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February 10 non-mergin' mo-fo'sWhat is with people in this town who won't allow you to merge? Are they in a hurry? Is Gino's Pizza giving away free pie? Is there a tsunami drill that I missed somewhere? Are we practicing evacuation strategies for an LNG explosion? Seriously, what the fuck is so important to get to in the land of Astor that you can't allow a car to merge.
For God's sake people, there are only two merging areas in town that require your attention: the roundabout (which is technically four areas in one) and where Commercial becomes a one-lane, one-way street for the briefest of moments between 15th an d 16th Streets. This isn't PDX, LA or any other city with a cute abbreviation that requires shoulder hunched, flip-off finger ready, mad-driving skills to even get on the goddamn freeway. It's Astoria. You can count the number of stoplights on two hands. We're all going nowhere and don't have to rush to get there.
So, for the love of all that is holy -- move the fuck over and let a gal in (especially when she has the right-of-way you pathetic, jacked-up truck drivin', Calvin pissing on a Ford logo, mullet wearin' bastard). February 06 hallelujiahSweet mother of all that is holy. The goddamn sun is out. Us Astorians are slowly emerging from our mildewed porches after nearly a month of deluges, downpours, torrents, spurts, surges, inundations, cascades, showers, monsoons, etc. Did I mention the hurricane force winds. I shit you not, on Sunday, 1.29.06, Miss Mouth watched her 7 foot sliding glass door off the deck of her bedroom bend, BEND I tell you, under the shear force of wind until it resembled a bubble emerging from one of those plastic bubble blowers that kids use. Miss Mouth's boyfriend was innocently sitting with his back to the erstwhile bubble, with no inkling of the death shards that were about to obliterate his tender, ill protected flesh.
Miss Mouth grabbed the fur kids and her furry boyfriend and fled to the somewhat more safe sanctuary of the downstairs sitting room. (Simply put, there wasn't enough room for the four of us to huddle in the bath tub to wait out this Perfect Storm, which is what all those hurricane and tornado shows instruct you to do for some odd reason that, I believe, has to do with the superior strength of plumbing over, say, the wooden frame of a house).
Things got worse from there, with Friday, 2.3.06, ushering in 85-90 mph wind gusts, though the rain began to abate.
And today, the payoff. The sun is out. The fur kids are going for a long overdue walk (to save all of our mental health. -- One more episode in which I try to read in bed and ignore the actual movement of my house in the wind while an over-hyper, walk-deprived puppy slaps me in the face with her saliva covered, stuffed turtle, trying to engage me in a game of tug-o-war and one of us wasn't going to make it out of the house alive when the rain broke).
There is nothing more glorious than sun on the river after a craptastic month of rain! January 29 Astoria! Astoria! The unauthorized versionA friend of mine keeps threatening to write a screenplay called Astoria! Astoria! which will chronicle the random happenings that could truly not occur anywhere but here. Since my friend is slow on the uptake, I am compelled to add this entry:
Date: 21 January 2006, Sunday
Time: 2:45 p.m.ish
Location: Upscale boutique (well, as upscale as it gets in A-town), Commercial St., Downtown Historical District
The action unfolds over the course of 15 minutes. The protagonists are browsing wares they have no intention of buying, but enjoy looking at nonetheless. This constitutes alone time between Father (Mouth Sr.) and Daughter (Ms. Mouth), which serves to keep their focus on the arts (a topic they can both agree upon) and off of politics and religion (need I say more?).
Enter Mouth Sr. (MS) and Ms. Mouth (MM).
Shopkeeper (SK): And where are you two from.
MM: I'm from here. This is my dad. He's visiting for a few days, on leave from Iraq.
SK: Oh, really. Well you [MS] sure look Arab.
MS: (a sound akin to a suppressed guffaw)
MM: Um, he's Mexican, ethnically speaking.
SK: Well he could've fooled me.
