First Date... again, not really

FIRST DATE:

And she said [leaning into the question with obvious physical interest, fifty minutes into a date that, for all intents and purposes, for all outward appearances, seemed to being going quite well]:
Do you have any consuming hobbies right now? Like, what is the thing that you are just TRYING to own right now?

And he said [in an apathetic panic, the eternal self-doubter, not knowing that things were going well, thinking that masturbating twice a day and covering the city in spraypaint wasn’t something that should be brought up at this early a stage, even though they were his primary, all-consuming hobbies]:
Uh… I’m thinking about learning how to juggle fire? [He had no designs on this until just now, and after blindly pulling it out of his ass, still had no plans on doing any such thing. Fire was hot, blisters sucked. To this very day, he has no idea why he said this.]

And she said, excitedly [she lived in the Alberta District of Portland, Oregon twixt the years of 1999 and 2037. If you know what that means, you know. If not, disregard this bracket and move on]:
Oh, like poi balls? Or batons? I saw an AWESOME fire juggler the other night downtown at Pioneer Square. He was juggling flaming bowling pins! I guess he didn’t have permission cuz the security guys shut him down pretty quick.

Him [knowing he was sinking deeper into dumb]:
Uh, no. I mean, yeah, that’s cool. Totally. But… I’m not talking about juggling THINGS that are on fire. Just, actually, to learn how to juggle fire. You know, like fire, on its own, in its purest form.

Her [one delicately plucked eyebrow arches]:
Uh… but. How? I don’t get it… I mean, you need, like, SOMETHING…. like, as a vector or something? A carrier? Something that is actually on fire?

Him [noticing her eyebrow and, understandably, lack of understanding ,but mind totally blown with the realization that fire needs other things to exist—that, as a highly destructive though sometimes cleansing device, it cannot exist solely on its own. That shit was crazy to him right then and there, but he couldn’t abandon the story line, couldn’t stop running, because if he did he’d be gored to death by his own idiocy. It was like the running of the bulls[hit]] [double brackets, bitches!!!]:
Yeah, I know that it sounds like something in the realm of “not possible”, which is why I feel like it’s a good thing to learn. You know, like, people can juggle things that are on fire. We see it all the time. It’s not easy, but it has been done to death, right? But no one has figured out how to juggle just fire on its own. You know, deal with it on its own terms?

Her [other eyebrow arching with beautiful incredulity, looking bored and finished, the forward lean from the initial question undone to a back lean, slouched against the chair that, as far as he was concerned, was absolutely not designed to encourage people to hang out for long periods of time]:
:

Him:
Yeah, uh… [searching for something right to say, floundering, seeing the stupidity of his words reflecting off of her face, a face that he was realizing he’d never get to kiss, never be in a position to smell that intimate smell of breath expelled though nose unless he upended this tipped canoe of conversational idiocy. On a cellular lever, he knew he couldn’t right this dumb].

And that was that. End of Night Point Tally:
Failure- 10 points,
Possible Future (or even a kiss goodnight)- 0 points

So he went on about phrenology and dowsing and every other thing that would make it impossible for her to want to have anything to do with him on an intimate level. He remembered specifically wincing, internally, when he brought up the subject of chemtrails, something he had no belief in though he found himself railing about their evil.

Dreamscape Number “Sappy Asshole”

