both the owner of that unit and me and tried to put us together. The guy took my contact info and just…nothing.

Another unit had an active listing and never replied to my inquiry. It’s still empty, but the listing is gone now.

There was a third unit whose owner I spoke with in January. She wanted to list it February 1st but needed to find a property manager first. In two weeks. I didn’t want to move until April 1 to avoid paying double-rent, but offered to rent her place March 1 if I could rent from her – I loathe property managers. She passed. I get her dis-ease being a first time landlord…but I know eight residents, two of whom are Board members. Someone finally moved into the unit on September 1st.

Idiots. Am I not stupid enough to be rich…is that what’s stopping me from wealth?

The last weird obstacle to my move wasn’t really an obstacle at all, so we’ll call her an honorable mention. It’s the Silver Fox’s neighbor – or would be, if she lived in her condo. She doesn’t, though. She lives in the West Hills, where she moved…closer to 10 years ago than five. And her unit has sat empty for every damn one of those years. Assuming she doesn’t have a mortgage, she’s still paying $10000-15000 a year on HOAs and taxes. That’s cumulatively $100,000! I don’t want to live next door to my best friend, so I never pushed it. Not that it would have mattered if I did. I refer to that kind of wealth as “fuck you money” because they do not take instruction from anyone else.

But I made it! Persistence paid off, even though the reward was moving with broken ribs. When I told my landlord I was leaving, it was because of the crazy neighbor quotient in the old building. Crazy neighbors in four of 18 units is too high, even if it only worked out to an average of three crazy people in the building at any given time.

Little did I know that the cause of the broken ribs should have been the reason I moved in April: a broken HVAC. I told my landlord about it in March and he made an unsuccessful bid to have it repaired. I was heating my place with an inverted 4” terracotta pot over my gas stove in March and April. In June, July and August I became an expert at timing the opening and closing of windows each morning and evening to maximize the overnight cooling.

But the lack of air conditioning – or even air movement – has kept poor Myrtle in a constant state of shedding. Hence the cat hair tumbleweeds.

Ironic that the reason I should have moved this past Spring indirectly became the reason I ended up moving with broken ribs.

Cause of (near) Death: ProChristination.

Busted Up & Busy

The Price

galby68, , , , , 10 Comments

You all know by now how much live music means to me. It’s a factor in my well being. One I had let go of way too soon and had somehow convinced myself that hitting up a concert once or twice a decade was…fine.

Of course, it was a source of pleasure that was partially withheld because of the musical tastes of some of the guys I dated. I mean, Slipknot…really?!?

But after I stopped dating, I never picked it back up. Half a decade or so later, no one was going to concerts for a good 30 months, so everyone was on an even footing then.

It was during my temp gig era at the company I now work for that I heard that my local radio station was reopening their Live Performance Lounge – with the last artist to play it before everything shut down. Talk about poetic.

Well, I want in on that – Me

And that was pretty much it. I cried during that performance. I remembered two things during that show:

First: live music – good live music – is a communal experience. Not to take away from the energy of a crowd of strangers, but the performative cryers who absolutely lose their shit or throw a bra or…I dunno, but it’s not about them. It’s the connection the artist makes with the crowd for me. Are they phoning it in, just collecting a paycheck? Or are they there sharing the stories behind the music? There’s a distinct difference.

Second: do not underestimate the power of a small venue. I’ve been to probably two dozen shows at the KINK Lounge since it reopened and they are incredible. Some acts are big name artists that don’t have to do it, but I think crave the same connection with their crowd I’m talking about. Not everyone can pull a Freddie Mercury at Live Aid at Wembley out of their ass. Other acts have been relative unknowns – like catching Bono’s kid’s band when they rolled through town – or even acts of the sister stations in the building. It reminded me of the Portland experience of the 90s, just being out bar-hopping on weekends and stumbling wandering into a bar with a live band and a $5-10 cover that had a band no one had ever(clear) heard of and having a fanfriggintastic experience.

Well, let me tell you…I’m me – curmudgeonly flaws and all – so I usually go to shows alone. My drinking buddy – I think we’ll just call DB from here in out in a nod to infamous Pacific Northwest characters, as he is one in his own right – actually ended up triple-booked one night last summer and gifted me his ticket to Bonnie Raitt’s show that night. His fourth row ticket. That’s when it really crystallized for me: I don’t need to have a date to a show to justify going.

Since then, I’ve gone to two shows with him and taken two former Work Wives to a total of three shows at the KINK Lounge.

But mostly, I’m on my own.

In 2022, I spent $36 total on concert tickets and saw dozens of shows. This year, I’ve already seen nearly two dozen shows and I’ve spent…$12. Why? Because I wanted to see the top 5 new bands in Portland and figured it was worth it. It was a solid 60% worth it, with partial credit to a fourth band whose music <cough, cough> Slipknot <cough> was not my style but was still well executed. And that show was still the total 90s throwback vibe.

That was last Friday and Saturday and Sunday I had tickets to two shows at a new outdoor venue way South of town. I asked one of the Work Wives if she wanted to go and she committed to Saturday and volunteered to drive – sign of a good upbringing, IMO. Later she picked up Sunday, too when her fiancé flaked on her. On s holiday weekend. To go camping alone…like fiancés do.

A little back story, this Work Wife had kind of been bouncing around trying to find the right career situation for herself. Nothing is really sticking, and some of the situations are down right shitty. One job back, she was a Corporate Sales Manager for a “local” boutique hotel. They put her in the only below grade office in the place, between the laundry room and the trash. Her body did not react well to that environment and she was some kind of sick most days. Plus, leadership asked her why she wasn’t doing more site visits – and as if her office location wasn’t enough…<waves around vaguely at Portland sidewalks>

So she quit.

