Category Archives: Stories

The Power of Positive Drinking

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Some people ruin their drinks with ice,
and then they ask me for advice.
They say, “I’ve never told this to anyone else before.”
— Lou Reed, The Power of Positive Drinking

I was thinking of that line even before Brian mentioned not putting ice in his beloved Lagavulin. It’s a sad day that that even needs to be said. Ice. pff.

Holy Crap! Sweet Jane just came on the TV radio station. It’s a cover, but it still counts as a plate of shrimp. It’s a good cover. Oh, man I feel good right now. I was feeling pretty good before, but then with head-slap thunder the chama monsoon rain started coming down just as the second beer was finding my nervous system. Late in the season for a monsoon, especially considering the dry August, but just what the doctor ordered for heart and land. And the smell, the smell. Ozone and soft mud. More thunder, punctuating Buffalo Springfield.

The temperature has dropped a few degrees: It’s whiskey time now. On each side of me a dog lies twitching, running with the wolves they’ve never learned they’re not.

I’m trying not to resent the arrival of the family later this afternoon. It’s their house, after all. They paid for it and everything. The only thing is, I have put the Jerry vibe into this place the last few days, and it’s just now building up to critical mass. I feel the vibe most intensely right now. It is a calm feeling despite the loud music. (Next time I get up I’m going to turn down the bass just a wee bit, bringing the vibe incrementally closer to perfection.) My quiet madness reaches out across the Chama Valley and reflects back to me off the far Brazos Peaks, rolling with the distant thunder, dancing with lightning, and I know the storm is here for me. I have called it from the place where storms sleep, roused it for one last grumbly dance across the land.

The thirsty land feels my energy, and amplifies it. The rich mud hosts tiny creatures fleeting across brief puddles, in a madcap accelerated cycle of life. Water! Grow! Sex! Die! In this frantic call to life I am unnoticed, but something rises from the muck that I smell and understand. Some bugs are getting laid tonight.

Ooo! Look! A can of mixed nuts, sitting right here next to me! Truly the Universe is resonating with me today, responding to my needs even before I know them myself.

My vibe, apparently, is a fragile one. Bringing other personalities too close to it pains it. In a bar, I can create a vibesphere, and close myself in my own aura for a few precious hours, but in a house with other people around the bubble shatters into tiny red fragments, needle-sharp little brain jammers. Better not to even try to bubbleize in the first place.

But for now I sit, pupflanked, Scotch Guarded, open, resonating. Feeling the power.

Thanks!

Jojo, bring me a beer!

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Jojo Dynamite is my beer slave for life. If she is in the vicinity, I do not get myself a beer.

How did this happen? How did I subjugate this poor innocent lass? How shall I answer to the ACLU and Amnesty International? It’s simple. She did it to herself. Alcohol was involved.

It all goes back to a time, many years ago, when Jojo had quit the balmy climes of San Diego for a life in San Leandro, near Oakland, CA. There were several family members in the neighborhood, including one sister we will call Sally. Sally was prone to take “party naps”. When this would happen, the magic markers would come out, and hilarity was sure to ensue.

After a few parties, many of the markers were the worse for wear, and didn’t mark as magically as they once had. It was on one particularly crazy visit to the great white north that slavery happened. “Sally” was passed out, and out came the markers. We ran out of exposed skin on Sally, however, and by God the artistic muse was still unsated. Drawing upon one another ensued.

There was one marker, the blue marker, that was the king of all markers. The ink flowed free and rich from its fibrous tip, covering all it came in contact with. I, being the calm and sober soul that I am, took control of the blue marker. Hardly any time had passed when Jojo came crashing up to me: “Gimme the blue marker!”

“No.”

“You have to give me the marker! I need the blue marker!”

“If I give this to you, you’ll just use it to draw on me.”

“No, I won’t! I swear! If I draw on you with it I’ll be your beer slave for life!”

At this point I knew already that I had a beer slave for life. The rest was just formality. I gave her the marker. Sure enough, not ten minutes later, Jojo says, “Hold out your arm. I’m going to draw a whale on you.”

“All right.”

The black marker was still doing pretty well and soon I had a whale on my forearm. As a finishing touch, Jojo drew in a pretty blue spout of water coming from the whale’s blowhole. “Jojo, you’re my beer slave for life,” I said.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaa!” cried Jojo, running in circles. “No! No! No!”

