The last few days have been fantastic. I feel awake, aware, and best of all, happy. I know, how strange, me, with multiple happy posts in a row. I really don’t know what’s wrong with me.
These days have really been about the joy of generosity for me. Most of you probably already have some idea of who I am, and know I’m not a money hungry man. Yet you don’t have to be money hungry to be “good” with your money. You don’t spend it on frivolous things, you don’t give people loans, and you adhere to a tight and rigorous budget.
This last year I have discovered that I make more money than I thought, minus a spouse. Enough to keep the house and attend all my expenses and needs, and even have some left over. It has given me some financial freedom, and I’ve not had to stress about money.
Some of the excess I’ve spent on myself, and it has been fun and useful to me to escape town fairly regularly and just relax, write and reflect. I also bought a ticket for my first convention this summer, and I’m sure it will be a fun and memorable experience.
Yet, some of the expenditures of money that have been most memorable have been the money spent on others. I’d always thought I was a horrible gift giver, but I’ve discovered a new joy for it. You spend sixty dollars on someone for things a friend needs but really can’t afford, and it increases their quality of life far more than sixty mere dollars could help you. Find the perfect little trinket you know a friend with laugh at, and spend twelve dollars on it. How often do you get to buy an honest, rich laugh for only twelve bucks?
As you look more and more, you find that we have so many ways to make the lives around us so much richer, fuller, or just more fun. Often with just small amounts of time, rather than money. Taking a day to help someone move, giving up an hour of your afternoon to let a friend unload some frustration, or even just opening a door for someone.
And the little secret in all of this is, it makes you feel good. Watching someone’s face crease with a smile and a laugh and knowing, you did that. It means a lot to me, anyway. It makes me feel like I matter. Like I’m worth something. Like I did something right, and made this other person who is amazing and beautiful and has no reason to care about the likes of me happy for a moment. Like one day I can be amazing and beautiful too.
Monday, July 30, 2012
Friday, July 27, 2012
What Makes a Friend
I have discovered, working with the general public, that the more I
know about someone, the less I want to. This is true 98% of the time.
No joke. People fall into the categories of douche or idiot way more
than we as a species would like to admit.
Yet knowing this fact is good for me. It makes me cherish those other 2%, that are actually interesting and cool. And yes, I’m sure someone out there thinks douchebags are interesting and cool, and they probably think I’m the idiot, but that’s their business, not mine.
My friends are awesome people. And not just because they’re friends with me! If tomorrow rolled around and they all decided to ditch me as a friend, and someone asked me about them, I’d be like “Those peeps are like more radical than a robot unicorn ice cream dispenser! Also I’m very lonely.” And so, seeing as lists seem to be the big thing in the way of blogs these days (and because I’m trying to write everyday yet don’t feel motivated on any larger projects), here is a list of why my friends rock.
Yet knowing this fact is good for me. It makes me cherish those other 2%, that are actually interesting and cool. And yes, I’m sure someone out there thinks douchebags are interesting and cool, and they probably think I’m the idiot, but that’s their business, not mine.
My friends are awesome people. And not just because they’re friends with me! If tomorrow rolled around and they all decided to ditch me as a friend, and someone asked me about them, I’d be like “Those peeps are like more radical than a robot unicorn ice cream dispenser! Also I’m very lonely.” And so, seeing as lists seem to be the big thing in the way of blogs these days (and because I’m trying to write everyday yet don’t feel motivated on any larger projects), here is a list of why my friends rock.
- They’re hilarious. These people know how to make me laugh, and understand when something is meant in the spirit of humor. I don’t worry about offending any of them, cause I know they will get it.
- They’re creative. I value creativity so highly, and what people create tells you a lot about them as well. When they tie it in with something else, it becomes all the better. Like my friend Katrina Bettencourt who made this. In MS Paint. In like 2 hours. Words cannot describe this level of awesome. You don’t have to be artistic to be creative, either. You can be that person that comes up with fun stuff to do, or have original things to say in a conversation. It takes a lot of forms.