Sure enough, her constant hacking and nose blowing cleared up within days of her going to work for a company whose goal-models seem to be Enron and FTX.

Until this weekend.

She coughed and hacked all the way there and back in the car both days. At one point, she coughed directly in my face while we stood in line for food. There go those points she scored for being raised right earlier. Her parents were both in healthcare for Pete’s sake!

Whatever, though. Grass allergies had been all over the news lately and accidents happen.

Until I started feeling symptomatic on Monday night.

I cancelled my plans with the fam on the 4th and spent the day on the couch.

Today, I woke up feeling feverish. I couldn’t really tell if it was fever-fever or just my body temperature rising as I woke up. However, when I mentioned it to my boss, she insisted I take the day off. I had already taken some DayQuil and was mid-caffeination, so I kind of dragged my feet on it. Plus, it’s Quarter-End, the end of the First Half and the beginning of a new month, which meant there were time-sensitive things to do.

But I logged off after wrapping that stuff up by 11 and took the rest of the day.

I mention I’m still not feeling great – better, but not great – to the Silver Fox and eventually mention I’m worried it might be COVID, even though my symptoms are different than when I did have it. I’m delivering and fetching him from a procedure on Friday morning- maybe – but he was already off to the races, insisting I take a test and self-escalating to “I’m not getting in your car without a mask!” and “I need to find another ride!”

He doesn’t need me for these episodes, but I hardly help de-escalate his situation by being…myself.

I mean, if it’s COVID, I might die, but by all means, make your procedure the big issue here. <—that’s supposed to come off ironical.

Not that doctor appointments aren’t the main reason he comes to town. Well, and haircuts. And manicures for his dog.

But I’m delusionally happily in his Top 5 reasons to visit. And I’m sure he’d make an exception to come up for my funeral. Not to visit me in the hospital, because that’s an obvious cry for attention and he’d see right through that. And he practically insisted I go to his place yesterday since my AC is out and it’s in the high 80s/low 90s. But, again, if it’s COVID and he’s coming up Thursday for his appointment..,I’m not taking my germs on the road like that.

Anyway, that snark is all to distract me from my actual frustration with the Work Wife. While the SF was…I dunno…recreating, I was also texting her. I just casually mentioned that I’d been sick since Monday night and was worried she might be, too.

Very neutral. I tried to leave the door open for her to, y’know, own anything that needed owning. I get back an “I feel fine, can I bring you anything?”

Oh-feckin’-blivious.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I knew exactly what I was doing. The Gays re-wrote obliviousness with an overdose of innocence, and if I were straight and kids really were the STI I joke about them being? Well, the Partidge Family and Osmonds would have nothing on my brood.

All I’m saying is I know how to make a safe space for honest conversation – even though The Fox would not back me up on this after the crap I pulled on him today. And it takes two. All I can do is open the door and sit at the table. If no one joins me, well, I don’t mind my own company.

But someday The Fox will back my integrity up. Maybe in my eulogy.

I was just left aghast at the obliviousness and total lack of self-awareness it would take to allow yourself to forget you basically coughed into someone’s face.

Jesus. I would have been mortified if I’d done that. I certainly wouldn’t forget it anytime soon.

Anyway, after petulantly making the SF wait several hours, I gave myself a test. Because

I certainly didn’t want COVID, any more than I wanted to spend a dozen hours over the weekend with someone whose bubble prevented them from seeing a clear causal relationship between time spent with them while they hack and cough and the onset of sickness. At the same time, I remember how COVID felt last time – the words I used were “The recovery from the vaccine was worse than the illness”.

This was not that.

Still, test I did take. Mmm-hmm.

I still don’t know if I’ll be at 100% by Friday morning, but I have also already spun myself up for wearing a mask out of respect to my friend and the hospital. That’s an easy call, because I was raised right, and mostly it stuck.

So, then I went and celebrated by buying myself one ticket to the Cowboy Junkies show next Thursday. Gotta reclaim what started this whole episode in the first place, right?

The Price

Welcome!

galby68, , , 10 Comments

I hate to wear mine out. Preferably, I’m self-aware enough to know when I’m no longer welcome.

TBH, though, c’mon…I’m an absolute gem. Who would want my roundness around?

Nonetheless, this past six weeks, I’ve been both on a bar(tender) embargo of my local and actually trying to be a better, less fluffy version of my own Xtopher-ness.

Think less “How long was this body lost at sea?” goals than actually aspiring to sort of physique.

But my local surprised me today by being open in a holiday – so I had to stop in.

I’d been to a rooftop gathering at the Silver Fox’s building. He was not there, because: life. But my drinking buddy was there as well as a couple of other neighbors I occasionally run into at the local bellying up place.

The occasion? My drinking buddy had driven to a family reunion in Boise and timed his Portland departure to arrive when my favorite brewery opens at 2 PM. Credit due: it’s also located in the hometown of the SF, so…it’s kind of my adopted favorite brewery. If that’s even a thing.

Rest assured, I’ve have figured it out on my own eventually.

So, there I was, bellied up. But just for one. I had planned to stop at the neighborhood Brodega for a lil snacky-snack and some backup beers after Barley Brown-on-the-roof with (most of) the gang., but since they were open…belly up, I will.

Three beers later – ok, I’m my defense after my first, the chef joined me and the the damn owner sat down, which clearly mandated a third…I mean, not as clearly as a comped drink would have, but this just is not that kind of place – there I was: leaving.