But, yes. She was, and is, my beer slave, until death do us part. In the old days she would try to talk her way out of it, but on this visit, it was she that reminded me of her beer slave status. The fact that she now lives in my old home town is an incredible coincidence, but one to be appreciated. So today, for the first time in a long, long, time, I said, “Jojo, bring me a beer.” And a sweet, sweet beer it was.

Thanks!

Thrusters

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Barely worth it’s own episode, but yesterday while doing laundry I dropped by Thrusters (map), the bar next door. Occasionally I still get carded, but very rarely. When I do get carded they’ve usually changed their minds by the time I have my wallet out. It goes something like:

Bartender: Can I see your ID?
Jerry (reaching for wallet): Really?
Bartender: Uh, Never mind.

That’s what happened at Thrusters except for two things: I didn’t have my wallet and she didn’t say never mind.

Once I had my clothes unloaded and splashing around in the suds, I moseyed in to the bar with an empty backpack and a book. They have an atmosphere there I appreciate—small, somewhat dark, and somewhat divey. Quiet in the late afternoon. One other guy was perched on his stool and he had barfly written all over him. I was tempted by the Guinness, but in the end ordered Siarra Nevada, one of the better macro-microbrews.

The beerista asked for my ID. I had none. One other time I got caught with my identifical pants around my ankles, the bartender just looked at me more closely and then brought my beer. Not this young lady. “I don’t know…” she said, eying me carefully. “You look pretty young.” No beer for Jer, but you know what? I’m OK with that. I hope she’s working again today so I can go in and show her my ID. It’s a cheesy move, I know, but it could be the most accelerated regularization on record—making an impression before having a single beer.

Thanks!

Pups in Limbo

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pups Triska just had her second kid and is feeling overwhelmed right now. It’s not just the dogs, but they contribute, and finding a place for them until I could take them to the Czech Republic would be really helpful. Otherwise, they may have to put the boys up for adoption.

The biggest problem is that little Spike doesn’t do well with the clumsy love of a child. He’s a good dog, but he’s very small and when the gentle petting becomes enthusiastic patting he feels threatened. He’s probably OK with kids 6 and up, depending on how spastic the kid is.

It would be simplest to find a place here in California, but I can drive the boys pretty much anywhere if necessary. Here’s the lowdown: They are both chihuahuas. They go as a package (Spike needs another dog around). They love to sit on laps and crawl under the covers. They are untested around cats, and have limited experience with other dogs, but recent encounters have been peacful.

Chico (aka Lefty) is the younger and more active of the two; he loves to chase things. His name could be “Magnet”; chicks dig him. He only has one eye, but don’t tell him that. Spike is older and more territorial than Lefty. He is smaller and has a worried-looking expression most of the time. Usually when evil is near he will raise the alarm and Lefty will spring into action. Spike can stand on his hind legs nearly indefinitely.

Sooner or later I will probably be taking the pups to Prague, but it’s important for any potential adopter to understand that “sooner or later” encompasses a very large window.

Please contact me via email or put a comment here if you are interested in looking after the guys. They really are good pups and you will fall in love with them, I promise.

Thanks!

Open Bar

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Got up, got out of bed, dragged a comb across my head. I’d stayed with Bill and Joanne, leaving my car tied up to the hitching post at Callahan’s. I got up earlier than I had been, tried to come up with a good subject for an episode for this blog, failed, and just drifted around on the Internet for a while. Sometimes after an episode which which I’m particularly pleased I have a tough time coming up with something good enough to justify pushing the good one out of the top spot. But this is the Internet, and has a voracious appetite for new. I drank some tea, but was soon yearning to be reunited with my toothbrush. Ride to car, drive to Pacific Beach, clean the choppers; I’m ready to go.

Sluka’s was next, of course, then the library. It’s funny how quickly I’ve fallen into that routine considering how unstructured the rest of my life is. I got back and Amy arrived soon after, trying to juggle her life so she could take a quick trip back to Florida to see her family, who are right in the center of the devastation from hurricane Charley. Apparently they’re getting bottled water now, but they have no electricity and no beer. Amy can’t take them 120V AC, but a transcontinental beer run is in the offing. Tally Ho!