In real life, we had only been on one date. It was a standard meet-n-greet. She had a pretty smile, a firm grasp on good music, and a strong sense of independence that appealed to me.
The dream took place on our 4th date. We were comfortable with one another, had a good banter, and shared a handful of quiet conversations close to one another that bordered on confessional. We hadn’t kissed yet, cuz she was a girl who wasn’t prone to first moves, and because I was a pussy.
We went to a small restaurant that had enough style to elevate it from diner status—wood paneled walls, secret booths, soft light, prices that didn’t make it feel like you were getting raped by a psychotic chef.
It was empty, literally. We both knew the spot, and new that it was good, so the usual rule of empty restaurant = botulism and dickish staff didn’t apply. It was just a slow afternoon.
Our waitress was older, 60 or so, and it’s shitty to say, she was competing with the younger, hotter (two were WAY hot) waitresses. She suggested that we sit out on the back patio, twice. The weather wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t anything anyone would want to dine in. Overcast, sporadic drizzle, hovering in the early ‘50s. We declined twice, then She of the Date saw a silent pleading in the lady’s eyes, like she needed a table or else it was all over. Not on a global level, but on a personal level. And really, when it’s all over on a personal level, things may as well be over on a global level. Why we distinguish twixt the two doesn’t seem to make much sense.
Anyhoo, date agreed, waitress said she’d bring us coffees and menus in a second, and we went out… and it was lightly raining. There were about 5 tables on a small, tree-covered deck that had been well maintained. I looked at her. She looked at me. We smirked in unison.
She found the one table that was under the thickest tree, hoping the branches and boughs would protect us. Nonetheless, the table was damp, as were the benches. She stepped up onto one of the benches and turned to me, small navy blue umbrella dangling, all bound and useless, from her left hand.
“Well…” she shrugged.
I snickered and walked up to her. We hadn’t really touched yet, but it was due. Not consciously. The universe just needed it to happen. She was 5’ 1”, so even standing on the bench she wasn’t all that tall. My face came up to chest level on her and I walked up, close, and some unseen hand simultaneously dropped my forehead against her chest as she leaned into me. It was nothing sexual, just physical and comforting. I felt at home for the first time in a long while, temporarily forgetting that I’d no doubt end up temporarily ruining her life within 6 months or so, if I stuck to my unfortunate pattern. It was nice just to have a moment, to feel right, and in touch with someone else.
She leaned all the way into me and I put my arms around her as she came off the bench, me supporting her tiny frame, her arms still at her side, me slowly letting her slide down me. I felt it and mildly panicked, and apparently she felt it too when she got to that point, her knee brushing it.
“You’ve got a bone, huh?”
“Uh… oops?” I blushed
That was when I heard the waitress come out with coffee and beverages, probably putting a bullet into this moment for now. Before I totally let her go and we acknowledged the new arrival she reached up with her perfect lips, her ridiculously white teeth, all up on tippy toes, and whispered into my ear:
“It’s OK, I like it.”
And I melted.

Allow me to clarify

A (paraphrased… thanks Avalanche) quote from ol’ William Burroughs:
I came into this world alone and I’m gonna leave it the same way.

Now, I understand the sentiment, and I love me some Burroughs, but I gotta call bullshit as it isn’t really accurate. Barring the absolute worst case scenario (pregnant mom dies in the forest, lost, alone, awhile giving birth to you) this just isn’t true.

The more accurate version is:
I came into this world covered with the blood and vaginal secretions of a screaming, half-naked, drugged-up woman and I plan on leaving in the same manner.

While presenting certain moral stumbling blocks, at the end of the day, would it not be more fun to take this route?

Cesarean babies, you’re on your own. I’m not gonna get involved with sliced-open abdomens and anesthesia.
Even I have my limits.

8-20/21-2011

The run down: Nap until 9 PM, wake up and drink 2 French presses of coffee by midnight whilst listening to King Midas Sound (“Waiting for You”) and The Walkmen (“Bows and Arrows”) with a little bit of Marc Maron WTFing some poor comedian. At midnight-thirty I pop two Percasets, get picked up and we gather people and supplies (Brendan and his girlfriend/ ice, beer, energy drinks) and get on the freeway by 1:30. It’s a hot summer night so the windows are down which makes it impossible to talk, so I lean my head against the window sill and enjoy the velocity. The satellite radio alternates twixt Bob Seeger and Bing Crosby, which is kind of like freebasing Gummi Bears then skin popping a few grains of Yoo-Hoo to take the edge off. Stop to piss off of a cliff onto the rocks below and take another Perc.

