The Transporter Couch

I used to really really have a bad crush on this girl named Karin. One day in high school she was driving me home and casually observed that her tank was low. She wasn’t playing me or anything she was just making an observation. But I was ALL over it like a wet map. I told her to pull into that Gulf station. Gulf was what Chevron is now. And I had a Gulf card that my parents had given me and I was gonna use it.

So the attendant comes out … this was in the 80s when there were attendants ….. and I just leaned over and said “fill it up.”

Karin ddin’t know what to do or say. But what she DID say, which was funny, was “how will he know when to stop the pump??” Poor girl, had never filled up a tank in her life.

I think it came to $9 and some change.

Karin …. as long as we’re talking about her. She went on to date Ray, who was my best friend in my youth. I have’t seen Ray since I was 16. I’d like to meet him again. It would be weird. Karin and Ray were the PERFECT couple, blond, attractive, loving. I wonder what happened to that. If I hadn’t started hanging out with Frank and smoking pot I might actually know.

Now Frank…… a whole other ball of wax. He warrants his own post. But Ray…….. Ray’s dad is some famous physician and he and his numerous siblings (all girls) went on to have fabulous lives. And I’m glad. I’d love to get trashed with him and see where HIS rollercoaster went.

But, when Karin and Ray started dating, that’s when the connection began to degerate. Funny. It all seems so inconsequetial.

For several years in the mid-1990s, a clean, casually-dressed elderly man would stand in front of the downtown Portland Radio Shack, the one on the bus mall. He would be there almost every day, on work days, and he would be there for hours. I know, because I watched him.

(more…)

This weekend has been the fall we scarcely had. Low temperatures, breezes from the north, clear blue skies. Pale blue, like spring skies, so you’re not totally fooled. But clear and fresh. Yesterday was such an incredibly gorgeous day. I lay outdoors and caught some sun. Then listened to the opera for a while….. (eh, it was forgettable), then lay down some more then read some, then just went to sleep in the daytime.

I hate working. But I like what it brings to my life. It grounds me. It makes me feel beautiful.
Went out last night. Dressed in black. I looked hot but I wasn’t really feeling it. Coulda gotten laid in a heartbeat but I just wasn’t into it. Here’s a thought, for all you guys who say you can’t get laid. BULLSHIT. You can almost always have anything you want so if you REALLY wanna get laid, make love. Seriously, be a lovable, adorable kind man, and you might be surprised how easy it comes.

OK that was my 70s moment.

OK what do I want to say? I’m here for a reason. I am supposed to go to Sunday School with my sister and my mother in an hour. I don’t want to go. For several reasons. One is … t’s THEIR bonding time and I don’t want to horn in on that. Another is, I’m accustomed to seminars wherein *I* get to speak and I don’t think this is like that. Third, it’s a Christian-based program and I’m wary of that. I’m afraid I’m just too intellectual for this crowd. They’re sheep. I don’t mean they need guidance, just that they don’t know how to vocalize their thoughts, and I *CERTAINLY* do and I’ll seem oppressive. Mom has enough trouble vocalizing in front of me, her only son. Anne doesn’t have trouble vocalizing but she gets choked up.

You know, freshman year in St. John’s they basically teach you to to unroll yourself. To reveal yourself to yourself. Sophomore year you have to start to argue. Junior year it all just spills out. Senior year, you just don’t care anymore. Not that you don’t care, you just don’t worry. You’re like, “Bring it.” And then you go out into the world. With …. whatever. Whatever you took. Whatever you bring. I can walk into any room and take it over. I might need accessories but I can do it. I’m not scared. I’m scared of SCARY people. with maces and mace. People with wicked intentions. In general, though I subdue myself, I am in control. I’m one of those in-the-closet Type A people. I just pretend to be Type B because it suits my aesthetics.

Bright days like this get me thinking.

Last night I went with the Cuvee Contingency to the Hill Country Food & Wine Festival Main Event. Actually something is happening today that is the true main event but last night’s affair was a big, sweet party. It was a lot of fun.

We drept our table in a curtain we pilfered from the restaurant andset up beautiful flowers and stylish wine bottles (a double magnum of this, a magnum of that, and a Nebuchadnezzar of that), which left very little serving room, which was the perfect amount of space for our shrimp ceviche on water crackers.

Jordan outdid himself behind the counter! Good kid. Nice kid! It would probably piss him off to hear me call him a kid but I mean he’s a 16 year old young man. And he works. Responsible, forward thinking, kind, polite. He was the “chef” in the chef’s coat and he assembled the wares that Len and I plied to the unassuming masses. On the way over to Austin I had a chance to engage Jordan and he can hold his own. AND AND!!! When we went to Central Market to pick out last minute flowers, he had thoughts! There is, truly, great hope for this boy! I don’t mean he’s swishy! He’s not. Not even remotely. Just, you know, picking out flowers is delicate work that requires confidence and assertiveness and he ….. asserted his opnion. GOOD!