In the afternoon Amy went to get some work done on her car to resolve a fix-it ticket (imagine that!) and I actually got a couple of things done. The big one was getting her old laptop set up so she can freeload off the neighbor’s wireless network. Amy is now Internet-enabled. Tremble in fear, citizens of the Web! Of course my reasons for setting her up were purely selfish; I can’t remember the last time I wrote a letter on that paper stuff.

Later Paul came over and the Packers game was on and Amy cooked up a fantastic meal and there was beer and all was good. It was decided: after the game we’d go to the Open Bar. We were all feeling jolly. The Pack lost and off we went.

I have only been to the open bar a couple of times before, and never as part of a group. The first thing I learned is that the pool tables suck. Two of them are so bad no one was using them; the owner of the place should just get rid of them to make more room for drinkers. The third table was usable and in use. The bar was way too hot and muggy despite having one side open onto the smoking patio. To the great outdoors I eventually repaired. Paul made a couple of attempts to set me up with women at the bar, a skill at which he far surpasses me. I wasn’t in the mood for that kind of stuff, though. I did get a laugh from one for my “Scotsman at a Baseball Game” joke.

I also ran into one of my favorite waitresses of all time, from back in the day. I didn’t recognize her right away out of the Callahan’s context; I just kept looking at her and wondering why she looked so familiar. Finally she recognized me. Tawny was there with some girlfriends and they were whooping it up. It was great to see her again. I had a thought as we talked that other people would be wondering what the two most attractive people in the bar were doing talking to me. I owe it all to regularization.

I don’t know how Amy and Paul wound up being so much drunker than I was. They must have been drinking faster back at the house. They were really starting to get on each other’s nerves, though, and it was harshing my mellow, to borrow a phrase from Halfsies, wherever he is. Amy had an unpleasant encounter with some other guy in the bar and we left in a hurry without telling Paul, who was off somewhere else. We walked back to Amy’s; it was a peaceful San Diego night and as we walked along the bay the fireworks were popping over Sea World. I breathed a sigh of relief to be out of the bar and into the quiet. Paul was waiting for us when we got back to Amy’s place. I was treated to an endless series of Paul needling Amy and Amy roaring back. Finally I went into the kitchen and turned up the music so I wouldn’t have to hear them bicker anymore.

Why can’t we all just get along?

Paul left soon after that, plenty pissed off. Things quieted down, and one uneaten grilled cheese sandwich cut into bite-sized morsels later, Amy was asleep and I had my peace, curled up with a cat on the short sofa.

Morning arrived gently, and after a shower it’s off to Sluka’s for me. I may be here a few more days if Amy needs me to housesit while she’s in Florida. I’d rather be on the road, though.

Thanks!

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

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I thought I was getting up early until I looked at the clock. Ugh. Almost eleven. My mouth is dry, my eyeballs are fuzzy, and my fingers, not the surest of digits at the best of times, seem to be hitting random keys right now. I wouldn’t call it a hangover—there’s no headache and the leftover hot wings sitting in their gelatinous goo are still tasty—but it feels like a morning that’s been pulled from the freezer and defrosted.

It was a good night last night.

My throat is scratchy. That would be the Billy Idol at karaoke. Sometimes you have to rise up to the music. Sometimes they turn down your microphone.

There weren’t many takers for karaoke at Champ’s last night. That meant the unsuspecting Sports bar was subjected to a whole lotta Jerry, though after the “White Wedding Incident” I chose mellower (or at least quieter) songs. And then, as the Karaokologist was packing up his gear for the night, I did the unthinkable. I struck up a conversation with a woman I didn’t know.

She was friends with the karaokista. I went over to tip him but he had no tip jar; she scrounged one up. She had long, black, curly hair (I’m sure there’s a more technically correct term for cascading ringlets of raven hair, but I don’t know it), a pretty smile, and let me tell you, kids, the chick could sing. I wonder how many times I said “You can wail!” while I sat next to her at the bar. Too many times, I’m sure, but when she smiled at the compliment the first time there was no stopping me. Skinner would have been proud. She said her name was Jennifer. I told her I was a writer.

I’m surprised I even got that far after the way I started the conversation. Oh, Lordy, Lordy. Are you ready for this? After getting the tip jar squared away and parking myself next to her, belly full of liquid courage and having already made her smile once I said, “If I wasn’t leaving town I’d be hitting on you right now.” To which she replied, “I guess you just did.” Apparently it wasn’t a fatally awful cornball dumbass thing to say; I find in my fearful fingers this morning a coaster which reads in handwriting almost as frightful as mine “Jen’s email (the wailer)” followed by an email address that may even be real. (Did I make the joke about Bob Marley or did I only wish I had later? I think I made the joke. I think she laughed.)