Of all the head-scratchingest things, the chef and owner both seemed surprised I was leaving. Luckily, this song just happened to be on, which made my departure an obvious and non-negotiable requirement. No one would doubt for a moment that my grumpy old ass had been directed any number of times to leave immediately for the netherworld.

Welcome!

Shrinkflation: The Sequel

galby68, , , , , 11 Comments

I know I should just call this Shrinkflation: Part 2 – because you just know this ain’t the end of nothing – but I have too many numbered series on this blog, so I didn’t wanna. However, who knows when I’ll get around to being pissed enough about this phenomenon – or some random and mildly annoying aspect of it that probably only I notice – to add a third installment to the Shrinkflation saga?

Even in starting this post, two other things I should probably post about instead have caused me to almost abandon this entry. And you can rest assured I’ll probably forget what they were by the time I finish this.

Here’s the deal, though, it’s getting worse! And if you’re recreationally conspiracy theory minded, as I am, it’s simply out of control.

Now, I should note that this is undoubtedly enhanced by my Saturday night of doing nothing. I’m incensed over a potentially imagined recent offense at my local watering hole, so haven’t been there at all this weekend. Making matters worse is that the Silver Fox was in town, but had other plans for his Saturday night. Assignations, if you will.

Ergo: I was in my own.

Since I wasn’t going to Tanner Creek Tavern, and wasn’t going to risk going to any other of my haunts since they invariably lead to an expensive trip to the Reverse ATM, I decided to have a Dry Weekend.

And this brings us back to the cost of bubble water in Portland.

Before, I was mainly pointing out the difference in price a brand name can cost a consumer – cost of advertising be damned, since even the less glamorous brands I mentioned in that post advertise. The thought behind that post was enough to make me pony up for a Soda Stream and just make my own.

Sadly, just when I needed a refill, my nearest Bed, Bath & Beyond closed. A week later, I decided to order a new tank of CO2 on their website. They were out of stock on the singles and I didn’t want to order a two-pack, since I already had one empty and three seemed…fraught. I need to keep my tank rotation at two.

So I’ve had none. And truthfully, my bubble water consumption is down. I haven’t pivoted back to soda – at least not completely. I’d say the non-alcoholic beverage split is 50% soda, 35% still water (in a victory my liver and kidneys gave up on ever seeing last century) and 15% bubble water.

I’ll check that math a half dozen times before I publish this post and still get it wrong.

Why was I suddenly so resistant to buying bubble water? They committed an egregious – to only me, I’m sure – offense. The industry seemed to pivot in unison from 12-pack cans to 8-pack cans. Without lowering the price!

That’s very not ok.

A) an 8-pack is an insufficient quantity. That’s like a two day supply. Does not compute.

B) compounding that minimal supply is my retroactive offense at paying too much in the past simply by not taking advantage of the three 12-packs/$10 (or $11, once inflation started ticking up) deals because I didn’t want to make multiple trips to my car for groceries. Now I’d be making multiple trips for two 8-packs simply to have a reasonable supply on hand versus the oversupply situation of the past deals I’d eschewed in support of my inherent laziness.

Obviously, I was completely powerless in this situation that was clearly quite beyond my control. Just look at what happened last time I tried to do something: an entire Bed, Bath & Beyond closed! Obviously, challenging the system has a high price.

Nevertheless, last night I realized that the situation had deteriorated even further.

Now these loathsome 8-packs are going for $4.49. That’s $.50 more than I was paying for 12-packs a year ago!

This is not ok.

Is there some sort of cabal of bubble water producing companies I’m not aware of? An OPEC for enhanced drinking waters? The Organization of Bubble Water Producing Companies…OBWPC? An organization powerful enough to take retaliatory steps to close a big box retail location?

I do not know. But as a consumer, I will dare to speak for us all when I say that I am not down for this sort of corporate rogering.

Making this situation even more rewarding to my recreational conspiracy theorist is the timing of my realization: the very week that BB&B announced the closing of its remaining stores.

Going hmmmm at things that make you, am I.

The latest price increase is poorly-timed for an innocent industry. Although, I’ve clearly made the case for conviction in the court of public (me) opinion.

It’s enough to make me consider my options. Namely: trekking out to suburbia to a remaining – for now – BB&B for a refill cartridge or even trying a Walmart – since the Triple-B Ranch has proven its proficiency at being out of stock on these in the past, when things were only bad for them and not in their current state of cataclysm.

The Silver Fox suggested Amazon this morning during our coffee walk. And, yes, obviously. But also, no, because of all the bad. Also, I checked and shipping on CO2 cartridges is a full week, so…

Although, they do offset their corporate awfulness by offering a $15 gift card with their canister exchange program. Mind you, you got a $15 credit with the in-store canister exchanges at brick and mortar retailers, so it’s kind of same shit, different marketing. Plus, Walmart offers the same program, not that they aren’t just as bad – or worse – on a corporate level.

I just know I’m going to end up driving all over kingdom come to rectify this – and then still end up ordering future replacements through either Amazon or Walmart.

It’ll be Walmart, strictly for this reason. Fifteen bucks buys a lot of cheap Mac & Cheese. But I’m just as likely to say fuck it and go back to soda. Stay tuned.

Until then, just know my neurotic ass will be tying itself into absolute pretzels.

Also, I just had a premonition that Shrinkflation 3: The Unmitigated Gall will be about me discovering that Walmart’s $.47 Mac & Cheese – $.34 on sale! – has become $.60/box, reducing the buying power of my $15 exchange program gift card by one-third.

