Doomed Again

Editor’s Note: I’m not looking for originality points here; I’m well aware that this is seat-of-your-pants magic, at best. At this point, I’m trying various ways to rewire my thinking so that I can negate some of the despair and anxiety caused by our present circumstances. For those of you who’ve just joined us, this is the montage scene in the movie where our rights and liberties vanish while we seethe in rage over the Orange Chimp’s latest Twitter antics.

This is an idea I’ve had to spark a little light in this coalmine of a timeline we’ve blundered into. If synchronized dance can save us, as the Netflix show The OA suggests, then so might this focused thought experiment I’ve been tossing around.

In a nutshell, the idea is to have something at hand in your mind with which to arrest the slow mudslide into helpless anxiety — a trip that should be all too familiar to anyone who hasn’t lost their reason in pursuit of the path of least resistance. You know, because both sides do it and we should really just give him a chance. (Editor’s note: Bold = sarcasm.)

I was well on my way down the ol’ slide when part of my mind staged a rebellion. Instead of the usual pity party featuring the musical stylings of Johnny & The Regrets, I was delivered a thought: Apple Balloon.

Earlier I’d been reading something about The Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour, and a barrage of images came together and seemingly coalesced. Apple being the record label created by The Beatles, and Balloon from The Wizard of Oz, a buoyant vehicle to float away from a black-and-white world into vivid Technicolor and catchy songs.

An apple is not a balloon, though they are similarly shaped and both are widely considered positive symbols. It’s not difficult to imagine a balloon that resembles an apple as a delightful distraction and an object of joy. Hold that thought.

After a moment spent considering the Apple Balloon, something I created out of nothing, my thinking clears and I can resume my focus on the necessaries. Because I made this thought, an entirely new concept in my head, it now exists as a mental signpost (enchanted weapon, talisman, take your pick) to hopefully clarify my thoughts in the darkness, an action that I require more often as matters deeply worsen.

When the shit gets deep, I find the Apple Balloon. “A” is for apple to keep the doctor away. “B” is for balloon to rise above shit. It makes perfect sense if the universe is indeed alphabetical.

I also liken it to emptying your cache by removing the ghosts of old commands, plans, and priorities. Just a thought, I suppose.

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I am painfully aware of the ubiquity of lists, having toiled for more than 20 years in the increasingly “advertorial” jungle that is local publishing. The so-called “Listicle” has bloomed from amusing and flexible format filler, to the official coin of the realm. What better way to thoroughly explore a subject than by reducing it to a few hundred playful and pithy words, ranked in order of vapidity?

So anyway, here’s my list.

I’m going on six months at the cannabis dispensary, and the rotating cast of characters would make Federico Fellini shake his head in wistful wonder. Werner Herzog, on the other hand, would laugh coldly and say, “What do you expect, you idiot? Your kind is weak and stupid.”

5. Sir Lawrence Oblivier: A man born OUTSIDE OF TIME!

SLO: Time is it?

Me: 1:22 pm.

SLO: What’s your Happy Hour deal?

Me: It’s OG Kush for $43.75 a quarter. But that’s only during Happy Hour, between 9-11 am, and again from 4-6 pm.

SLO: Time is it?

Me: 1:23 pm.

SLO: When’s Happy Hour?

Me: Daily between 9-11 am, and again from 4-6 pm.

SLO: Huh. *15 minute pause* Did it used to be different?

Me: No.

SLO: Time is it, now?

CURTAIN

4. The Complicated Diagnoses: Science can’t help me!

Male patient was recently struck in or around the head with a baseball bat, and requires a potent strain with mystical healing properties—for $6, if possible.

The female patient needs something to “chill my shit down” and make it easier to sleep. But the patient doesn’t wish to be asleep, too soon, so the strain should have some lift and last a while. Patient was diagnosed with Planet Sickness (“You can’t even mention Planet Sickness, or everyone will think you’re nuts!”), and vibrates at near-dangerous levels. It is therefore of the utmost importance that she falls asleep at the same time every night. “You’ve heard of this, right? That TV doctor was talking about it!”

Patient became extremely agitated upon discovering that it was not Happy Hour.

The male patient has Crohn’s Disease and is a recovering addict who missed his methadone dose. He requests “something stinky and sticky that will turn my lights out” for no more than $10. He also has a fresh dog bite on his arm, but he’s not too worried about it at the moment.