I cut and ran at that point, trailing my already-departed hosts back over to their place. We were hanging out lamenting our frightfully low beer supply when Joe called, looking for a place to go so he wouldn’t have to drive all the way back to Mira Mesa. Melinda talked him in, and the drinking continued for a while longer. Tom, ever the industrious host, cooked up some hot wings while we ravaged the last of the beers and Melinda continued her progress through the big bottle of rum.

Now it is morning, and Tom has overcome the disaster that was the kitchen and is busily cooking up a nice breakfast. Joe still lies in a tangle on the sofa. Melinda made a brief appearance to lie on the other sofa but apparently that was too much for her and now she’s gone back to bed. And why not? It’s Sunday.

Thanks!

Saturday Morning

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I have reported previously how much I enjoyed shooting the bull with Amy through the night. The reason I had the pleasure of Amy’s company on those late nights is that Cute Boy has a job; he has to get up at 5 am. Well, last night wasn’t a school night for him so Amy went straight there after work and I haven’t seen her since. She said something about Erica having a party.

Which left me in the dark and quiet of Amy’s place, her absence a presence. Amy has one of those large personalities, that fills the room and rivers out into the street through the doors and windows. Maybe that’s why only one of three windows on her car can be closed. (The fourth, if opened, would probably fall off.) Confining Amy in such a small place would be dangerous. I imagine there is some part of her soul, some force that comes from Earth itself, that has damaged the windows so that it might always be free.

I wondered why neither Amy nor Erica had invited me to the party. I’m not that surprised, really—if they thought of it at all they probably judged (rightly) that it wasn’t my kind of bash, but of course that doesn’t change the perceived slight of not being asked. Amy probably didn’t want any distractions from Cute Boy in any case. Chances are he’s as tired of hearing about me being in her house as I am of hearing what she plans to do to him when she gets the chance. Last night was her chance. I thought about that more than once.

One of the side effects of trying to be a writer is that when I’m in a funk I find myself nursing the feeling rather than trying to banish or forget it. It’s a strange sort of masochism to try to put the blues to work, like poking at an open sore to make it sting more.

I had decided to stay through the weekend to help Amy steam-clean her carpet and upholstery, but now I think those plans have been forgotten. Just as well; I’ve been invited to a barbecue later today and another one tomorrow, both at the houses of people I’ve met in bars. A farewell tour of sorts, with steak.

My melancholy has carried over to today, and the weather seems sympathetic. The marine layer has been much more persistent this morning, keeping the world slightly gray but the world keeps moving anyway. Sluka’s is fairly crowded, most people choosing to sit outside and probably appreciating the cooler morning air. Later the sun will be out and the beach will be crowded. Sluka himself is bustling around, putting up advertising for his latest venture as a flight instructor.

After the road trip novel sells a million and I follow it up with the blockbuster boat trip novel, I’ll have to go on a plane trip.

Thanks!

Hare Krishnas Drive Miatas

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I’m sitting outside at a little coffee shop, not far from the local Hare Krishna Temple. (In the summer they go up and down the boardwalk by the beach playing their instruments and singing – I call them the Hare Krishna Marching Band.)

I just watched as a Miata with a spoiler stopped in front and issued forth a man and a woman, both wearing their Krishna outfits. The orange robes clashed mightily with the red car, but the real dissonance was at some deeper, spiritual level.

Thanks!

Jerry, Meet Jerry

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I should write first about what a great day I had today. It was the perfect backside for yesterday. I’ll get to that, I promise. I’ll try, at least. But for now we will fast forward to the end of the day. To Tiki. To my out-of-body experience.

You may have come to assume, reading my tales, that I’m a Rock ‘n’ Roll All Night, Party Every Day kind of guy. Sorry to have led you astray, but that’s generally not the case. At Tiki, for instance, I am usually gone before the band starts to play. Find me a bar where good bands play in the late afternoon and I promise I’ll be there every day. I assure you this has nothing to do with my age.