Goddamn, I am craving Mac & Cheese something awful now….

Shrinkflation: The Sequel

505

galby68, , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

If numbers could stalk, I’m convinced that 505 would be my stalker. The anecdotal backup for this suspicion goes back a good – or occasionally good – dozen years.

Back to Rib.

When we started dating and I found out his family was from a reservation in New Mexico (he was born and raised in SoCal, but spent summers on the rez growing up) I honestly didn’t give it too much thought. If anything, it was more a matter of, “Well, that has to be better than either of the Dakotas, right?”

Anyway, my home state’s area code is 503 and I found it interesting that New Mexico’s is 505. That’s all it was, though, a passing point of interest that amused my brain, that our area codes were adjacent.

Ironically, Rib’s also the high water mark in this story. Deservedly, so – don’t get me wrong. Our relationship was good. Fulfilling, even. Eventually it just ran its course and instead of letting it die a slow death, I pulled the plug on it. We’re still friends, too, so like I said…he’s earned his position at the top of the heap in this story.

I moved back to Portland a year or so after Rib and I parted ways. Shortly after that, I started dipping my toe back into the toilet disguised as a pool that is dating in Gay Kulture. It’s my usual rhythm, too: I was usually single about half as long as my prior relationship. In Rib’s case, that penciled out to about two years.

For me, not him. He was single for about three weeks. I never said the transition from dating to friends was smooth.

Literally the first guy I showed an interest in turns out to be a transplant from New Mexico.

…aaaand enter the Broken Poet. My dumb ass thinks it’s a second chance at the 505.

Three chaotic months later, he’s run off back to New Mexico to live with his dad.

Flash strangers forward about six months and I start running into the same guy all around town. Jeo. All around town is overstating it. I rarely leave my quadrant, so more like all around my neighborhood.

Mind you, this is not his neighborhood, so it’s fairly remarkable. But we share coffees, the occasional slice of pizza and even rarer adult beverage. He’s not much of a drinker, but down to watch me drink – not something I’m a fan of.

My favorite moment with him was introducing him to my favorite guilty pleasure – Ground Kontrol. It’s a classic video game arcade in Old Town, just across Broadway from my place. As we walked in, I finally noticed the address of the business immediately nextdoor: 505 NW Couch.

Hilarious. Of course, I pointed it out and mentioned he oughta feel right at home.

Turns out, the reason I ran into him all around my hood is because he works here. I was usually catching him before or after a shift – or in between work shifts. Turns out, both of his jobs were in my hood.

Gotta love gumption.

Anyway, it was fun. I was enjoying getting to know someone without the unspoken agenda of getting them between the sheets and then between their legs.

Growth.

All courtesy of me not being particularly attracted to him – probably not busted up enough for me, knowing my type – and him being emotionally unavailable. Turns out, he shared one day, that someone back home had kind of strung him along and he was still emotionally tethered to him.

I had found out early on that he was also from the 505 – as I was now openly calling it. It would be a couple more months before he told me the guy’s name and I eventually figured out it was the Broken Poet.

This could only happen to me.

Anyway. I wish I had a better lock on my WordPress archives so I could find the Broken Poet posts to link for you. But I don’t, so you give the search a try. Maybe it’ll work for you from the hashtag menu when I post this.

Jeo didn’t get a hashtag. I don’t know is it’s because we never really dated or if it’s because he wasn’t the typical Lost Boy that Gay Kulture tends to barf out at me. I’m leaning toward the latter. I enjoyed our time as friends and hangout buds. He just didn’t have a ton of spare drama overflowing onto my sneakers.

Refreshing. To be sure.

Until he kissed me out of the blue one day.

Caught me off guard, he did. I wasn’t offended, I just wasn’t prepared…and I don’t think he understood the difference between the two responses.

I’m going to jump ahead now. I’ll shorthand the interim with this: there were other guys from the 505 that I came in across and didn’t suffer, I’m less optimistic about the caliber of person that area code can produce than I was back with Rib. Hell, when I was a hiring manager, I had to actively set aside my misgivings about the residents of the 505 to avoid them coloring my decisions and potentially putting my employers at risk. I’m glad I’m either self-aware or professional enough to know to do so, though.

Flashing forward to the fall of 2020, I find myself down a “You busy?” fella. Someone to bang out with – now that I’m openly retired from dating. It’s not so much about efficiency as it is about boundaries around my own self-care. I can’t put it as succinctly as “come, cum, go”, because I do enjoy an intimate connection with my occasional erection. But I’m not investing long term here.

I’m sampling the menu, not buying the restaurant.

Enter BiBoi.

I’ve done a 180 on my attitude toward bisexual men. When I was younger and seeking a relationship, they bothered me. Most likely as ungettable. Now that I’m post-dating and more into relating while mating, they hold a functional and appealing disqualifier. Or, rather, I do: no titties. Or whatever it is that appeals to those fellas who can’t commit to a single gender dating pool.

We’ve been on and then off and now on again since November of 2020. Our first run was populated by interrogatories like “How long was your longest” this situation and “Do you think I’m maybe just mostly gay” type things, which I deftly batted aside like I’m King Kong atop the Empire State Building and they were attacking bi-planes instead of questions from a bi-guy.

The notable break came when he started dating a rack seriously and failed at juggling me to meet his needs that she could not.

“To thine own grumpy old man-ness, be true”, Me

Turns out, I’m not only his “what’s missing in his relationship” but also his adult, because when she dumped him…back, he came. Not for the sex, which he eventually got, but for the perspective, methinks. I don’t tell people what they want to hear. But I do tell them what maybe they need to hear.