- They care. So many people don’t care. Like that kid who jay walks in front of you at about one eighth normal walking speed while playing games on that $600 smartphone his dad (who he probably “hates”) bought him, or anyone who doesn’t want to be around you when you aren’t having an on day. If I am in need, or just feeling low (which, surprise surprise, happens), I know they will be there for me, because they want to be, because they care.
- They’re genuine. Blah blah blah, here is Cameron blabbering about people being genuine again. So important to me though. These people say what they mean, and are just themselves.
- They call me out. I’ll admit it, I do stupid things. I say stupid things. Sometimes, I’m just stupid! It is important to have people who don’t let you do it all the time. If they did, I’d be stupid all the time. Cause being stupid is easy!
- They don’t tell me my business! The fine line between five and six is whose business it really is. Someone might think something I do is wrong, but if it is what I want to do, and important to me, they can acknowledge that their opinion has been heard and it isn’t their business anymore. They don’t belittle or undermine what I think is important, real, or awesome. Don’t ever let anyone tell you your business!
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
This is me
If you have been reading my blog at all, you have probably put together
that I have gone through a split, a major upheaval that has changed my
life in many ways. You are also probably aware of how I have striven to
learn and grow through this, if only about who I am.
You may also be aware I am working on a novel. A narrative of specific events, fictionalized just enough to protect peoples’ identities, and create a more smooth, seamless story.
I say all this first because between the blog and the book, I have spent a near unhealthy amount of time focused on the destruction of my marriage. I know all people going through such things do, but as I’ve chronicled my thoughts and emotions, I’ve noticed three key changes over the past ten months.
First, about three months after it all began, was the decision that I was no longer willing to be with her. This was difficult for me, in so many ways, and remained so until the second key change. I battled back and forth for so long over the thoughts of redemption, my love for her that did not and will not die, and perhaps a bit of a saviour complex. I think I suffered most and learned the least during this time, but it was necessary.
It was probably another three or four months, around April, that the second change happened. This time, one of the heart. The realization that I was a better man without her. I had wrapped so much of my self and identity into being the perfect husband, that I hadn’t realized how lacking as an individual I had become. Early on, I was pleased and blessed to find myself surrounded by friends I didn’t know I had, but I didn’t understand why they chose me. Perhaps it sounds stupid or self deprecating, but I always considered myself the “lesser” of the two in the relationship, and so I didn’t pursue my dreams/interests/hobbies. At all.
Once I realized this, truly believed it, it was an explosion of excitement. I felt generally happy most days, and fulfilled in way I had never been before. And these feelings led me to the third change shortly after.
I did not want to be with her.
The difference in willing and wanting here is paramount. Up until this point, I still wanted her. I wanted to go back in time and fix it all, see her still by my side. Yet after this change, I realized something critical. She did not love me, ever. She had been obsessed and infatuated. I don’t think she has ever truly loved anyone. When you love someone, you want to see them grow. You want to nurture their talents, see them chase their passions. You do for them and celebrate in them as I did and celebrated for her.
It was a heartbreaking realization, to be perfectly honest. It sent me reeling back for days, and does still, on occasion. I have never been loved. I try to remind myself that this isn’t a question of deserving, but still I feel like I have been robbed in a way. Even though it was never mine, I feel like this love has been taken away from me now, amended out of the history books. Lost to me forever.
The knowledge of this difference though, is a gift to me. I realize now how often people go without love. When we settle for affection, lust, or fascination. All these things can, and hopefully will, exist in a relationship, but absent the love, they fade and die.
Love does not. Love is what lets me say to this day that she is a beautiful person, with incredible potential, and is worthy of good things. She has made poor decisions, hurt many people, and has a lot of work and growth to do before she is capable of loving someone back, but she is no less worth it than any of us. We are all lost to this existence. We all hurt ourselves and each other in some way. Love is what allows us to endure it.
I feel like I have descended into a rich valley that is now my life, my possibilities. I’ve scaled this treacherous mountain and arrived on the other side with lessons aplenty. Now, and only now, have I taken shape. I know what values make up me, I know what qualities I value in others. A strange, strong confidence has taken hold, that makes me not afraid to say, “This is me.”