We get to the beach by 3:30, drink some Bud Light with Lime, a shot of tequila that retails for more than my monthly electric bill, times three (Thanks, Mel!). Three of us split up a pot cookie and I chase it with some Bud Light and a fourth Perc. Tonight shall be Float.

We spend a bit of time trying to figure out who would be cast in a live action version of the Blondie comic strip (I vote for Alan Thicke as Blondie, Paul Rudd as Dagwood) until I remember that the already did that in the B & W days and they used to play on Saturdays when I’d be hoping for Abbot and Costello or Laurel and Hardy. Granted, it existing already won’t stop Hollywood, but it stopped us.

Brendan and his lady, who were hammered when we picked them up, pass out face first in the sand pretty quick. The remaining three of us ascertain that the tide is going out so we should be OK sleeping up at the high water mark, barring any early-morning tsunamis.

Our talk peters out and I turn to find that the boy/girl couple that was left has wandered off with their bags to hunker down for three or so hours of sleep. Perpetually that odd man out, due mainly to my own idiocy, I lay my bag down as all of my atoms resonate with the vibrations of the ocean… and the drugs. The feeling of pain killers and pot cookies is unmatched. It doesn’t make for the best social experience, but at times like this, it’s perfect.

I crawl into my bag and look up at the sky, the low fog that lingers perpetually on the coast. I listen to the roar of the ocean as it holds forth over all of this, the occasional screech of an insomniatic seagull. I offer a silent prayer that I don’t get run over and maimed by a dune buggy. The caffeine still has a hold on me and it blends well with the downers and hallucinogens. I fade in and out in twenty minute intervals, not realizing it. Only taking notice as every time I open my eyes for a second there is a little more light gaining on us.

I finally open my eyes feeling about as relaxed as a person can feel without being dead and it’s six in the A.M. early morning joggers are here and there with their dogs. It’s a lonely beach even when it’s busy. In fact, I believe it’s a private beach, so traffic is sparse and luckily no one that has seen us has been such a shit as to say something or alert the authorities.

We all come to slowly, stretching, wiping sand out of moist spots, three of us still kinda high. It’s a great morning, and a great way to wake up. I realize the futility of working as opposed to just relaxing on the beach until the Finger of Death points out the end, but I also know that because I can’t seem to save money, I’ll have to go back to it because I also like to eat.

We finally gather ourselves, brush teeth, get in the car and decide to follow through with a legitimate yet terrible idea to rustle up some food. And then, we find ourselves in the worst place in the world: Cannon Beach. A rich, white tourist enclave that has about as much personality as a disposable plastic cup. We find the one restaurant that isn’t promising a three-hour wait for a table (it’s Sunday, in August), get some surprisingly good food, hit the road, and end up back in the bosom of home by nine A.M.

A new form of pressing deja vu

It’s 4:50-ish in the morning and an uncharacteristic thunder clap rips through the dark. I think, “It’s been sunny all weekend, warm every night. If it starts raining ten minutes before I have to bike to work, I’m calling in sick.”

And sure enough, two minutes later the sky opens up and attacks the skylight in the bathroom. Fifteen seconds later I’m on the phone leaving a message on my boss’s voicemail saying something about an all-night allergy attack that is keeping me home today.

And such is July, 2011, of Portland. The rest of the country is neck-deep in a murderous heat wave, but us sad bastards up here in the Pacific Northwest are dealing with rain well into July.

I would prefer a heat wave.

So I’m sitting by the window listening to the rain, drinking coffee, reading an issue of Vanity Fair that someone left in the basement, and I am suddenly struck with an urge to tell someone something that is incredibly important.

What this thing that I have to say is a mystery to me.

Who it is that I am supposed to tell, I also have no idea.

But it’s pressing in my gut. It is a peculiar and lonely feeling that I haven’t experienced before. It’s like a version of déjà vu, strange an overwhelming, but ultimately nothing more than some chemical misfire that makes for an interesting feeling.