He was in a mood to hear it this time around. To his credit.

Oh, and did I fail to mention he’s from a small town just north of the border in an area code known as the 505?

Sorry, that’s just bad storytelling.

Seriously, though…I am left to wonder why this isn’t my second question to someone. First, who are you? Second, from where are you?!?

Out, it always does, though. Surprised by it, less and less am I. Because, of course you are from the 505 if you run into me.

Ironically, that’s not where this story ends – even though BiBoi is texting me now that he’s off work.

Nono. As my neighbor, CrazyTown, has ridden further and further off into the insanity sunset, I’ve become more and more interested in leaving my building before I become associated with a tragic headline.

This has manifested in my joking to the Silver Fox that I was going to just move into his condo across the park. Mostly, that threat was meant to spur him into recamping to Portland from his ex-wife’s country estate. I get that being decamped there provides him with stimulation – not that kind – that he doesn’t get from life in the city: a free range dog, gardening, ok…farming, hot tubbing under the stars, non-tent-dwelling neighbors, no neighbors. Things the city life can’t offer.

Still, he has a two-decade long history with every older person’s most significant of others: doctors. If not for them, I might never have seen him after his pandemic escape. And his condo just sits there. Empty, aside from the every-other month-ness of his doctor appointments or even rarer relatives coming through town and crashing there for a night or two.

His counteroffer to my idea of establishing squatters rights? Use his Fox Network of relationships, both established and newly formed in pursuit of a friend’s in-need-ness, to find me a place in his building that is not…his.

Understandable.

The not-yet-exhausted option he’s sourced?

Yup…unit 50-fucking-5.

Because, of course it should all culminate there for me. If it happens, I don’t see myself getting out of it alive. It’s too neatly wrapped up.

Not that it comes with an executioner, by any means. But, don’t be surprised if it did!

No, I just mean that with the familiarity I have with his neighbors after running into them in elevators and hallways and (unescorted by a building resident) on the rooftop deck and on sidewalks and bars over the past couple decades, it would feel like home.

For as long as I myself, alone (of course) shall live.

There’s a certain fucked up I don’t know what-ness about the potential. We’ll see how the 505 saga ends…

505

Tire(d)

galby68, , , 7 Comments

The Silver Fox says I have the worst luck with tires of anyone he’s ever known. Despite his proclivity for hyperbole and my natural resistance to it when I hear it…I’m inclined to take that statement at face value.

To wit: last Sunday night, I was driving up Sandy Blvd on the east side of the river and was getting excited that my nav was turning me onto NE 57th, as that 5-point intersection was this epic entity during my childhood in that neighborhood. I was considering whether my nav would take me off 57th onto Fremont and right past my childhood home on the corner of NE Fremont and 60th.

That’s when I heard was the airbrakes of a semi or bus misfiring nearby.

Nope.

Instead of getting louder or fading away as the vehicle approached or receded, I was noticing more of a cyclical sound. I shut off my radio.

Then I opened my window. It was like a pressure release valve.

Then my dash gave my clueless ass the answer.

Low Tire Pressure.

“Rear drivers side? That’s different.” I’m not even surprised by that alarm from Angela anymore. No, it’s the location that surpass me.

And it was surprising. Of the three sets of tires I’d had since buying Angela three years ago – ooh, foreshadowing! – the majority of leaks I’ve had have been on the rear passenger side tire.

Hooray for noticing patterns.

It was dark. It had briefly stopped raining, and I had a leak in my tire that I could hear over traffic.

Gamely, I got my compressor out and tried refilling my tire. I could hear sir hissing out of the tire over the high pitched rumble of the compressor.

Because of my track record with leaks, I carry a can or two of fix-a-flat with me. I put it into the tire and pulled forward a hundred yards to spread it around and hopefully coat the hole. Reattaching the compressor, I tried filling the tire again to no avail.

I called a Lyft. I hadn’t opened either the driver or the rider apps since they boondoggled me off their driver platform last February, but it had been on my mind lately, since I become eligible to drive for rideshares in Portland again at the end of this month. I was conflicted for the duration of the ride, listening to the driver’s stories of mixed successes. Casually, I attributed her moderate enthusiasm to her own situation, mostly not driving when demand is highest because of her kid. The right decision – for her.

The next two days were absolute hell at work. Year end in a Payroll department of one…what can I say?

I was supposed to go into the office on Wednesday, but my car was still sitting on the roadside in northeast Portland about 70 blocks from me. Reluctantly, I asked my boss to use one of my banked holidays from working Christmas (observed) and Winter holiday (it was a payroll week) so I could get this taken care of. Unfortunately for me, it was another payroll week and I had to be available Wednesday morning to make any last minute corrections before she submitted the batch, but I could take a half day.

After my recent luck with tires, I’d taken the advice of the Silver Fox as well as a fellow blogger and stayed away from the Continental tire brand, which also meant staying away from the conveniently located Les Schwab tires, since that was the only brand they carried for my vehicle – and special ordering tires there was crazy expensive. This is how I ended up with my third set of tires – Bridgestones – coming from the Costco, courtesy of The Fox’s membership…in the next town over.

At least they had been on sale! I think the whole ordeal had come in several hundred dollars below the cost of the special order at Les Schwab, and under a grand. Oh, the winning!

Not so convinced now so much as I had been that Continentals were to blame as I was beginning to come around to the Silver Fox’s thinking that I had a tire jinx – not to mention the two courtesy patches I’d gotten from my neighborhood tire shop recently free of charge – I called Les Schwab to ask about my options. The thing is, I’d heard the one-tire tragedy often enough during my time waiting at Les Schwab for prior patches to know: one does not simply replace a single tire.