You may also be aware I am working on a novel. A narrative of specific events, fictionalized just enough to protect peoples’ identities, and create a more smooth, seamless story.
I say all this first because between the blog and the book, I have spent a near unhealthy amount of time focused on the destruction of my marriage. I know all people going through such things do, but as I’ve chronicled my thoughts and emotions, I’ve noticed three key changes over the past ten months.
First, about three months after it all began, was the decision that I was no longer willing to be with her. This was difficult for me, in so many ways, and remained so until the second key change. I battled back and forth for so long over the thoughts of redemption, my love for her that did not and will not die, and perhaps a bit of a saviour complex. I think I suffered most and learned the least during this time, but it was necessary.
It was probably another three or four months, around April, that the second change happened. This time, one of the heart. The realization that I was a better man without her. I had wrapped so much of my self and identity into being the perfect husband, that I hadn’t realized how lacking as an individual I had become. Early on, I was pleased and blessed to find myself surrounded by friends I didn’t know I had, but I didn’t understand why they chose me. Perhaps it sounds stupid or self deprecating, but I always considered myself the “lesser” of the two in the relationship, and so I didn’t pursue my dreams/interests/hobbies. At all.
Once I realized this, truly believed it, it was an explosion of excitement. I felt generally happy most days, and fulfilled in way I had never been before. And these feelings led me to the third change shortly after.
I did not want to be with her.
The difference in willing and wanting here is paramount. Up until this point, I still wanted her. I wanted to go back in time and fix it all, see her still by my side. Yet after this change, I realized something critical. She did not love me, ever. She had been obsessed and infatuated. I don’t think she has ever truly loved anyone. When you love someone, you want to see them grow. You want to nurture their talents, see them chase their passions. You do for them and celebrate in them as I did and celebrated for her.
It was a heartbreaking realization, to be perfectly honest. It sent me reeling back for days, and does still, on occasion. I have never been loved. I try to remind myself that this isn’t a question of deserving, but still I feel like I have been robbed in a way. Even though it was never mine, I feel like this love has been taken away from me now, amended out of the history books. Lost to me forever.
The knowledge of this difference though, is a gift to me. I realize now how often people go without love. When we settle for affection, lust, or fascination. All these things can, and hopefully will, exist in a relationship, but absent the love, they fade and die.
Love does not. Love is what lets me say to this day that she is a beautiful person, with incredible potential, and is worthy of good things. She has made poor decisions, hurt many people, and has a lot of work and growth to do before she is capable of loving someone back, but she is no less worth it than any of us. We are all lost to this existence. We all hurt ourselves and each other in some way. Love is what allows us to endure it.
I feel like I have descended into a rich valley that is now my life, my possibilities. I’ve scaled this treacherous mountain and arrived on the other side with lessons aplenty. Now, and only now, have I taken shape. I know what values make up me, I know what qualities I value in others. A strange, strong confidence has taken hold, that makes me not afraid to say, “This is me.”
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Escape
Out of town, doing what I’m supposed to. Writing and relaxing, possibly even some reading. Who would have thought I’d find time to read again? Some long anticipated Hemingway, absorbed in the sunlight besides a pool. Such is life this week, and I like it.
An offer comes to me while enjoying this escape, and offer appropriate in nature, a more lengthy escape. A chance to clear my head, find myself completely, away from obligation and duty.
Move to St. Thomas. Tend bar in a tropical paradise, finish the novel, find peace. It seems such a fantasy, and yet, the more I consider it, the more I feel this is exactly what I need. Even, dare I say, what I’m supposed to do?
So much would need to be done, I plot and plan out what could make this idea reality. So many things that I’d already intended to do.
The old familiar surge of hope and desire fills me up as I realise, I want to make this true.
An offer comes to me while enjoying this escape, and offer appropriate in nature, a more lengthy escape. A chance to clear my head, find myself completely, away from obligation and duty.
Move to St. Thomas. Tend bar in a tropical paradise, finish the novel, find peace. It seems such a fantasy, and yet, the more I consider it, the more I feel this is exactly what I need. Even, dare I say, what I’m supposed to do?
So much would need to be done, I plot and plan out what could make this idea reality. So many things that I’d already intended to do.