3. Wheeler McDealer: Entitlement is his middle name!

Despite my earnest declarations that I’m too far down the company hierarchy to make any sort of impromptu bargains, WM will wheedle and whine relentlessly for any kind of bonus perk, including the inspired idea that he ought to receive a free joint on his first visit or birthday. Swayed by this sound logic, I try the same approach at Taco Bell—and am forcibly removed from the premises.

2. Tall Taylor: He’s partied with everybody!

With long hair turning grey and a wispy beard that sweeps down passed his ankh, this hippie vagabond could be anywhere from 30 to 110 years old. Our selection of strains, he scoffs, is nothing but “Christmas Tree weed that’s total bullshit and most likely controlled by the tobacco industry.”

Apparently things used to be different, back in the day, when he could crash at Bob Marley’s house as long as he wanted, hanging out with Jerry Garcia and Bob Dylan. They’d stay up for days writing perfect music that the world will never hear, smoking mighty spliffs of purple ganja dripping in hash oil. And then they’d all join hands and walk into the sea.

1. Soccer Mom Rookie: The new fish is lost at sea!

I’ve never been to one of these places, can you believe it? My mom told me marijuana would lead to harder drugs, isn’t that funny? She’s dead now, poor thing. Do they still call it marijuana, or is it cannabis now? My nephew Billy told me I should get something with a lot of THC for my anxiety. Am I saying that right? THC? What does it do? I still need to work tomorrow, so I can’t get all zonked out. Do you have any pot that won’t make me really hungry? I didn’t get a chance to go to the store and there’s nothing in the fridge. Do you guys just order pizza all the time? What about rolling papers? I don’t know how to roll a doobie and I don’t like all that nasty smoke in the house and neither do my dogs. The point is, I really need to relax…

 

 

 

 

 

 

The thing that keeps me from fearlessly facing the future is a profound lack of trust that things will turn out well. Is that a deal-breaker?

While I intuitively understand the idea “lay down all thoughts” and “surrender to the void,” I remain anxious over the possibility of a nasty fall. Bad things happen to good people all the time. Optimism and faith aren’t the same things.

Simple, right? But I’ve got to make dinner and walk the damn dog! And needless to say, I don’t command the earning power of Lennon and McCartney, which would provide more than enough dough to stave off uncertainty. Is there a method for “mindfully” trusting the universe that doesn’t involve subscription to religious dogma? I’ve got a definite commitment problem in that area.

Yeah, money is a harsh mistress. There’s barely enough to cover survival necessities, much less the time and freedom to improve your spirit.

 

Elvis, Buddy Holly, Jimi Hendrix, Otis Redding, Eddie Cochran, Sam Cooke, John Lennon, George Harrison, Janis Joplin, Steve Marriott, Sandy Denny, Jerry Garcia, Michael Jackson, Richie Valens, Duane Allman, Frank Zappa, Patsy Cline, Randy Rhodes, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Jim Morrison, Carl and Dennis Wilson, Freddie Mercury, Brian Jones, Bo Diddley, John Entwistle, Marc Bolan, Tommy Bolin, Muddy Waters, Ronnie Dio, Karen Carpenter, Richard Manuel, Captain Beefheart, Cliff Burton, Johnny Cash, June Carter, D. Boon, Levon Helm, Lux Interior, Amy Winehouse, Rick Danko, Johnny, Joey, Dee Dee, & Tommy, Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, Jack Bruce, Ronnie Van Zant, Jeffrey Lee Pierce, Johnny Winter, Paul Kantner, James Brown, Cass Elliott, Lou Reed, Lemmy, Bowie…

All the best rock stars are boarding the Celestial Arc bound for a much cooler world. I picture it as a cozy, robust music scene, with lots of small clubs that have impeccable sound and no cover. All beer is $1 a pint.

The deceased would form fleeting new bands in confounding configurations, like Nico, Hendrix, Phil Lynott, and John Bonham, who are still working on a name.

And I would be a ghostwriter for the local rock rag, forever making picks for this weekend’s shows.

Friday

Tick Tock Toreador @ The Bottomless Pit

Could be your last chance to catch this super-nova super-group before their tour of eastern afterlives begins next week. Who would have thought David Bowie and Bon Scott could harmonize in such delirious blue-eyed soul fashion? Link Wray’s thoroughly nasty guitar and Philthy Animal Taylor’s demonic drums, however, expertly undermine that heavenly blend.