I ended up speaking to the manager of the shop. He told me that 30k miles into an 80k warranty put me in an iffy place. If I was at 70% tread depth, I could just replace the one – which surprised me. Then he hit me with the story I was more familiar with: with an all wheel drive car like mine, the recommendation was always to replace the set.

I’d convinced myself that part of the schtick was always to leverage their in-house financing. That’s the part that always made me feel creepiest to witness.

Then he said two things that surprised me.

First, that I should stop by their shop over on 29th & Sandy and pick up a tread depth gauge since it was close to where my car was stranded. If I was over 70%, I should take it back to Costco for a warranty replacement. Second, if it was under 70%, bring it to them because the warranty wouldn’t matter and there was no point in paying extra to have my car towed further to Costco.

So I did.

I’d forgotten how much I liked riding the bus in Portland. Reluctantly, I got off at 29th instead of riding the bus all the way up Sandy to where I hoped Angela was still in one piece.

When I asked for a tread depth gauge, the person I was talking to immediately started walking toward the door, all assurances that he could help me. Knowing my car wasn’t in their lot, I followed him, since my choice was talk to his back or talk to no one. Once he realized I wanted to borrow or buy one, he started talking to me like he wasn’t sure he was looking at the more dominant of my two heads.

Great. I’d gotten off my bus 30 blocks early for nothing. I checked my phone app and walked toward the next stop along my route. When I arrived, I saw the bus was still five minutes away and decided to walk to the next stop.

Then I remembered what I didn’t love about riding transit as the bus passed me a block from the next stop three minutes before it was supposed to be at the previous stop. Fine. It’s only 20 more blocks, I’ll just walk it.

It started raining.

I really don’t know how I don’t win a lottery. You’d think my cumulative bad luck would circle back to good luck at some point.

Knowing how long it had taken to get a tow when my alternator/battery had crapped out on me at the beginning of 2022, I decided to use my spare time setting up a tow. The guy told me 30 minutes, just as I was closing the last block or two to where I’d left Angela’s fate to the whims of Portland’s mercurial population.

Surprisingly, she was intact. Well, mostly.

Since it was now daylight – and I had 24 minutes yet to kill – I started looking for the source of the leak strong enough for me to hear and feel.

Of course, I had to pull forward…

I had some time to kill before RedKing towing showed up, so I texted my roadside savior from last year – Diezel – to tell him that inflation was fake news. It was only costing me $20 more this year to have my car towed. He then told me that it was exactly one year ago to the day that he’d helped me off the side of the road. Well, him and another tow truck.

Does that strike anyone else as weird timing?

Anyway. Two more surprises: first, the guy at RedKing towing with the Russian accent didn’t name his company RedKing as a nod to his heritage, his last name is Redkin. Second, he was on fucking time! And took less than 10 minutes to get my car on his flatbed – versus the 35 it took last time.

Once I got to the Costco, I learned they didn’t have my tire in stock, but could have it there the next day, Thursday. They were oddly optimistic they could patch my tire, but ordered a full set anyway. A move I was certain was done just to drive me into a conspiracy spiral. They told me I would be ready the next day and they’d call me.

Unfortunately, they called at 4:40 and I had plans to drink my dinner with a friend at 6, so I put them off til Friday after work.

Oh, and they had to replace the tire, but the road hazard warranty covered most of the cost of the tire do it was only $168 for that tire.

But they had to replace the other rear tire, too, at a minimum since the tread was at 50%. For whatever reason, the road hazard clause only covers one tire, despite the pressure to replace the set. My total for the two tires was going to be $447. I was strangely relieved, even though I was having trouble figuring out how the second tire cost $279 and the warranty covering $111 of the first tire was most of the cost.

I came to to the question of whether I wanted them to go ahead and replace the front tires since they had an extra day…and had ordered the full set of tires. Oh, and the recommendation for all-wheel…yeah, yeah.

That would be $1018…somehow costing even more per tire.

“No, but I imagine I’ll be back for them soon enough, given my luck.” I was not down for a fourth full set of tires in 35 months.

My tech told me that to that end, they were putting the patched passenger side tire in my trunk so I’d have a spare if one of the front tires went south. I kind of appreciated that. They didn’t have to do that.

At the same time, I don’t want to encourage my bad tire carma, so I’m not sure I really want it. I have it, though.

More specifically, the Silver Fox’s parking spot will have it as soon as I unload it. Hahahaha.

What? If he could blame Les Schwab for selling me bad tires before, he talked me into Costco tires. Ergo, he’s clearly complicit and can store the tire!

No? Fine, agree to disagree.

Tire(d)

Irresolved

galby68, , , , 18 Comments

Welp, it’s 8:38 on Sunday morning. I’ve been up since 5. 4:30, really – I got up to pee and optimistically tried to sleep more before I had to get up at 6:30 to take the Silver Fox to the airport so he could anon to Tahiti.

8:38 on Sunday morning and I’ve been up since 5.

I’ve read the news.

Exercised.

Showered.

Completed said airport run.

Filled Angela’s tank.

…and called myself a dumb bitch three times. I’m averaging once an hour today. I suspect it’s having nothing to do for the foreseeable hours remaining in the day.

So I thought I’d do something productive to snap myself out of that self-effacing doldrum.

Can you have a single doldrum? Maybe that’s a torpor.

Neverthemess…I debated asking my parents to breakfast, but I don’t want to drive in this halfhearted rain, so I’m not going to make them do it.

