The Last One Left Awake

Cash Bastard, you've jacked me around for the last time!
don't be ridiculous. we're never going to make any meaningful connections this way. We spend far too much time sitting on our asses getting drunk in front of these benign radiation sources as it is. we decide these things, so we say.

Welcome to my world. I have a far more extensive blog elsewhere, and if I really really trust you, I'll show you it, dude.
More tomorrow. Try to kill more than you die.

Wish like hell I remembered what it was I meant by that last line. That so far is the only posting from the other blog.
I originally had a blog over at Live Journal in 2000. I can't find it, as I was using another one of my pseudonyms and can't remember the password. I recall that I wrote what I wrote simply to write something, so as to declare a 'prepare to be boarded'.
It smells like somewhere nearby, a large pile of tires is smoldering. Repaving on Sandy Boulevard? I'm no longer the walker of the night that I once was, and don't feel like going and checking my city for what it is really saying.
Sandy Boulevard is an odd one, in a city that is as rigorously gridded as this one is. I am told, and I believe this, that Sandy is actually a paved trail that predates the street grid. This is why it runs counter to all the orderliness of the streets otherwise.
Hm. You know, even "Cash Bastard, you've jacked me around for the last time!" is odd. Cash Bastard could very easily be seen as some sort of not-exactly-anagram of 'Rich Bachelor'. And the phrase 'you've jacked me around for the last time' is one of my favorites, and never fails to get a laugh out of me. It's sort of like the famous Cary Grant ad-lib: "The last man who said that to me was Archie Leach, and I cut his throat."
Cary Grant's real name was Archie Leach.
I just read an article in one of the local weeklies about how people keep moving here, despite the fact that there's no jobs. By 'here', I mean Portland. It seems that people love it here because it's a good place to live, not a good place to settle your company, though not a bad place to start your own business. Funny too that those of us who have lived here forever are considering moving to the country.
But we understand, and always have, that you have target-rich environments for jobs, and then you have the places you'd actually like to live. It's not a bad metaphor for my life, in fact. I have made my life into a Portland of the mind: there's no way you're employable in this environment, but it sure does feel sweet to live here and enjoy yourself.
Who was it who coined the term 'unenjoyment' for 'unemployment'? I'm trying to remember.
My obsession with the HBO Pictures show "Deadwood" continues unabated. It's so damn good. A tale of how most cities start out as entirely lawless places, ruled only by crime and graft, and history will make it seem otherwise. The same is certainly true of London, England. Or Rome.
Which Western Civ. teacher of mine was it who said that the first place it ever was spoken that ther was one god only (a preacher of Mithras, no less) was what is now known as Vatican City?
In retrospect, he must've been wrong: Zoroaster must have said it first, as much as we know, and that was in what we now call Afghanistan.
I went down to the Pladdy, a little bit ago, to purchase middle-of-the-night snax. Upon bringing my Cheetos and Ben n' Jerry's to the counter, I said to the girl, "These things we need, in the middle of the night."
"I hear ya', man." she said. No doubt she took the job to hang with the real folk, and say things like, "I hear ya', man" to us. She is part of the lesbian mafia that runs the all night convenience stores in this neighborhood, I think, though I have been known to over-think things.
I wanted, once I had awakened on the couch from falling asleep in front of "Deadwood", to walk the city streets of night, post bar-close. To be the Man With No Name, who deals out fisty fireworks and frontier justice to those who transgress. Instead, I came back here and read The Demon Sa'kul's comic books. He just had one of his own published today. I'm living with a published author.
He has a story in the comic "True Porn", which is just a bunch of people sitting around telling stories about their sex lives. Funny thing is, as I said to Baby Bulldog earlier, as much as she and I and all the people we know talk about that particular subject, I almost never write about it. Almost all of her paintings are about heartbreak, if not sex specifically.
I am, as I've said before, lucky to know the people I know, and they're lucky to have me looking out for them. As an ally, I'm a fierce motherfucker. If I take it into my heart that your interests run counter to those that I love, I'll fuck your life up for you but good, and then I'll really get nasty.
It's been a while since I've felt called upon to do that, though. I'm in semi-retirement in the life-destroying game. And what I'm really feeling right now is shame and guilt that I got drunk too damn early in the day, passed out watching television and thereby missed and oppurtunity to make apple pie (literally) with MacBeth.
What does she have to complain about, though? I'm gonna help her paint her basement stairs tomorrow. Matter of fact, I'm gonna forgo the usual go-immediately-downstairs-and-get-coffee thing to ride my bike up north of the divide, to her coffee shop. At this point, she will be reminded that even though this whole weirdness has only been going on two weeks, I think my poor dumb ass might very well be in love.
But I have a superstition regarding blonde girls, based on experience. It's always a big deal when I date girls that share my blonde hair, blue eyes. A big, ultimately bad deal. It's why I almost never date them. But, all the rules got ruled invalid by my inner jurist a while ago, as they periodically do.
It is the middle of the night, and I'm feeling candid. Sleep well folks, knowing that the Last One Left Awake is watching over you.