The old familiar surge of hope and desire fills me up as I realise, I want to make this true.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
A Day With The Drunken Tomato
I should say, as a preface to this post, that I am currently aiming to make this blog a bit wider or more general in scope. As it is now, there are stories and unspecific rambles. However, so often both story and ramble are inspired by real life events. I am planning on writing out some of these non fictional events and include them in my blog. That said, let me welcome you to my world, my life, my recent Saturday.
We walked into Mother’s Bistro and Bar in Portland on the nicest day the city had seen all year. The weather had enticed seemingly all the residents into shorts, sandals or sundresses, but we were on a mission that would take us indoors.
‘We’ was myself, of course, and my friend Shelley, or as she is more famously known, The Drunken Tomato. The man at the host podium asked us how many, and his face exploded with energy as Shelley stated we were with The Drunken Tomato.
“Oh, we’ve been expecting you. We'll have a table for you right away, I’ll make sure everyone knows you’re here.” The man scurried off, and I sheepishly glanced at the other patrons waiting for tables. None of them seemed to have noticed, and I looked back to Shelley, who gave me an exaggerated nod and grin. This was the life of a famous bloody mary blogger.
Whisked off to a nice table for two, our waitress was there nearly instantly with the same question that begins any dining experience. Shelley beamed and blurted, “Two bloodies, please.”
I felt strangely excited as our cocktails arrived. I’m not a big bloody mary fan, myself, but knowing I would be taking part in this process, I’d sampled several in town over the past month. I took a sip, savoring the tomato and spice. Shelley had not tried hers, as she was busy taking about a thousand pictures of the drink. I tried to help stage a good photo, as to not feel entirely useless.
Satisfied with her camera work, she started to drink hers as well. I tried my best to offer some review, but as I am by no means an expert, I did a lot of nodding and agreeing. They were good, I will say. Very good, but if you really want to know why, you’ll have to read her blog.
What was exceptional, and I am more qualified to speak on, was the service. Our table was visited by numerous employees, all excited to meet Shelley and hear what she thought. We met servers, managers and chefs, all of whom were charming, fun, and best of all, seemed completely genuine.
Our conversation, unsurprisingly, revolved around the bistro and her blog. We talked about expanding it to cover brunch (expect me to guest write at least once, if this happens), doing a once a month random bloody mary (just walking the streets until she finds a place that “calls” to her), and some of the more exotic and unique beverages that she has been served.
As we left I was feeling pretty good. Between the great service and company, the bloody in my belly, and the sunshine, I could tell this day was going to do me no wrong.
It was decided that we would start the first of the random establishment reviews. We debated neighborhood, and decided on one with which both of us had little experience. We proved this point by getting lost on the way, but soon found ourselves driving down NE Mississippi.
“The Publican!” Shelley screamed, pointing to one of the bars. Sure enough, there is was, Interurban Publican’s Table. We couldn’t expect a greater sign or calling than something with Publican in the name. Not that common a word, and the title for my first round NYC Midnight story, it had to be our place.
When we stepped inside, this became even more true. Dark wood everything, animal heads on the wall, and lots of whiskey, this place was certainly made for me. Shelley ordered herself a bloody, but I decided on a manhattan. Convinced that my opinions on the drink would have no influence on her reviews, it was time to drink for me.
Again, we had great service. The bartender was funny, and not afraid to make jokes just on the far side of wrong, which are my favorite. I also discovered that bars often have hooks under them when Shelley hung her purse on one. I was at first flabbergasted and impressed with her ability to discover such a random thing, but she told me they are almost everywhere, and I have found this to be true everywhere I have checked in the days since.
Hours passed, and our tab built. There were no repeat drinks, I think I tried every whiskey cocktail on their menu. I can say as well, they were all amazing! I can be more picky with whiskey than a bloody, as I’ve had vast amounts more. The drinks were balanced and well crafted. For me though, drinking is about the company, and that was exceptionally spectacular.