The function was nice. Nice people. Nice crowd. Got to meet Kitty Crider, the food writer for the Austin American Statesman. That was a first. Met lots of people. It’s an expensive venue so you have to be careful. Half the people are in awe and half the people are pretentious. Either way, I can work em. We brought waaay too much food but you never know and it’s good to be prepared.

We were serving this nice little shrimp ceviche on a little cushion of avocado mousse, on water crackers, and with a mango chutney atop. It was nice. It was really popular. And the young woman on one side was seerving vodka and folks on the other side were serving Riesling. It was perfect.

After the event, Len and I went to Cedar Street, which used to be one of my all time favorite hangouts. There were 750 million people there and it wasn’t comfortable. I said to Len the instant we got there, “if we get separated, I’ll meet you RIGHT HERE at 1 AM” but we didn’t get separated. We just sort of huddled. It was that JAM packed. But truth be told we were tired anyway and it was time to come home. Len drove. Thank god.

Then in the alley behind Cuvee, my comeuppance. I decided I’d kick a box, and in the process fell down like a drunk old man. I’m swimming in cardboard at 2 AM and hoping no one saw this happen. I rectify myself just in time. Len came out to examine the commotion but I don’t think he saw me lying on my face in his garbage. Alas! Salvation!

I mentioned in a previous post that I would rollerblade in the empty house. I did more than that, except this was when the house was still quite inhabited and furnished. This house is a big old Victorian thing and had front stairs from the front hall and back stairs from the kitchen.

Once my sister and bro-in-law came to visit and brought their rather rambunctious German shepherd, Ransom, a pure-bred whose full name was King’s Ransom because that’s what they paid for him. We just called him Ransom or sometimes Handsome Ransom, for he was a handsome dog! Well I was alone in the house with him. He was very very sweet natured and still….. well not a puppy anymore but not yet an adult. And he was sitting in the floor looking at me with this look like, “Bring it.” And I smiled and just BOLTED from my chair, and he chased me. But it took him about four seconds to get his footing because he was lying down. I was out in the hall and four steps up before he even got to the door. And I raced upstairs and down the hall and he gained on me but I flew down the back stairs. He was unaccustomed to negotiating stairs, downward at least so I got away from him. But he figured it out and I was barely out of the kitchen before he was on my tail. I wasn’t wearing any shoes so I enjoyed quite a bit of traction on the hardwood floors. All the rooms had rugs but there was no consistent traction for Ransom’s paws. I ran through the kitchen, through the den, into the hall, a hairpin curve into the living room then through the dining room then through the pantry and back into the kitchen and he was on my tail but he was barely keeping up. Part of this was psychological because he had been trained NOT to misbehave in the house (after another incident that I may or may not describe, but it involved a cat) but mostly it was just that I knew where *I* was going and he was just chasing me.

Back up the back stairs and down the hall and once again he slowed down coming down the front, which gave me time to run across the front hall, back through the living room and dining room and THIS time I hopped into the bathroom and pushed the door to. He had only made it to the dining room by this time so when he got to the pantry he was lost. My scent was everywhere so he couldn’t go on that. So he just stopped and panted for a minute and then just TOOK OFF through the kitchen and up the back stairs. I ran and followed him and by the time I got up there he was mostly down the hall and had heard me coming and my head emerged above floor level just in time to see him stopping in his tracks and sort of sliding like Thumper on the ice down into my parents’ bedroom. And once again he scampered to his feet which gave me time to hang a left and run into MY room and hide behind the door. He zoomed past my door and FLEW down the backstairs (he caught on quick about the downstairs thing) and I could hear him running around in circles down there and then he just stopped. And I waited about …… 30 seconds, and suddenly heard this heartbreaking, plaintive howl.

I just started laughing (and I was sweaty and exhilirated) and walked to the front stairs, and halfway down where they turned on a landing I just sat there and called him. And he came. And he was so happy to see me.

And we sat there together and bonded. I played with him a lot like that, though not much in the house because …. well it is just bad manners. Like something out of Wuthering Heights, two curs fighting over a bone.

Ransom was barely four years old when he developed some pancreatic/enzyme disorder and began to waste away. Kitty and Shawn sent him off to the truly fabulous A&M research center and they had ideas but no solutions. In the total prime of his life, akin to a 15 year old boy, he was skin and bones. Couldn’t stand or if he could, couldn’t get very far. Would soil himself. I don’t specifically recall how, at last, his soul departed his body, whether he was euthanized or just didn’t wake up one day. But my whole family secretly (and sometimes openly) cried for that beautiful dog with his sweet disposition and charming personality. I’m crying now and this was surely 15 years ago.

I’ve managed to endear myself with the folks at Cuvee. (Hmm, endear with? endear to? whatever) I mean, we all are friends now and so I was lucky to get invited to a party last night at the proprietor’s house.