That kind of leaves writing. Am I going to finish my Christmas week post? Finally? No. No, I am not.

I’m jumping into ‘23!

I’m not one for resolutions – or proper English simply for the sake of proper English, hence the nonsense title of this post – but at the same time, I realized in the shower today that I was presently living out a fairly common resolution.

Call it wasting less or doing something for the environment, but that’s what I’ve found myself in the middle of. (There’s some more bad English for ya.)

As I was heading out to pick up The Fox, I had the thought that I should take my redeemable recycling with me to drop off after. I had to stop at Freddy’s anyway to get Myrtle more cat food on my way back from the airport – her breakfast sounded like only two or three kibbles when the feeder went off at 5. Then I surprised myself when I realized I was short of my two bag usual for a trip to recycling and decided to leave it. Besides, who knew whether the Silver Fox would have bags that needed to go in Angela’s cargo area? Best not to risk it.

This is when I realized I’d left my fob to The Fox’s building in my car last night, so I’d have to have him meet me at the door to get in. That was dumb bitch #1.

Then as we were driving to the airport in the dark, drizzly wee hours, I was struggling to see clearly and remembered that I’d intended to bring my glasses so I could see better, but didn’t have them: dumb bitch #2.

On my way home, I took backroads to avoid the blurry freeway. This also took me right by the home of the bi-guy I’ve been banging out with lately. That was kind of a fun realization – but now I’m horny. Sadly, I’m withholding with him because last time I saw him he left a mark like we’re fucking high schoolers.

Do I seem amused?

I stopped off for gas before hitting the grocery store. I’d been at 31 miles to empty when I left for the airport and was at 11 when I made it back to my ‘hood.

Then I forgot to stop at the store for cat food: dumb bitch #3.

Crap! I just realized I’d miscounted my dumb bitches, so that’s dumb bitch #5!

#4 was walking to the RiteAid up the street for cat food and not realizing they don’t open until 9 on Sundays. Staffing issues.

So, yeah…I need some positivity this morning. That required reflection, so I reviewed my day.

I had a shower victory this morning. Two, really, if you count showering so early in the day as a victory (I do). But I finally figured out the “right” number of swipes my shampoo bar requires for a good lather. It’s two.

Two.

I’d picked it up at Trader Joe’s last time I was there – purely on a lark. I’d been looking for a candle and struck out. But right next to where candles should have been was their personal care section and for $3.49, I figured why not give a shampoo bar a try? I knew I was getting close to empty on my current shampoo bottle at home., so this was also an opportunity to be proactive versus finding myself shampoo-less in the near future.

The first time I used it, I gave myself three swipes on each side of my head.

Waaay too much. I looked like a shampoo commercial on crack.

Plus side: this bar produces an insanely rich lather. I noticed this as it covered my shoulders and oozed toward my navel.

For the next week or so I regrouped at two swipes per side. Still too much, but I wasn’t mad since it smells so good! It also does an amazing job of pulling the prior day’s product off my hair, so why under-do it?

But this morning I was in a hurry – I know, up at 5 and end up rushing my shower to be on time, can you believe that didn’t earn me a dumb bitch? – and shaved a second or two off my shower by giving each side of my head one swipe.

Realizing that two swipes total was plenty left me looking at the bar in amazement. It looks barely touched after a week+ of daily use. At this rate, if it only lasts me six months, I’d be surprised. But in that half year, it’ll keep three plastic bottles out of my (non-redeemable) recycling.

Looking back on that made me feel pretty good. I felt even better when the reason behind me not having enough redeemable recycling to merit taking it with me when I left the house hit me.

I bought myself a soda stream late last year. I’m actually rather enjoying it. At first I was conflicted about it for political and environmental reasons.

It’s a company based in Israel, which is ire-some to some.

Plus, I don’t like bubbly water just for the sake of bubbles. Hence, the flavoring syrups in front of it. The Bubbly brand concentrates come in glass bottles and make around 12 liters. The larger containers say they make up to 9 liters, but I’ve only been using 3/4 the recommended dose, so they’ll each get me around 12 liters, too. So for the environmental price of two plastic bottles, I’m keeping about two dozen plastic bottles out of the system. Add another dozen for the glass bottle of flavorings and you’ve got quite an impact.

I’m ok with the return on that trade off.

I realized that over the course of a year, that will be hundreds less plastic containers coming out of my home. That made me feel pretty good.

And it all happened without setting out on a resolution spree.

Not bad for a dumb, ol’ bitch, eh?

Irresolved

Mental Venn Diagrams

galby68, , , , 3 Comments

I’ve been taking some deliberate time lately. Grabbing back what I can of “me” time versus running from work (from home) to social engagements immediately after. Or making a point of taking a lunch to workout and shower before the back half of my day instead of working from 8-5 (or later, many days) without taking a lunch break at all.

I’m not mad that the job I ended up signing on for keeps me engaged at that level. I’m just forcing myself to remember, my work is only one part of my identity and happiness.

To that end, sometimes I’ll leave work (from home) and meet friends – or not – for drinks, maybe dinner. Others, I’ll leave work (from home) and go do dinner deliveries for a couple hours to get out of the house for a bit.

The thing that was missing there wasn’t immediately obvious to me. Just really revealing itself last week – the week before my vacation.

Me time.

All of my activities involved being a participant with someone else. Not that I know the intent wasn’t there. I know I would intentionally set out take myself out for a solo drink often. Sometimes neighbors would drop in to the local watering hole. Others, just the staff would pull me out of my solo time to just be at zero, thinking Xtopher things and recharging my spirit, if you will, so I was ready to put my best self out into the world again.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not mad about being world famous on my block. I just remember from my days of career management, I always had my me time.