So tonight I found myself still there as the music started. I was sitting next to Connecticut Bill, who would not SHUT THE HELL UP! He was the one who convinced me I should stay to hear this guy play, but once the guy started playing, all I could hear was Billy. In the presence of good music I do one of two things: I dance or I write. Usually when I write while listening to music it’s all in my head, but tonight I grabbed a pile of bar napkins and a pen, both because I knew my memory was fragile and to keep Bill at bay. It took some hard-core ignorin’ to buy myself some space.

Meanwhile, the singer was starting to attract a few new partons to the bar. Some of them were even female. I worked away, studiously ignoring Billy as much as I could. There was one woman in particular, over my right shoulder (Connecticut Bill was to my left), in a floral dress short enough I could appreciate the toned legs crossed and aimed directly at the singer. I scratched away at my napkin. One corner of my mind, of course, drew a scenario that had her crossing over to me to see what I, obviously an artist of great virtue, was breathing to life there in her very presence.

It was as I contemplated that fantasy that I saw myself. There are no mirrors at Tiki, and none was necessary. There I was, shaggy, saggy, and baggy, scratching on a napkin arcane symbols that I myself will not be able to decipher later, tearing the parchment when I get too excited. My hair is a wreck because I run my hand through it repeatedly as I wrestle with the tougher parts. I’ve got a pretty good dairy queen thing going by now.

And here’s the kicker: if that woman had come over to see what I was writing, on the off chance that somehow she had felt the force of my intellect across the room, I would have been paralyzed. “What are you doing?” she would ask. “Uh, just doing some writing,” I would answer. “Oooh, I love writers! Can I read it?” Gaah! Shit! Shit! Shit! “Uh, no. It’s not ready yet.” It would have been something like that, except less graceful on my part. Luckily the entire scenario is impossible.

Thanks!

Tiki Reunion

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That’s not the official name of the night. It’s something like $2 pint night. But I’ve always called it Cheap Bastard Night. Others have tried to rename it Two-for Tuesday or Tightwad Tuesday. Nah. It’s Cheap Bastard Night, because I’m a cheap bastard. I named it after myself.

It was like a reunion at Tiki tonight. Old faces I hadn’t seen in a long time. Some I never expected to see again. The biggest surprise was Connecticut Bill, an incredibly sharp guy whose life is vanishing up his nose. Was vanishing, perhaps, if his time in jail gave him a chance to straighten out. Observers are not optimistic on that score.

I didn’t notice Connecticut Bill right off the bat, so I don’t think he was there when I came in. He’s hard to miss with his energy and his opinions on everything under the sun. He’s also the one who will play Velvet Underground on the jukebox. When I walked in the front door I saw Bevins sitting there and I climbed aboard the stool next to his. After a brief moment of non-recognition (he hadn’t seen me clean-shaven yet) I recieved a warm welcome and unbidden Tiki Dave was pouring me an Anchor Steam. The game was coming on soon and I was in my happy place.

Suddenly on my left appears another old buddy from my days hanging out at Joe’s Place. Tom had selected alcohol as the drug for destroying his life, but for the last few months he has managed to get it back together. Naturally, that means a lot less time in bars for Tom. They’re just not as fun when you’re drinking non-alcoholic brew. Tom is one of the only people in the world to have read The Test, an incomplete work that I set aside when it started to spiral out of control. The story has gotten so big that it will probably end up being a series. That’s not necessarily a bad thing in an author-driven genre, but I feel strongly that even in a series each book should stand on its own. Which means The Test needs an ending, even if it is just volume one. Tom’s commentary on the story was, well, embarrassingly gushing. And protracted. He had read the incomplete work in 16 uninterrupted hours. I promised him I would put an ending on it and get it published. He gave me a dollar to help offset my expenses in the meantime.

Somewhere during that time, Connecticut Bill showed up and there we all were, lined up with our elbows on the bar, watching the home team blow a lead, Billy feeding the jukebox and telling about his time in jail. We talked about this and that, nothing important, favorite comic strips, rehashing some of the old stories that had been dormant too long.

Finally it was time to leave that place. I moved on without ceremony, as if it was just another day at the bar. Things to do, etc. I left, knowing that we might or might never all be there again.

Thanks!

