| PerfilViva la BocaFotosBlogListas |  Herramientas  Ayuda |
|
10 febrero 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). 06 febrero 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! 29 enero 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. 16 enero 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 . . . 09 enero 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. 08 enero 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.
05 enero 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 . . .)
01 enero Off the RezThere is something vaguely self-concious about dancing to Cypress Hill in a room filled with only white people. Maybe it's just Ms. Mouth, but flinging around psuedo-epileptically to "Insane in the Membrane" surrounded by not only caucasion but also "indie" type folk provokes a certain sensation of not politically-incorrectness (God forbid) but still a certain wrongness, or perhaps an outsiderness which can't easily be defined. Maybe it's not even worth trying.
...
In lieu of the unavoidably breakable New Year's rez, some insights on music from last night's N.Y. Party:
1. "Do you take sugar, One lump or two?" is perhaps the most inane lyric in Rock history. I mean, what the fuck were Def Leppard thinking? A. Dumping sugar on someone is akin to smearing oneself with garden dirt or black pepper. Nothing sexy about it. B. Not only that, but the boys of D.L. had to take it further. Yeah baby, not just the sugar granules, but pop open that box of C&H Pure Cane Sugar Cubes and rub 'em all over yerself. Yeah, just like that, baby. Grind 'em down! Powder that sugar! (Um, ouch, that chafes). What's wrong with honey anyway? It worked just fine in 9 1/2 Weeks.
2. Maybe it isn't that there is less good, speaks-to-your-soul kind of music that is put out these days, but instead, there is just so much more to sift through that it takes a tremendous amount of time to find the good stuff.
3. On the same subject, how long has it been since you have heard an album that was good from beginning to end. Totally solid -- not just a few singles strung together with a bunch of crap filler. PJ Harvey's Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea was the last one Ms. Mouth can remember, although Radiohead's Kid A is near perfect.
4. You can dance like a Solid Gold girl, get your freak on, or do the rhamba, but you'll never be as good a dancer as Ms. M. Manners. The chick kicks ass. No one comes close. (Clearly not a music entry, but closely related).
And finally,
5. Honest to God. The Pixies are the greatest band in the world. Only they have the superpower to unite the world and bring about peace in our time. At the very least, they sure can pull a bunch of folks who span several decades into one small living room to dance like maniacs. It's like drawing moths to the flame.
Happy New Year. 28 diciembre Under the BridgeOne of the many things The Mouth loves about Astoria is that we love our homeless eccentrics. Ms. Mouth somewhat felt this way when she lived in the Hawthorne District in PDX, but even in the uber-liberal HD, we weren't on the first name (or first moniker) basis we are here.
The cast of homeless characters in A-town is not endless, but what it lacks in length, it makes up for in substance. Consider P___, our mostly homeless, schizoid artist who is so prolific that he sells his watercolors by the bagful in more lucid times. Some of his stuff is fairly infantile, but some of it is quite good. You never know what you are going to get with P___. He could be friendly one minute and screaming at tourists or pigeons the next. It is part of his charm, assuming you aren't the aforementioned tourist. One of the Mouth's favorite interactions with P___ was at the Sunday Market last summer. After reminding P___ that it wasn't good manners to obsessively rub the Mouth's arms as a greeting, P___ informed Ms. Mouth that he had recently seen Jesus Christ. He went on to say that Jesus Christ made personal visits to people that believed in him. When Ms. Mouth said that such a practice must keep the Good Lord pretty busy, P___ replied: "It's okay, he like his job."
A second character is "Helmet Guy" (clearly named for his attire, a large motorcycle helmet that almost never leaves his head). Regretfully, Ms. Mouth does not know HG's real identity, however, she can safely say that there is no more prodigious worker than HG. HG carts (literally) all of his possessions across the many acres of Astoria Proper with one purloined shopping buggy and what appears to be at least two 40 lb. garbage sacks. He does this by moving the buggy to one location, perhaps a block to a block.5 up and then retrieving his sacks slogging them to the cart. Repeat, ad infinitum, until the projected goal is met. Consider how much of a feat this is, in sun and rain, wind and deluge, day in and day out. Few of us can even conceive of the shear determination it takes to live this way.
The beauty of Astoria is that it is not an unusual occurrence to see HG and P___ , along with any number of the few others in the cast of characters that make up A-Towns underworld, sipping on coffee at the tables outside of Godfather's Books. Not only is it not unusual, it is also common for natives to stop by and at the very least say hello, and sometimes even join in the conversation for a moment or too (assuming actual conversation is occurring, which is sometimes not the case at all -- rather there are times when "conversation" is composed of the individuals mumbling in a seemingly non-response seeking sort of way).