Conversation here was more varied, to include updates on friends, horoscopes, and Shelley’s fiery hatred of neutrality. We discussed her recent move from NYC, a city we both think is very good fit for her, to California. As much as she is not a California girl, her reasons for moving could not be better. As a romantic, an emotion obsessed writer, and basically just a goofy, sentimental fool, I approve of the 3000 mile move for love. I encouraged her too, as she wondered what to do in her new city, to pursue her blog and other writing more. Besides being an expert on bloody marys, she is a fantastically gifted writer and storyteller.
We debated staying, as dinner time rolled around, but decided to shove off and find someplace else. Marrakesh came to mind, a moroccan restaurant in NW neither of us had been to few a few years, and so we made our way over. We sat on floor cushions around a tiny table, ordered our food and mango mimosas, and took in our surroundings. There seemed to be a couple groups of prom kids, a sweet sixteen party, and families.
The mimosas were incredibly delicious and refreshing. So much so that I had four or five over the course of our meal, which was multiple courses that expertly balanced sweet and savory.
Between courses and awkward hand washings, we discussed proms. Neither of us had ever attended a prom, and we wondered if we could sneak in to one. We continued on to debate what it takes for a vest to qualify as a vest, and not just a shirt fashioned to look as such. Finally, we got to overhear the complaints of the father chaperoning the sweet sixteen.
Apparently, some food was dropped on his leg, and he didn’t want to pay the mandatory 18% gratuity for a party of his size. I was able to stifle laughter as he went on and on to multiple servers and eventually the manager, before he gave up, declaring that “the food was great, so I guess we’ll be back.”
As his party exited, Shelley and I discussed the absurdity of his complaints. We then proceeded to shower our server in compliments, and scribble additional ones on our receipt. Satisfied that we had balanced out our negative neighbor, we left with full bellies and smiles on our faces.
Jumping back over the Willamette, we ended up at Morrison Hotel Bar to meet up with my friends Jason and Ricky. Probably our most regular haunt, with friendly staff, good beer, and classic bar fare. We relaxed to some cocktails before plotting our next move. Nightfall was upon us, and we felt like having some fun that only an arcade could provide.
So it came to be that we journeyed to the Avalon Wunderland. We slaughtered zombies, battled robots, faced a crisis of time, and, of course, partook in some skee ball. We had an absolute blast, and the night seemed like it couldn’t get any better. Yet, it did.
We were preparing to leave, dumping our remaining coins into a simple game to try and get some extra tickets for candy, when it happened. A simple malfunction brought much unexpected joy, as tickets began to pour out of the machine. It seemed that every nickel produced twenty or so tickets. Ricky and I cackled as we pumped coin after coin into the machine, and began to drape the tickets over our bodies. After receiving a few sideways glances from employees, we decided to not press our luck, and see what could be purchased with our bounty.
Behind the prize counter, the girl weighed the tickets to determine how many we had. She informed us we could get most anything on the wall. I’d already spotted a blue inflatable pony, and pointed it out to the others. They agreed it was probably the best option.
“Too bad it isn’t pink,” I said as I turned back to the prize counter girl. She grinned, dug under the counter for a moment, and then dropped a folded, deflated, pink plastic square on the counter. My heart singing, I lifted it over my head in triumph!
Wandering back out onto Belmont St, I tore the pony from its packaging and began to blow into it. It inflated quickly, in fact, by the time we reached Aalto Lounge, just one block away, it was completely blown up.
The four of us walked to the back of the bar, where there were couches, chairs, and generally a quieter environment. Immediately after getting more drinks, we began to play with the pony. We came up with the incredibly uninspired yet perfectly appropriate name of Pinky.
I kissed Pinky deeply at one point, which I thought was magical and special, but it proved not to be as he then kissed several other members of our group. He then began to dance provocatively on the bar, and on us, grinding against everyone he could get his hooves on. The bartenders never asked him to stop, they probably were enjoying his dancing too much to put an end to it.
A few drinks later Pinky had calmed down, and the rest of us had grown hungry. We ducked into a pizza place there on the block for a quick bite before calling it a night.
Shelley and I went back to my truck and I drove her back to where she was staying. It had been an absurd, random, wonderful day. The kind of day you wish everyday could be. A day that was full of fun, laughter, conversation, and nothing regrettable. As I pulled into the driveway, I said the only thing I could think in that moment.