Mmmkay. MS and MM decide to leave conversation and browse handwoven Persian rugs, one of which would cost MM's entire monthly salary, which is not a pittance by Astoria standards.
Enter Shopkeeper's Husband (SH) and family dog. (While I believe there was a family child also present, I can't be sure (the reason for which should become readily apparent)).
SH: Hello honey.
SK: (To family dog in an unbelievably painful staccato) Where's momma's wittle baby. Come 'ere you sweet wittle wover. Yes, that's momma's wittle wubbie boy. Etc. etc. ad infinitum.
MM: (to father) Sweet Jesus. At least I'm not that bad with the dogs.
MS: I'd appreciate it if you didn't take the Lord's name in vain when we're together.
MM: Um, sorry pop. But seriously.
MS: It is pretty bad.
MS and MM move to exit. SK stops MM and MS on the way out the door.
SK: (Loudly, so that all of neighboring businesses can hear) Goodbye Arab-looking guy!
SK beams at MS and MM while family dog aggressively licks her face. SH stares sheepishly, because what the hell else can he do. MS and MM exuent, after being stunned out of snappy comebacks (a forte of both).
Fade to black.
Finis. January 16 John H.G.Honest to God, I am not obsessed with Helmet Guy (whose name I have recently discovered is John) (blogs 12.30.05, 01.06.06), but I have to write about him again because...
Saturday night there was an art opening at an Astoria gallery where the exhibit featured portraits by various artists representing "The Denizens" of Astoria and John H.G. was featured not once, not twice, but four times in different artists portraits. That is a big hell yeah for Astoria.
And now, Miss Mouth will leave move on to other subjects . . . January 09 more random thoughts from astoriaWhy is tin foil the accoutrement of choice for the mentally ill? You don’t see/hear about folks with mental health issues swaddling their craniums in toilet paper or glad bags to keep the voices at bay. Is this, as someone at work suggested, the result of a Jungian archetype placed in our collective unconscious by bad 50’s TV shows about aliens and outer space?
This was a random thought that happened after I saw Helmet Guy today (see Under the Bridge blog entry 12.28.05) on the sidewalk and he was wearing his surge protector plugged into itself as a necklace. This is not an irregular event per se, but it is also not an everyday part of his attire, as is the helmet. So I got to wondering about what it is that prompts some days to be a surge-protector day for H.G. and others not to be. Is there some moment during the day when things go wrong and the surge protector comes out? Is there a sense at the onset of the day that there may well be spate of bad shit coming down the pike in the next twelve hours so it’s best to have on every available piece of protective equipment? (I have to admit that on days like the aforementioned I myself throw on my velvet pants because they make me feel invincible). Or is it as simple as when I choose my grey scarf over my green scarf – only a surge protector instead of, say, hmm, I haven’t seen him wear anything else around his neck? The next time I see H.G. if he’s in a talking frame of mind, I’m going to ask him. January 08 the 8There are 8 people in Astoria that do everything. They volunteer for multiple boards; show up for all kinds of meetings and committees; generate great ideas that everyone thinks are wonderful but don't want to lift a finger to make happen; and work themselves to the bone so that they end up dying at age 50 all so Astoria can be hip/creative/safe/welcoming/
attractive/environmentally aware -- ad infinitum.
If all 8 were to be hit by a Mac truck while caravaning to another volunteer opportunity, the town of Astoria would grind to a complete halt and be over-run by liquified natural gas loving Californians that decimate the commercial fishing industry by sport fishing with ultrasound and erect enormous condos on the waterfront in wetland protected areas.
The 8 are tired. They need relief.
January 05 Hmph...It has been raining so hard the dogs won't even go out to pee.
...
When it is ten days until your dad leaves Baghdad, bad shit starts to happen. 130 dead today. Tomorrow?
...
Miss Mouth didn't start the day out feeling grey, but suddenly -- must be something Pat Robertson said.
...
(By the way, when is God's wrath gonna reach out and touch Pat Robertson and G.W.? We're waiting . . .)
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