please stop tickling me

In which we laugh and laugh and laugh. And love. And drink.

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Location: Portland, Oregon

Otium cum Dignitatae

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

I, yi yi

I used to live with six other guys in this house. One of them was a martial arts enthusiast. He brought home a weapon one evening: a long chain with a handle, and sharp thing at one end.
"What is that?" someone asked.
"Whip chain!" he said.
"Whip chain?"
"Yeah, whip chain!", and he gave a little abbreviated swing with it, just to show us the desired action.
"It looks like a plumb bob..." said Lonesome Joe.
"Plumb bob?" I said, having no idea what a plumb bob was.
"Yeah, you use it to...Uh, it kind of looks like one of those..."
"You mean like a whip chain?"
"Well yeah. Plumb bob and whip chain are..."
"Wait a minute..."
"Hey, is that a whip chain?" someone else, walking in, asked.
"Or is it a plumb bob?", wondered Joe, again.
"Like 'car truck'," thought Flake, aloud.
"Car truck?"
"You guys, I'm really going to have to ask you to stop this..." I said.

I recently received a care package from GNP. Its contents were an autobiography of Lyndon Johnson, and a large bag of cranberries. No note.
Easily the strangest package I've received in a while, though nice. Must be cranberry harvesting season in Massachusetts. I don't care for cranberry sauce, so I'm probably going to juice them.

I have received many calls from the union, of late. They've been keeping me busy with many gigs, all of which have I yet to receive a check from. Today was a thing out at Nike headquarters, in which we took down a bunch of lights inside an enormous tent, right near the Tiger Woods Pavilion. Along the sides of the tent, the Nike credo, point by point:
Point two: Nike is a Company.
Point three: Nike is a Brand.
These people are geniuses, I thought, and then considered the other points:
Point six: Be a Sponge. (I assume they mean that one should soak up knowledge, not live off the welfare state.
Point eleven: Remember the Man. (a picture of Bill Bowerman, looking pensive, as opposed to a picture of Phil Knight, looking freakish.)
Point five: Simplify and Go. (ok.)
Point ten: We are always on the Offense. (Now you're threatening me, Nike?)

I have been sharpening a lot of rudimentary skills, as my job demands: knot tying, coiling of cables...I've been amused at the secondary fashion among stagehands: black shirt, black Carhartt's. Laminated passes, c-wrench, ratchet (9/16ths!), box wrench, SpiderCo knife and/or Leatherman tool. It's what the cool kids do. Make sure to wear a shirt from some other show you've worked on, so we know who you are...

I recently spent a week in which I:
Played a man dressed in a corn suit for a small local film.
Faced down a man who was stalking a friend of mine (with the Tulsa Kid).
Took back a stolen bike (also with the Tulsa Kid: the neighborhood has lots of parking lots filled with people sleeping in tents, working on stolen bikes. We recognized one belonging to a friend of ours, and told the guy we were taking it. He wanted a receipt. I didn't have my book on me, y'know...).
Attended an awful wedding. My pal Victoria the Queen married up with this police detective she met on, and though he seems nice enough, I've never been alone with him in a camera-less room, you know? And most of the other men there were the same: huge thyroidal cases who beat people up for a living. The maid of honor went way beyond good-natured ribbing of the bride on her special day into shit that was just plain mean. The serving staff was a bunch of old ladies who barked at the guests. Like I say; awful, even for weddings.
One funny moment during the vows though, when Vic referred to her husband-to-be as 'my Wife'.

I had a recent visit from Disco Boy and his lady. Like all good audio geeks, I showed him my vinyl collection. He picked up War's The World is a Ghetto, in particular, and expressed his love of that album. I'm now thinking that the song "City, Country, City" needs to be the centerpiece of my next mix. That, and the Dirty 3's "I Really Should've Gone Out Last Night".

I still haven't seen an actual mouse, or mouse dropping, though I still hallucinate them darting, out of the corner of my eye.

I am about to lose Bachelor Pad Two, the coastal edition. After owning that house for over thirty years, my evil aunt and insane uncle are sick of administrating the damn thing, and are selling it. Mind you, the house across the street is selling for 3.2 million dollars.
But this house is a place where I've been going my entire life, and has memory upon memory upon history upon psychohistory for me, and is one of the few places I ever feel entirely rested, or at home. The same is true of my Dad.
There's nothing I can do about it, though, and it just plain sucks. When Dad told me this one, over lunch, I said to him and his wife, "Fuckin' Bachelors. They ruin everything."
Bachelor to Bachelor: they agreed.

I am now living over a bar, since my landlady and her husband wanted to finally make some money offa that space. It's nicely done, construction wise, but still stinks like bad fry-oil, and still feels like a dive bar. The service, too, isn't all that hot, considering that the most people they've ever had in there at one time is ten, tops. The bar staff is all friends of mine, so that's something.

I am reminded of another passing: The Rest and Relaxation is going to be shutting its doors at the end of the year. It's been a bar for at least thirty years, though poorly managed and finally run into the ground in the last two. It was the subject of a short documentary that Bobby Massage and I did, earlier this year, for cable access, and is also where I held my birthday last year.
And this year too, I guess, since I'll never have a chance to do so again.

I don't want to end on a down note. Ah yes: my friends went to a comic book signing last weekend on Sleater-Kinney road in Lacey, Washington. Present were the author Garth Ennis, and the illustrator Derick Robertson. I've been an admirer of Mr. Ennis for years, but had to work, and couldn't go.
I got my copy of the issue of 'Hellblazer' where John Constantine turns 35 years old signed. The Cult Baby handed it to Garth. She couldn't think of anything to say, except, "CouldyousignthisformyfriendRich?Helovesyou!"
Star-struck over a comic book author. Cute. And also: I don't love the guy, but you know...Well, and she could have said, "My friend is a fire hydrant who is a long-term admirer of your work!", and he would have written, "Best wishes, M. Hydrant; good luck being a civil servant..."

I couldn't attend this function since I was taking down the Women of Faith (Trademarked) conference. They, whoever they are, like the pyramid scheme weirdoes who'd had the hall before them, had their own brand of bottled water.
Tiny, dainty, lady-like water bottles that read "Women of Faith (TM) Natural Springs". I'm told that Dr. Phil's wife was there.
The pyramid scheme weirdoes who'd had the Rose Garden (where the Blazers play. whoo.) previous to this were named Get Motivated! (TM), and had normal-sized, blue-tinted water bottles that probably had speed in them, based on the ugly, mendacious energy in the air.

I...Aw bloggin': why's it always gotta be about Me Me Me, huh?



Blogger rich bachelor said...

'I' is also the name of the Magnetic Fields' followup album to their great '69 Love Songs'. Every song title begins with the letter 'I'.
Sesame Street, you are not forgotten!

4:25 PM  
Blogger George said...

Whip chain conversation was hillarious. Yes, I sent you the cranberries because I hve a frien out here who's family owns a bog and we went picking one day.

Found the LBJ autobio at a huge tent sale in Brockton (a town famous along with Ogdenville and North Haverbrook for having monorails.)

There is no monorail in Brockton.

I thought the pictures would at least be worthwhile.

1:28 PM  

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