“I’m so glad you’re my friend.”
Shelley laughed and grinned, “Yea!”
We walked into Mother’s Bistro and Bar in Portland on the nicest day the city had seen all year. The weather had enticed seemingly all the residents into shorts, sandals or sundresses, but we were on a mission that would take us indoors.
‘We’ was myself, of course, and my friend Shelley, or as she is more famously known, The Drunken Tomato. The man at the host podium asked us how many, and his face exploded with energy as Shelley stated we were with The Drunken Tomato.
“Oh, we’ve been expecting you. We'll have a table for you right away, I’ll make sure everyone knows you’re here.” The man scurried off, and I sheepishly glanced at the other patrons waiting for tables. None of them seemed to have noticed, and I looked back to Shelley, who gave me an exaggerated nod and grin. This was the life of a famous bloody mary blogger.
Whisked off to a nice table for two, our waitress was there nearly instantly with the same question that begins any dining experience. Shelley beamed and blurted, “Two bloodies, please.”
I felt strangely excited as our cocktails arrived. I’m not a big bloody mary fan, myself, but knowing I would be taking part in this process, I’d sampled several in town over the past month. I took a sip, savoring the tomato and spice. Shelley had not tried hers, as she was busy taking about a thousand pictures of the drink. I tried to help stage a good photo, as to not feel entirely useless.
Satisfied with her camera work, she started to drink hers as well. I tried my best to offer some review, but as I am by no means an expert, I did a lot of nodding and agreeing. They were good, I will say. Very good, but if you really want to know why, you’ll have to read her blog.
What was exceptional, and I am more qualified to speak on, was the service. Our table was visited by numerous employees, all excited to meet Shelley and hear what she thought. We met servers, managers and chefs, all of whom were charming, fun, and best of all, seemed completely genuine.
Our conversation, unsurprisingly, revolved around the bistro and her blog. We talked about expanding it to cover brunch (expect me to guest write at least once, if this happens), doing a once a month random bloody mary (just walking the streets until she finds a place that “calls” to her), and some of the more exotic and unique beverages that she has been served.
As we left I was feeling pretty good. Between the great service and company, the bloody in my belly, and the sunshine, I could tell this day was going to do me no wrong.
It was decided that we would start the first of the random establishment reviews. We debated neighborhood, and decided on one with which both of us had little experience. We proved this point by getting lost on the way, but soon found ourselves driving down NE Mississippi.
“The Publican!” Shelley screamed, pointing to one of the bars. Sure enough, there is was, Interurban Publican’s Table. We couldn’t expect a greater sign or calling than something with Publican in the name. Not that common a word, and the title for my first round NYC Midnight story, it had to be our place.
When we stepped inside, this became even more true. Dark wood everything, animal heads on the wall, and lots of whiskey, this place was certainly made for me. Shelley ordered herself a bloody, but I decided on a manhattan. Convinced that my opinions on the drink would have no influence on her reviews, it was time to drink for me.
Again, we had great service. The bartender was funny, and not afraid to make jokes just on the far side of wrong, which are my favorite. I also discovered that bars often have hooks under them when Shelley hung her purse on one. I was at first flabbergasted and impressed with her ability to discover such a random thing, but she told me they are almost everywhere, and I have found this to be true everywhere I have checked in the days since.
Hours passed, and our tab built. There were no repeat drinks, I think I tried every whiskey cocktail on their menu. I can say as well, they were all amazing! I can be more picky with whiskey than a bloody, as I’ve had vast amounts more. The drinks were balanced and well crafted. For me though, drinking is about the company, and that was exceptionally spectacular.
Conversation here was more varied, to include updates on friends, horoscopes, and Shelley’s fiery hatred of neutrality. We discussed her recent move from NYC, a city we both think is very good fit for her, to California. As much as she is not a California girl, her reasons for moving could not be better. As a romantic, an emotion obsessed writer, and basically just a goofy, sentimental fool, I approve of the 3000 mile move for love. I encouraged her too, as she wondered what to do in her new city, to pursue her blog and other writing more. Besides being an expert on bloody marys, she is a fantastically gifted writer and storyteller.