Now I have to set this up properly. Carolyn Walls died. God rest her soul. (And I understand it was a hard hard death.) And I got that news exactly three minutes after I accepted the invitation to come over Monday night for fajitas. And in the ensuing fray of my weekend I FORGOT the party invitation. Carolyn was not really a friend but she was my friend Carla’s sister and out of respect and deference I went to the viewing yesterday afternoon. And there, I ran into Hilda. And Hilda, who is one of the most beautiful women in the world, is quite shy, and she sort of clung to me. So after we left the funeral home we went DIRECTLY across the street to Lincoln Street and consumed Moscato d’Asti. Quite a bit of it. And then Hilda said, “aren’t you going to a party tonight?” And I thought, “SHIT! Yes I’m supposed to go to a party!

Well two glasses of Moscato d’Asti do not make Brian drunk, but I was certainly lit up. Hilda and I left the funeral home at about 5 and then went to have a drink and we sat in the “front living room” at Lincoln Street, which was once upon a time a house. Lincoln Street is, first and foremost, comfortable. We sat in the front living room and I closed the doors so it was quiet and we both had a little cry and then we talked about many things and Shawn came in and refreshed our glasses and shut the door behind him, and then we laughed about stuff and it was the perfect counterpoint to viewing a dead friend. So I was actually in a pretty good mood.

And then I went to Len’s house, and driving there I got lost…. .LOST in a podunk town! But I found my way, and suddenly it was a party.

Present were: Sheila and her boyfriend Terry, Jen and her boyfriend Matt, Julie and Lance (married), Sherry, Len, and myself. We were the singles threesome. Len’s wife and daughter are out of town so he was only tangentially single.

At some point I was talking sort of across the room to Terry about driving fast cars. It was a GUY moment and I was enjoying it, but busy doing that I missed some larger conversation about “juicy tits.” That became a recurring theme of the overall conversation last night.

There was lots of food! AND… AND!!! I drank about 483 margaritas. I think that was where I was ultimately going with this post. I feel like shit. I haven’t even summoned the courage to look at myself in the mirror. I’ve walked past one eleven times and just don’t look. I know WHERE my car is but more important than where it IS is where it IS NOT, which is….. here. And I have to go to a funeral in 2.5 hours and it’s raining and I feel like shit and loook like shit and don’t really want to go. Maybe I should blow it off. Maybe I should send an elaborate wreath and a condolence card. Maybe I should muster the troops and put myself together. Maybe I should have breakfast …… .no….. well maybe some watermelon.

The party last night was sort of a double party. Sherry is going to Australia for a month and leaves in about a week. So it was a bon voyage party for her. And I turned 40 in December and ….. well that being the holiday season and all those folks being busy, no one took notice of it. So it was sort of a birthday party for me. It was sweet. It was nice. It was alcoholic. We ran out of lime juice so Jen and Sheila went to the store to get some and came back with this helium birthday balloon (that if you touch in the right place makes noise, not unlike some people I know) and some watermelon, which I had been craving. That was extra sweet of them, no pun intended! But I haven’t dived into the watermelon yet. Nice watermelon, all cut up and seedless and in a little container!

The balloon is sort of creepy. It reminds me of Terrence Stamp. It’s pretty big …. biscuit shaped, about 18 inches in diameter and 6 inches thick, metallic, helium-filled (it’s on the ceiling now) and metallic in color. It says “BLOWS YOUR MIND! ANOTHER BIRTHDAY!” and depicts a blue face wearing weird glasses with confetti exploding out of his brain. And did I mention it sings?

My complete and total incapacity to focus this post is sort of annoying, to me at least. The wages of sin …. as they say… is death. I’ve never understood that subject/verb disagreement though it was at some point explained to me. Anyway, all it indicates is that I’m hung over, and pretty majorly.

Have a nice day

My friend David doesn’t like cats and doesn’t understand why I like them, and he might if he visited be mean to Aretha. But he doesn’t have a pet. And while he’s had a lot of love in his life I don’t think he’s ever had a “pet.” Not in the strictest sense, at least. You just don’t know, until you get to enjoy a pet, how valuable a pet is. It’s an animal. it lives. It breathes. Its heart beats and blood courses through its veins. It has a personality (ok I’m talking about cats and dogs here, not fish or gerbils). And while I get annoyed when I have to clean her littler box (especially when she swoops it all of on the floor), she’s worth 500 times the price of those silly moments of maintenance.

I had another cat. His name was Seymour. A silver tabby. I had him for about three years. I put him out at night and one morning, he just didn’t come home. And he didn’t come home. And he didn’t come home.

And he didn’t come home.

When I realized he wasn’t coming home, for whatever reason, I just cried. A 37 year old man crying over a cat. I cried, off and on, for a month. This creature, this living being that has a heartbeat and a personality and who depends on me, is missing. What can I think but the worst. How can I save him? What can I do?

Nothing, but get over it. He was just a cat. And Aretha is just a cat. But I love her.