I’ve been trying to think up names for better versions of those movies like “I Heart New York,” and “Paris, Te J’aime,” where a whole bunch of lame filmmakers recount clichéd tales about these overly-romanticized places about which we should damn-well know by now that there is nothing interesting left to say. 

The only two I’ve been able to come up with so far are

 ”My relationship with Atlanta is eerily similar to the one I have with my father, and I think I’m OK with that,” and

“Portland, I need you to shave.  Like, right fucking now — and don’t give me that hipster scowl.”   

See?  Aren’t you just a little bit more intrigued to hear the stories in these fine films than in a movie whose title include a heart symbol? 

You guys want to take a crack at it?  Prize for the top two titles will be this legal-enough herbal-ecstacy bullshit, which it turns out they sell in a strip mall off the highway to Beaverton.  God Bless America. 

You can play more than once.  You have until Sunday at midnight.  Best of Luck.

Happy New Year, too, now that I think about it.

Overshare, Part 1

I don’t exactly make it a secret that I’m slightly hairy (read: like the love child of Sasquatch and an especially Greek person).  For the most part, it doesn’t really bother me.   It’s not like I’d be the most sexually appetizing creature on God’s Earth if I didn’t have a hairy back, and I’m just kind of used to my body at this point.  It’s not so much self-esteem as it is comfortable familiarity.  We’re a best-case-scenario arranged marriage, my body and I.   

But once every year and a half or so, I end up shaving it all off, just for the hell of it.   It’s not a premeditated thing; I’ll just be doing my normal face-shaving routine in the shower, when the razor slips down my neck and takes a patch off of my shoulder blade.  And then I’ll take a few more swipes, just to clean up that area, and then all of the sudden it’s an hour and a half later,  I’m steadily plowing across my lower abdomen, and I’ve almost ruined a brand-new disposable razor.  And I’m itching all over from the stubble.  This will be significant later in the story. 

“Landscaping” is an apt piece of slang: the intense concentration, and deeply compulsive satisfaction remind me of mowing my mother’s lawn when I was 15.  Once you start, you simply have to finish the job.  This, too, will be significant later in the story.

Anyway, so this phenomenon of personal grooming occurred yesterday, despite my knowing full well that today would  be the coldest day of the year in Portland.  My skin dries out very, very quickly when it drops below 35 degrees.  Latter-story significance?  You betcha.    

Later in the story. You guys?  I am so fucking itchy right now, I cannot even tell you.  I stopped caring who saw me scratching my crotch about midway through the day, and I’m pretty sure everyone I work with thinks I have crabs now.   My lower back looks sunburned, it’s been so thoroughly clawed.  I think I’ve raised a couple of welts.  

I seriously hardcore need to go buy some lotion, but it is 19 degrees outside, and the store is a 15 minute walk.  So I guess I won’t be abandoning my post by the space heater anytime soon.  Anyone got one of those tacky-ass novelty back scratchers they want to send me?  You can bill me for the shipping, just don’t make me leave the space heater to come and get it.

I sometimes worry that my experience of life will ultimately be characterized by this continuous oscillation between two polarized states: stress and unpleasantness, and boredom and despair.  No happy mediums.   No self-actualization.  No sustained satisfaction.

I don’t know.  Last week I was unhappy because I could barely get a breath in edgewise, and then I spent the entire weekend sitting on my ass, alternately feeling sorry for and annoyed at myself.  And now I can’t stop fantasizing about dropping everything and heading for Seattle, which I certainly cannot afford right to do right now.  Not to mention that going alone would probably not be terribly fun.  But this is my brain’s natural defense against undue existential worry: I think about staring up at pretty buildings in a city where no one knows who I am.      

I really want the answer to be pills,  but unfortunately you have to talk to people in order to convince them to give you pills, and I’d really rather not expose myself to that kind of humiliation. 

Coincidence: I spend half of the month quasi ripping off Chuck Klosterman, only to find out yesterday that he has a new book out.  It feels more mature and less self-indulgent than his earlier stuff, but the parallels and conclusions he tries to draw out of popular culture are still stretching it to the point of bullshit 90% of the time.  