Pigs & Smith @ The Flooded Basement

I don’t recall if Elliott Smith and Tom “Pig Champion” Roberts, ever jammed back in the day, but their gritty, hard-rocking folk, lustily accompanied by the bluesy crooning of keyboardist Ron “Pigpen” McKernan, is a constant thrill on this side of the River Styx.

Saturday

By George @ The Stinky Shack

It seems like an eternity since I’ve seen Lowell George fronting a new band, and while his trio, By George, looks good on paper, it remains to be seen if the former Little Feat singer can inspire bassist Jaco Pastorius and drummer Keith Moon to mind their manners in support of his wistful honky tonk narratives. Oh, wait. This is rock ‘n’ roll heaven; of course it will be a revelation. See you there!

Hangovers don’t exist, there are only good trips, and the food is constantly evolving for the better—and shockingly low in calories.

I don’t think that’s asking too much.

 

 

Man, I need to find a job. Fresh off my stint as a government mail drone, I’m percolating with great ideas, but none of them are going to be buying groceries in the immediate future, and frankly, I’m in a funk. And out of prospects.

The problem is, I keep waiting for a kindly employment angel to appear and save my ass. Because that’s how it’s always been, at least since college—a friend has vouched for me and I’ve gotten a job, or at least a face to face interview. Now it’s just too tight, and I totally get that.

I should be out there chopping my own wood, like Abe Lincoln, Han Solo, or other movie notables. Sadly, my own instincts have led me nowhere except the post office and a yearlong gig writing for GoLocalPDX, who stiffed me out of a chunk of money. It wasn’t a huge amount, but it still chafes my hide when I get snookered into doing free work, or even worse, losing money on the deal. I’m usually able to sniff out a grifter, but I’d gotten dumb and hungry.

Not having a job at 50 eats away at you. It’s like a daily affirmation of your obsolescence. Plus, I miss having co-workers to gab with. All I have is a dog that needs a walk. Instead of shooting the shit, I’m gathering it up in a bag, looking more and more like the old neighborhood kook to the new arrivals fresh off the boat from California.

I’m currently exploring several remote possibilities, and nothing looks promising. I’ve set snares and traps around my social media territory, in hopes of landing a few writing or editing assignments, but there are never enough of these to pay the bills. So, I’m seeking honest labor.

An application for Plaid Pantry sits immediately to my right. I’ve been chatting with the older hippie dude who works down at the Southeast Belmont store and he was refreshingly candid.

“Do you think being a bartender is an easy job? Do you think anyone can do it?” he asked me.

“Oh, hell no.”

“It’s the same sort of action here. It requires you to be present, but also detached.”

Somehow, I think I can handle that. In fact, I look forward to what many consider an undignified position. With pride and self-esteem long since buried, I just wants to get paid. Even if it means (shudder) customer service.

Hello cruel world.

And thus ends the post office experiment. On a night when I arrived for work soaking wet, sleep deprived, and sporting a hacking cough that would unnerve a roomful of tuberculosis patients, my supervisor decided to “teach me a lesson” about something or other by assigning me, perhaps permanently, to the ONE job I said I wouldn’t do.

I know the zip codes by heart and I was the fastest sorter in the department, but the boss felt my talents were better suited to dumping huge sacks of boxes and parcels onto a conveyer belt. Forever. It’s the absolute worst job in the post office and it requires the arms of an orangutan and the constitution of a navy seal. On my third day, I confessed to the supervisor my back couldn’t handle working that particular station for longer than an hour at a time, and I was told not to worry about it, that my back was covered. Besides, I was too valuable “sorting and sweeping” to spend time dumping sacks. 

We really shouldn’t be afraid of hard work, but alas, I am. At least for what the Postal Service is currently paying me. Unless they come up with some kind of decadent incentive package that includes a steady two days off per week, 12-hour shifts at my discretion, a Swedish masseuse, and a key to the executive outhouse, my days as a box bouncer are surely numbered.

At my interview, I was asked if I could routinely lift 70-pound boxes. I said, “No sweat, daddy-o. Check out these guns!” Things got a little weird and uncomfortable after that, I’ll spare you the details.