We debated staying, as dinner time rolled around, but decided to shove off and find someplace else. Marrakesh came to mind, a moroccan restaurant in NW neither of us had been to few a few years, and so we made our way over. We sat on floor cushions around a tiny table, ordered our food and mango mimosas, and took in our surroundings. There seemed to be a couple groups of prom kids, a sweet sixteen party, and families.
The mimosas were incredibly delicious and refreshing. So much so that I had four or five over the course of our meal, which was multiple courses that expertly balanced sweet and savory.
Between courses and awkward hand washings, we discussed proms. Neither of us had ever attended a prom, and we wondered if we could sneak in to one. We continued on to debate what it takes for a vest to qualify as a vest, and not just a shirt fashioned to look as such. Finally, we got to overhear the complaints of the father chaperoning the sweet sixteen.
Apparently, some food was dropped on his leg, and he didn’t want to pay the mandatory 18% gratuity for a party of his size. I was able to stifle laughter as he went on and on to multiple servers and eventually the manager, before he gave up, declaring that “the food was great, so I guess we’ll be back.”
As his party exited, Shelley and I discussed the absurdity of his complaints. We then proceeded to shower our server in compliments, and scribble additional ones on our receipt. Satisfied that we had balanced out our negative neighbor, we left with full bellies and smiles on our faces.
Jumping back over the Willamette, we ended up at Morrison Hotel Bar to meet up with my friends Jason and Ricky. Probably our most regular haunt, with friendly staff, good beer, and classic bar fare. We relaxed to some cocktails before plotting our next move. Nightfall was upon us, and we felt like having some fun that only an arcade could provide.
So it came to be that we journeyed to the Avalon Wunderland. We slaughtered zombies, battled robots, faced a crisis of time, and, of course, partook in some skee ball. We had an absolute blast, and the night seemed like it couldn’t get any better. Yet, it did.
We were preparing to leave, dumping our remaining coins into a simple game to try and get some extra tickets for candy, when it happened. A simple malfunction brought much unexpected joy, as tickets began to pour out of the machine. It seemed that every nickel produced twenty or so tickets. Ricky and I cackled as we pumped coin after coin into the machine, and began to drape the tickets over our bodies. After receiving a few sideways glances from employees, we decided to not press our luck, and see what could be purchased with our bounty.
Behind the prize counter, the girl weighed the tickets to determine how many we had. She informed us we could get most anything on the wall. I’d already spotted a blue inflatable pony, and pointed it out to the others. They agreed it was probably the best option.
“Too bad it isn’t pink,” I said as I turned back to the prize counter girl. She grinned, dug under the counter for a moment, and then dropped a folded, deflated, pink plastic square on the counter. My heart singing, I lifted it over my head in triumph!
Wandering back out onto Belmont St, I tore the pony from its packaging and began to blow into it. It inflated quickly, in fact, by the time we reached Aalto Lounge, just one block away, it was completely blown up.
The four of us walked to the back of the bar, where there were couches, chairs, and generally a quieter environment. Immediately after getting more drinks, we began to play with the pony. We came up with the incredibly uninspired yet perfectly appropriate name of Pinky.
I kissed Pinky deeply at one point, which I thought was magical and special, but it proved not to be as he then kissed several other members of our group. He then began to dance provocatively on the bar, and on us, grinding against everyone he could get his hooves on. The bartenders never asked him to stop, they probably were enjoying his dancing too much to put an end to it.
A few drinks later Pinky had calmed down, and the rest of us had grown hungry. We ducked into a pizza place there on the block for a quick bite before calling it a night.
Shelley and I went back to my truck and I drove her back to where she was staying. It had been an absurd, random, wonderful day. The kind of day you wish everyday could be. A day that was full of fun, laughter, conversation, and nothing regrettable. As I pulled into the driveway, I said the only thing I could think in that moment.
“I’m so glad you’re my friend.”
Shelley laughed and grinned, “Yea!”