You still have to appreciate what he’s doing, though:  that staunch dedication to reconsidering what everyone else has long ago accepted as given is refreshing, and he’s sincere enough about the idea behind each of his theories (even if he’s not terribly sincere about supporting them with credible evidence) that it resists the expected devolution into schtick.  If he were as thorough with his arguments as he is with his skepticism, he would be an excellent cultural commentator.  But I can’t really blame him; I’m more or less the same way.  As proof of this, you need merely notice that I haven’t provided a single example from the text to support any of my opinions about it. 

I’ve plowed through this book awfully quickly, and winter break is fast upon us, so I need some book reccomendations.  Anything engrossing enough to keep me occupied on a 5 hour plane ride is especially encouraged.  Any non-biographic non-fiction is especially not.

The last week at Mills Manor has been hectic.  Thanksgiving was great, but I had to get up at 5:30 to open at work on Friday, and was therefore unable to see Holiday Company off to the airport*.  But they made it out just fine, and I staggered home, exhausted, around 6 P.M.  I had to open again at work the next day, so I popped a Melatonin and sat down to bust out my nightly post while I was waiting for it to kick in. 

The next thing I remember is glancing at the clock across the room, which now read 8:25 A.M.  Lesson learned:  Melatonin causes black outs when you’ve been averaging about 6 hours of sleep for the past 5 nights.

That’s my excuse for Friday night.  For last night, though…I’ve got nothing.  The inertia of defeat, maybe?  I don’t know.

So I’m thinking I’m going to try to make up for it by posting the first two days of December.  Not that I have anything super exciting to talk about.

*I always think it’s kind of silly that we color code the trains in this city until I have to give someone directions to the airport.  “Get on the YELLOW one, and then get on the RED one.  DON’T get off until it stops moving for good.”  Couldn’t be simpler or more fool-proof.  A four-year old could handle those instructions.

Happy Thanksgiving.

We made Tofurkey, squash, and stuffing.  What about you guys?

We’re going drinking!

At a bar in my neighborhood!  Which never happens, because none of my friends live in my neighborhood! So drinking is always this big event that must be planned ahead for, and takes place exclusively downtown.  And without the spontaneity and knowledge that I can easily stagger home, it loses a good bit of its charm. 

But not tonight!  Tonight, I have people who have asked me — on the spur of the moment, no less! — to go imbibe at an establishment that is five blocks from my home.  To which I have never been.   Because going alone would be depressing. 

Anyway.  That is what I am thankful for this year.

So I guess I lied.

This evening has ended up being more hectic than expected.  So instead of walking you through a bunch of crap from the last three days that is interesting only to me, I’m just going to post another country music song. 

Found this while I was digging up “And Still”.  It is by turns ridiculous and great.  The whole idea of reimagining this song as a tough-love gal-pal talk, instead of two lovers’ monologues doesn’t quite work.  It just comes across as silly and forced.  And could the costumes be any more quintessentially 90s?

But let’s not kid ourselves here: whatever excuse of a song was needed to make this perfect union happen is completely justifiable. 

On My Own

 

Ugh.  Bad day.  I’d talk about it, but I’ve got to get up early to open at work tommorrow. 

Tommorrow!  Tommorrow, I will actually have some time to talk about stuff.  As soon as I can just get through opening the store.

Let’s all take some time to give thanks for the naive people in our lives this holiday.

Signs that your holiday guests SUSPECT NOTHING.

Guest #1. “Do you think I should take a Klonopin tonight?  I don’t know if I’m going to be able to sleep otherwise –”

Guest #2. “Nah.  Just take one of my Xanax.  I’ve got so many of them, anyway.  I don’t know what I’m gonna do with all of these.” 

Beat.

Andrew. [Gesturing wildly] “OH HOLY SHIT, IT APPEARS THAT THERE IS A SQUIRREL.  I THINK THE MOST PRUDENT COURSE OF ACTION IS FOR YOU BOTH TO LOOK OVER IN THE DIRECTION IN WHICH I AM NOW EMPHATICALLY POINTING.”

Um.

Yeah, I have nothing to say.  Guests are here.  Guests like Ethiopian food and going to bed early, so I’m thinking we’re going to have a pretty good time. 

How are you guys?