I was missing it.

Since my usual activities weren’t providing the recharge I needed, I ripped a page out of the Silver Fox’s playbook and just started staying home. There’s a bit more to that, which I’ll get into later this week or this weekend, but I looked at what I was doing and made a conscious change to change my results.

Like a damn smarty.

It’s kinda hard to stay home. I don’t have a big place, and there’s literally a bookshelf dividing my desk from my couch. Ergo, if I’m looking to get away from work, and “get away” isn’t physically executed…what’s giving me that perceived distance?

Since I’d joined HelloFresh, there were two nights of cooking built in as that get away. That was nice. Keeping the kitchen clean from its newly increased full-function usage versus the usual fridge and microwave abuse it was accustomed to could provide a nice transition one night a week. Can’t say I was keen on turning that critical cleanliness as an escape mindset loose on the rest of my home, though.

It’s a mess.

Last night, in a fit of semi-boredom, I cleaned to metal light fixtures that hang over my kitchen bar. The years of cumulative dust and cat hair since their last cleaning – lacquered in place by kitchen grease now that I’ve taken up cooking again – made it quite a task. I’m not lying when I say each fixture took closer to ten minutes than five to clean. Since it was hands over shoulders work, that added some extra humility to the exercise.

But I needed it last night.

Why? Why did I need a couple 5-10 minute tasks?

To give my mind time to make decisions in the background while I was focused on something else.

It’s a good trick.

And there are just too many TV show options to be able to decide!

If I were a younger gay man – or just one interested in blending my DNA in with the rest of the Gay Herd – I’d have opened up the loathsome Grindr and used that to kill time. But I’d still bet that I’d stand out from the other livestock there by thinking about something while there…

Are you shocked my dilemma is essentially nonsense? What TV show to watch…this is a first world problem of the highest order.

Here’s the deal, though. Last week I’d watched My Policeman – more on that in another blog – and had seen Don’t Worry Darling available to stream on another recent scroll through my entertainment options. In that moment, as the credits rolled, I was able to ask myself, “Self, do you want to watch both of Harry Styles’ current cinematic offerings in one night?”

I quickly responded – reflexively, even – in the negatory. I also dismissed switching to Disney+ to watch The Eternals as some sort of Harry Styles Plan B (he’s in the end credit scene).

Somehow, my addled brain ended up watching the first Kelvin Universe Star Trek movie to scratch the itch I was feeling. It’s Harry Styles adjacent since Chris Pine plays Captain Kirk in Star Trek but also co-stars with Styles in Don’t Worry Darling. As an extra Venn moment, the teaser at the beginning of the film – the moment that we later find out was the break from the standard Trek canon to Kelvin Universe – is Kirk’s birth. Kirk’s dad is played by none other than Chris Hemsworth, known for his role as Thor in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, of which The Eternals is a part.

Exhausting, right? And I didn’t even mention that Zoe Saldana plays Uhura in the Klein Star Trek films and Gamora in the MCU’s Guardians of the Galaxy movies. See? I pulled a punch for you in describing my insanity.

It took more effort and time to type that out than it dI’d to process and execute in real time. And I mention that because yesterday I finally got around to watching Booksmart.

Amazing movie. It did a fantastic job of presenting a story that should be relatable across multiple generations. But that’s not what I’m here to talk about.

As the credits rolled I found myself thinking, “Should I watch Don’t Worry Darling? Wait. Didn’t I just watch it a while back?” You see, Booksmart was Olivia Wilde’s directorial debut, Darling is her sophomore effort.

This is why I needed to B-reel the question. I couldn’t recall whether I’d watched Don’t Worry Darling recently and I also wasn’t sure I wanted to dedicate an afternoon/evening geeking out on one director. It’s neither star Trek nor Wars, so giving something multiple movies in a day elevates it.

So I cleaned light fixtures.

Ultimately, the media drama – not buzz, drama – surrounding Don’t Worry Darling made me decide to give it a watch. It was time to see the thing that created the opportunity for all this other stuff people were talking about to exist.

Couldn’t find it.

I was goading myself in an attempt to sharpen my focus or resolve to succeed because I knew I had seen it available recently. Did I need to rent it to play out my plan?

Nope. Wasn’t even available for rent on any of the streamers I have.

I popped over to IMDb to see where I could watch it. HBOMax. I don’t have that one, and I wondered if I’d seen it advertised to watch while watching House of the Dragon with the Silver Fox at his place. Didn’t seem likely, the last time we’d watched TV together was too far removed.

Maddeningly, I couldn’t find it.

Gave up, I did. Watched Star Trek: Into Darkness instead, I did.

And, no…it wasn’t because of the Uhura thing since the overlap didn’t exist. But since Benedict Cumberbacht plays Khan in this movie, it was enough to derail the fleeting impulse I had to pull up Disney+ and watch an Avengers et al movie – because Xtopher definitely does not watch one Marvel movie, it’s “Sayonara, rest of the week” if I start down that rabbit hole. So the MCU crossover double casting in Into Darkness satisfied the Marvel impulse while also finishing up the two best Kelvin Universe Trek films. Sorry, Star Trek: Beyond, you were…fine.

Interestingly enough, Beyond also dips into the MCU casting pool with Idris Elba as the bad guy. Crap. Guess now I have to watch it. It’s not like I have to get up early tomorrow, so…why not?

I guess this blog was tonight’s B-reel activity. How nice you got to experience that realization in real time right along with me.

Mental Venn Diagrams