Ocean Beach Bar Hopping

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Most of last night will have to wait until I can disguise it as fiction. Going out on the town with Amy usually works out that way, it seems. I had left a message with her, looking for a place to sleep, and she eventually called back. She was hanging with Rory and Alabama, two of her friends from out of town. They were at South Beach bar in Ocean Beach (A very nice place with a decent beer selection and excellent appetizers. Best fried calamari anywhere. Behind the bar are picture windows looking out over the beach. A good place for sunsets.)

They were just having some shots when I arrived. It didn’t break my heart to miss out on that round, as they looked like some kind of goofy sweet mixed shot instead of good ‘ol straight booze. Why people go to the trouble to get one of those things and then knock it down their gullet so fast they never taste it is beyond me. For that matter, why people pay for top-shelf tequila or scotch and then just throw it down the pie hole is a mystery I may never solve. If you’re not going to taste it, why not just throw some grain alcohol back and wait for the bomb to hit?

I kept my mouth shut about silly shooters, and Amy’s buddies turned out to be pretty cool. I was just finishing my beer when Erica called. She was heading to Sunshine Company and so were we. Sunshine Co. has a good happy hour special and is popular among smokers because the patio (where smoking is legal) is for all intents and purposes indoors.

It’s funny how many smokers I’ve been around since smoking was banned in bars. The sequence goes like this:

  1. Smoking is banned in bars
  2. Jerry starts going to bars more
  3. Jerry hangs out with other bar patrons
  4. Most bar patrons are smokers
  5. Jerry inhales more second-hand smoke

At Sunshine company the pitchers were coming fast and furious but somehow I manage to stay out of their evil grip, nursing two beers the entire time I was there. It was great to see Erica again, bubbly fun sweet and cute, and we talked for quite a while. She’s in love with some boy in Belguim. Our crowd shot some pool, and being the most sober person there I didn’t suck at it. Some girl hit on me – and everyone else in the bar, male and female. It was her birthday and she was looking for a present. She didn’t get far with me, but she didn’t try that hard, either. There were other people in our group she found much more interesting, often several of them at the same time.

Things started to get crazier. A blue-haired butch-looking girl had her hands down Amy’s pants. Amy was trying to use her own sexual wiles to connect Rory and Birthday Girl together. Birthday Girl seemed more interested in Blue-Hair and Amy. Birthday Girl and Blue-Hair were sucking face like a pair of lampreys on spring break. Erica mildly disapproved. Finally it was too much for my poor sober ass. I made Erica promise to come to Prague whenever she went to Belgium, got Amy’s keys and went back to her place.

Amy showed up two hours later with another friend. I made grilled cheese sandwiches (double cheese). The friend would not leave, and It turned into a late night. Finally I curled up on the short sofa and closed my eyes and he took the hint. He’s a nice guy, really; Amy had called him in the middle of the night for a ride home and he had complied. I was just very tired. Making grilled cheese sandwiches can take it out of a guy.

The final image as I turned out the lights was of Amy curled up on the couch, jealously guarding a package of Goldfish even as she slept. I reached out and tugged on the package, open and about to spill, and she snapped down around her precious crackers, contracting like a sea anemone gulping down its prey. I let go of the bag before anyone got hurt.

Thanks!

Pitchers

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Location: Pitchers, Rancho Penasquitos, CA (map)
Miles: 8756.8

Turned the dogs back over to Triska and family (“Has it been two days already?”). Just down the hill from their house is a bar called Pitchers, which they had mentioned before. This is my first time here.

It is a sports bar, but when I arrived for a late lunch all the TV’s (except the lotto monitor) were turned off. I settled in to my chair and studied the menu. I knew it would be a disaster, but when I saw sloppy joes on the menu I knew what I had to do. When I saw the Stone Pale Ale tap I the rest of the equation fell into place. e=mc2, baby. The young woman who took my order was also strikingly attractive, even if she did walk like she was in high heels while wearing sneakers. (“Stick up the ass”, we used to call that.) Quibbling aside, she’s awfully good for looking at, and is friendly and attentive as well. (If you’re in the area and looking for a new place to become a regular, also be aware that she just came in to town from Utah and doesn’t know very many people here yet. It wouldn’t be too hard to stand out over the regulars here. Come to think of it, it’s pretty easy to stand out over the regulars at any bar. I’ll try to get her name for you before I leave.)