Thursday, June 21, 2012
False Hope Over Old Wounds
I can see them coming, these walls I throw myself against. Full force,
I slam into them, and I wonder why. Sometimes I feel much of my pain
is my own fault. Hold on too early, let go too late, or never hang on
at all. I just never do it right.
I’ve been called impressive, I’ve been called amazing, yet time and time again, life proves me the fool. As strong as I sometimes feel, battling these currents day after day, I still have no idea if I’m any closer to land. I have become so tired.
My fatigue is deeper than I’m equipped to describe. The flesh, the heart, the mind, all of me feels heavy and worn. Near a breaking point. I just want to get away from everything. Sometimes I wonder if the times I’ve cheated death weren’t mistakes, as this life and I clearly are not friends.
I am teased by beauty, ever unattainable. The dark sticks to me. A pool of tar, gripping my flesh, staining me, pulling me ever downward. There is no life preserver, no help to arrive. I will live, fight and die alone. The only truth I see.
My heart is a mess, I know this. A shamble of the shattered bits I’ve scrapped back together. I’m desperate for something, a person, a connection, something to bring me peace. I thought I’d found it, but just like the time before it cannot be real. To ease the pressures in me, it must be bled out. It must be earned. I have earned nothing.
Now I fear by the time I bleed it away, I will have tainted any beauty to be had.
I’ve been called impressive, I’ve been called amazing, yet time and time again, life proves me the fool. As strong as I sometimes feel, battling these currents day after day, I still have no idea if I’m any closer to land. I have become so tired.
My fatigue is deeper than I’m equipped to describe. The flesh, the heart, the mind, all of me feels heavy and worn. Near a breaking point. I just want to get away from everything. Sometimes I wonder if the times I’ve cheated death weren’t mistakes, as this life and I clearly are not friends.
I am teased by beauty, ever unattainable. The dark sticks to me. A pool of tar, gripping my flesh, staining me, pulling me ever downward. There is no life preserver, no help to arrive. I will live, fight and die alone. The only truth I see.
My heart is a mess, I know this. A shamble of the shattered bits I’ve scrapped back together. I’m desperate for something, a person, a connection, something to bring me peace. I thought I’d found it, but just like the time before it cannot be real. To ease the pressures in me, it must be bled out. It must be earned. I have earned nothing.
Now I fear by the time I bleed it away, I will have tainted any beauty to be had.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Never Just Disappear
Most days, everything is fine. These days chain into weeks, and I pass
through them without incident. Then, something random and unexpected
will trigger it again. That fearsome wound inside of me, the damage I
can’t fully shake. I still love her, I always will.
The scars are already so thick on my heart, I know they let nothing else in. I come across as empty, aloof, perhaps uncaring, but days like today show me I am still marinating in my pain. I viciously flip from wanting to find someone to hold me, to wanting to disappear and be alone forever.
I think of her laugh, her expressions, all the tiny things I adored. I think of the hurt, her willful desecration of my heart, and her self destruction. I know I will never be rid of her. She will occupy forever a place in me.
I know they say, is better to have loved and lost. I know I loved. Deeper, truer, stronger than I thought I could. I endured, I fought in the face of betrayal, with only further agony as reward. I proved to myself that I could love her as she deserved. Yet sadly, she could not love or respect me in the same way.
For that I am wounded. For that I am scarred. For that I wonder what will become of me. I feel so lost in the wind.
The scars are already so thick on my heart, I know they let nothing else in. I come across as empty, aloof, perhaps uncaring, but days like today show me I am still marinating in my pain. I viciously flip from wanting to find someone to hold me, to wanting to disappear and be alone forever.
I think of her laugh, her expressions, all the tiny things I adored. I think of the hurt, her willful desecration of my heart, and her self destruction. I know I will never be rid of her. She will occupy forever a place in me.
I know they say, is better to have loved and lost. I know I loved. Deeper, truer, stronger than I thought I could. I endured, I fought in the face of betrayal, with only further agony as reward. I proved to myself that I could love her as she deserved. Yet sadly, she could not love or respect me in the same way.
For that I am wounded. For that I am scarred. For that I wonder what will become of me. I feel so lost in the wind.
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