More than the latter, which can possibly be seen as condescending (it is not intended to be), we look after P__ and HG. Ms. Mouth has observed several instances of folks helping HG in particular, and heard anecdotes of acquaintences bailing P___ out of sticky situations. Ms. Mouth herself once intervened with P___ and a tourist who believed P___'s "I'm gonna kill you fucker," was directed at him (tourist) rather than the pigeon at his (P__'s) feet. By the time Ms. Mouth got there, the tourist was screaming at P___ who was, by now, rocking and shifting his focus from the pigeon to the tourist. The Mouth fears to think what could have happened without the timely coincidence of stumbling upon the two.
P___ and HG live on their own terms. Sometimes, P___ at least, wants to take his meds and live in shelter or HUD housing, and sometimes he doesn't. This is what he has told The Mouth anyway, and who is she to decide what is best for him.
To The Mouth, it is an important characteristic of this town that we look out for those who need it when they need it, and just let them be and live on their own terms when they don't. 23 diciembre Driving with Mr. Smith"A distorted reality is now a necessity to be free." Elliott Smith
Few things are more satisfying for Miss Mouth than driving aimlessly on a dreary Astoria day listening to Elliott Smith. Though the thought of this activity would drive Ms. Mouth's beau to ream hot pokers in his ears, The Mouth finds it very soothing. (The Mouth's BF claims the Elliott Smith, when he was alive, used cheap guitar strings that create an intolerable squeaking sound, which drives him (BF) nearly psychotic with annoyance. Ms. Mouth claims the squeak effect comes from a conscious production decision to keep the byproducts of strumming in the music, which is at once charming and pure. Regardless, Ms. Mouth is banned from playing Elliott Smith in the car when the BF is present.)
So, where were we, ah, driving, Elliott, the wind, the ever-present rain. Smith is melancholy, even on the rare occassions he is somewhat hopeful. And let's face it, the coast is a melancholy, moody place in the winter. It drives some folks over the edge, but the Mouth finds it suitable for the shifting currents that are always at work inside of her.
Today, as with so many others, it is grey. Grey skies, silver rain, grey water in the estuary lapping up against black rocks. It is in this greyness that Astoria really shines. Its multi-colored Victorians that look as if they were hand-colored from an old black and white reel, are the only hues that break up the monotony of sky and water. In the middle of this oppressive greyness the houses hold the hope of warmth, of afghan draped laps and hot tea. Good books and curling up with your dog on a favorite couch.
And maybe this is the lure of the aimless driving with Elliott Smith as a co-pilot. In the middle of the hopelessness that can bog us all down there is the beautifully clear voice that feels like memory, like kinship, like not being alone in your darkest thoughts. It is the rosy hued walls of an old house that beckons you inside to rest your weary bones beside a fire.
But then again, maybe that's just the Mouth's idea of a perfect rainy day...It beats hot pokers in the ear. Let's put the X back in XmasTuesday, December 20, 2005Lets put the X back in XmasSo it is pouring outside, which can only mean that Christmas has come to the greater Astoria area. Okay, rain actually heralds any day on the coast, not just the holidays. We have just come out of an unsual cold snap, which reminded Ms. Mouth of all the glorious reasons she left the (questionably) great state of Idaho behind. She was glad to see the cold go, though a few people told her it helped put them in the "holiday" spirit. This whole "holiday" flap is driving Ms. Mouth over the edge. She has consciously revolted against the facist word police that correct every little "politically incorrect" utterance. The way Ms. Mouth sees it, life boils down to respect. If you wish the Mouth a Happy Kwanza, she will return the phrase to you with respect to your beliefs. Same with Xmas, Christmas, Hannukah, Solstice -- whatever. The Mouth has even taken to wishing people random holiday greetings, a Hannukah here, a Kwanza there, here an Xmas, there an Xmas everywhere an XXX. Ms. Mouth would wish folks a happy EID (she bought the stamps to piss off her dad, who forwarded the old: Our-postal- service-is-a-terrorist-organization-for-having-Muslim-Holiday-stamps email), but she's not sure of the proper phrasing: "Merry EID," "Warm EID wishes," "Have a joyful EID..."? ... So, there is a huge "Let's put the Christ back in Christmas," contingent down the road in P-town, spearheaded by rightwing, windbag Lars Larson. They're putting this huge cross up in Pioneer Square to remind folks about the "reason for the season." Apparently, no one reminded these guys that Christmas was a Pagan holiday co-opted by the crusading Xtians to help make the horsepill of Xtian imperialism go down a little more smoothely. A giant burning log would be the more accurate representation of the true meaning of Xmas -- that's what the Norse did long before Christ was born to celebrate the holiday and honor the return of longer days. Hmmm, maybe Ms. Mouth should make herself a tee-shirt that says "Let's put the Yule back in Yuletide!" and drive around town tossing huge burning logs out of the back of a pick-up truck. That would be funny. An idea, from now on we're greeting everyone with "Happy Yuletide!" Nope, too dorky. Back to "Merry Xmas, etc." Watch out for burning logs flying through the air. kisses, la boca |
|
|