But I digress. They were out of sloppy joe goop, So I had a BLT instead. It was pretty good, but not exceptional. I hear the pizzas are pretty good here, and the waitress said the subs are good if you’re hungry (I wasn’t). The TVs are on now, showing pool and poker and Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Which leads me to ask: Is Omaha the new Texas Hold ’em?

Just went on a bathroom run (don’t worry—I washed my hands) and on the way I saw that Grolsch is currently two bucks a pint. Not bad. In the mirror I looked at my clean-shaven-long-haired-pale-lower-faced self and all I thought was “glam”. Maybe it’s time for a haircut. On the way back to my table I learned that my server’s name is Jewell. “Oh, like the singer,” I said. Crap. Can there be anything stupider I could possibly have said? Damn I’m an idiot sometimes. She has a firm handshake. I like that in a girl.

Fresh Prince had given way to that Tim Allen sitcom with the tools, and pool has given way to fishing. One of the other TVs has something that may be “wrestling”, but from over here it’s hard to tell. If MTV still had videos, that’s what I would have guessed. Some guy just caught a wee fish. Damn, that’s some good TV. Much better to watch Jewell. I like the way she holds her fork.

Thanks!

My Pants

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If you’ve ever seen me, you’ve probably seen me in these pants. I’ve been everywhere in them: bars and restaurants, Europe and North America, the beach and jail. I think they’re called cargo pants (at least, that’s what the arresting officer wrote down). They are fairly long for shorts, but fit loosely and work well with boxers. They are covered with pockets, and most of the pockets button shut. They have a drawstring that has allowed the pants to expand even as I have.

Triska bought them for me years ago at a thrift store in Pacific Beach. Two bucks, or something like that. (She’ll remember the exact price she paid for them, even after all these years. She never forgets a bargain.) Sometimes I would be annoyed when she would buy me clothes I didn’t need (my definition of need and hers were very different), but these I took to right away. You can do anything in these pants, from fishing to dancing.

The fact that I have done so much in these pants is also a testament to their durability. Scrambling over rocks, mucking through mud, hauling a halyard on the open sea, or just kicking back on the sofa, these pants have come through with glory. By now a lesser pair would have holes in the pockets where my keys have been driven through the fabric. Other pants would have worn through the seat. Lesser trousers would have lost buttons, but not these. These are the Iron Man of pants, endurance gear harkening back to an era when men were real men, women were real women, and pants were real pants.

Alas, durable and eternal are as different as the Earth and the Universe, and soon it will be time to put these pants out to pasture. The drawstring is frayed; if I’m not careful about how I tie and untie the knot I could find myself having to cut my way out. I’ve already had some pretty close calls in the men’s room. The fabric is getting thin in places and the cuffs are starting to look ragged. While we (my pants and I) were in Catalina things really started to let go. They are still merely scruffy rather than indecent, but it’s only a matter of time now. Hopefully Old Navy still makes this model, and makes them as well as they used to. I like them so much, I’d even buy them new.

Thanks!

Amy’s Car

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Amy drives a Ford of some sort, a two-door that still has enough paint to allow one to tell that it once was purple. Long parallel scratches go down the side, as if Amy brushed against a rake. There are bits hanging off here and there, flapping in the breeze or dragging on the ground. Most of the bits are inconsequential–weather stripping, trim, and the like. None of the parts of the bumper that are dragging on the ground seem critical, which is good since the bumper has clearly seen plenty of use. Other parts that are barely hanging on are the types of things that some people might find important, like headlights. Both headlights turn on, but one is good for little more than signaling to passing aircraft.

The motor makes a sound somewhere between a rumble and a wheeze, a moan that seems to come from below the pavement, from some circle of Hell deep below the Earth’s crust created just for automobiles.

One night after she had been drinking Karen the Irish Bartender dubbed the left rear window “the pukie window” because it has no glass. It saves a lot of locking and unlocking, and on occasion I have used it for a headfirst dive into the back seat. The seatbelts are the kind that run along a track when the door is closed–uh, that should be “ran”. They’re not running anywhere anymore.

Still the car steadfastly soldiers on. If you’re ever in PB and you see this car groaning down the street, give Amy a wave.

Thanks!

Troll!

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I’m sitting with Kate, Triska’s almost-two-year-old daughter. She’s pretending to type as I write. I brought up my blog page and she pointed to the picture of me in my beard and said “Troll!”.

I’m going to put that down as a vote for shaving.

Thanks!