Today is Friday. Some day, you will die.
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Let me see the colts
That will run next year
Show them to a gambling man
Thinking of the future
Smog, A River Ain’t Too Much To Love
IF IM ALREADY DEAD
THEN BREAK ALL MY MIRRORS
FOLLOW THE TRAIL OF INK
TO THE SUITCASE OF INSTANT RELATIVES
PRESS YOUR PAWS AGAINST THE GLASS
WHERE THE WATER YOUR HEAD PRODUCED LANDED.
I woke up scared today. Things are piling on top of each other and seeping into my dreams. The last three nights I’ve had insanely wild sleep, and I originally blamed it on the full moon. Then I blamed it on the stones I’d placed under my pillow. Now I think it’s just real life.
My last day of work is December 18th. This morning I witnessed a screaming match between my boss’ wife and our HR lady. Afterward she sped off in her Blazer, only to return 20 minutes later and whisper under her breath “I just slammed two bloody mary’s!” before starting a second fight with the boss. I was humored, but unnerved knowing the serious dysfunction of this place will continue long after I’m gone.
My health insurance is up at the end of this month if I don’t continue to pay for it through COBRA, which would be $300 a month. I am having a ‘procedure’ done next Thursday and depending on how that goes….I have a feeling. I have a feeling I am going to rack up a giant medical tab. But what is there to do? I’m not going to give up school and keep working this shit job just so I have health insurance.
I am imagining the knots of stress twisting in my chest. The dreams have left me with different sensations: disgust, fear, ambition, fascination. When I woke I was an hour late for work, and the morning light radiated a ginger color across my bedroom floor. I’m still scared.
Why fight? I am an educated person. I know that violence is the communication of the frustrated, the being with its needs unmet, unexpressed. I tried to fight a man, and the spirit of that fight has not left me.
Why did it happen? I was dancing at a loft party, on a table. Liquid hits me. I figure a beer gets thrown at a wild party – I’m at a wild party. It happens again. I look, and the same group of dudes are holding up the wall, checking things out. I resume dancing on the table, which was a door. I’m hit again – a third time. Something snaps inside of me, and I come down off of that table in a fury, pushing, yelling. “You throwing BEERS on me?” and “NOW? It’s on NOW?” flying freely from my wild mouth as I shove the man I suspect is the culprit.
What set me off? What is it inside of me that made this happen? It’s not just rap music – it can’t be. This is the sort of behavior I witnessed in middle school, when I saw some of the biggest brawls in my life. The “inner city” of Portland was no Bronx, but it was serious at times, like when Michael Johnson, the Native kid from Circumstances, fought CJ’s twins (a kid named CJ was the “don” of the 8th grade, and he had two younger prodigies) in the lunchroom. It was a bloodbath. I haven’t fought since Deondre punched me in the face in fifth grade, and here I am, 26 years old, up in some guys’ face hollering, “It’s on NOW?”
I’ve thought about it a lot, and I have a couple of different theories. The one that I like (but is unlikely) is that this was an expression of my distaste for social tourism. That I was lashing out against those that would not participate in the merriment that is deserved of a weeks’ worth of work.
Another idea is that I was standing up for myself, for my self-respect. I was being silly – dancing on a table at a loft party, wearing a foppish lavender cardigan – and I didn’t want to be put down. I have a right to be this way, to dance this way. Goddamnit, I’m from here, and this is how I want to be and I’ve earned it.
Another idea is that I’m an asshole, and part of that idea is a lot of blame on a beverage that I have since sworn off of – Four Loco.
The justice of the situation came into question immediately, and thankfully a certain Ordinary Times writer was there to intervene. The loud questions I was hurling were not rhetorical – I was really asking him if he was throwing beers on me. His lack of an affirmative response made the situation less a crusade of justice than a madman’s wrath. In the heat of things I was validated by his disinterest in fighting, but what would have come of it?
When I fought in elementary school, I participated in mediation with Deondre and his mother. The mediator, Michael, was a gang mediator that practiced Taekwon-do at my Taekwon-do school, and he asked, “what could have happened? Maybe you break his leg (referring to Jeremiah kicking Deondre, who had me in a headlock), maybe you choke him to death (aforementioned headlock). Then what happens?”
What could have happened that night? What would have happened if I shoved him and he fell – hard? What if I shoved him into someone else who fell?
What did happen was I got back up on that table and danced. I don’t mean to condone this sort of behavior, but you better believe no more beer landed on me.
Some comedian once said that they thought it would be a good idea to go back to how things were in the 60s, where you could arrive at the airport smoking a cigarette, pay with cash, and extinguish that same cig somewhere over the desert. Sort of a fly-at-your-own-risk thing.
“I fucked up” has been a unfortunate catch-phrase of mine for a couple of years now, though it has been showing up less often. It’s back in a big way. Somehow I put the wrong name on my plane ticket to Mexico City, and I can’t change it.
James Sehorn. Do you know who that is? It’s my grandfather’ s uncle. It’s my cousin’s newborn son. It might be me if you looked at the situation just right. Unfortunately, there’s not a lot of creativity in the process of international flight.
It is absolutely beyond me how – and even more frustrating, why – this happened. The only thing I can think of is that I must have put both of my middle names in the middle-name field on the website, and the second of the two, Sehorn, booted out my surname.
What a pain in the ass this is. The Transportation Security Agency, those dicks who make you take off your shoes (and your belt if you’re a longhair), have a new regulation wherein your boarding pass must match your ID. My passport doesn’t say “Sehorn” on it anywhere. My birth certificate does. My social security card does. Of course I can’t find those documents, now that it’s three weeks before takeoff.
I fucked up.
After three phone calls to the airline, what I know is this: I cannot change the name on the ticket because there are more than one carrier (airline) on the itinerary. I cannot change the name at each individual airline because the ticket does not belong to them anymore. Additionally, if I was to change the name on the ticket it would immediately cancel the tickets with the other airlines and I would have to re-purchase the ticket, which, in case you were wondering, is non-refundable because I bought it online. The airline would waive the name-change fee ($150) if I was willing to pay the difference in airfare toward a new ticket, but that would be $500, roughly the price of the original ticket.
I think my best bet is to get a new Oregon state ID with all four of my names on it. I called TSA and all that Kendra could tell me was to bring all of the paperwork that I thought would help, and good luck.
I don’t want to depend on luck. Not being lucky in Mexico has some negative connotations. Not letting me into the country (or out of it, for chrissakes) would be a huge problem. I’m to meet up in Mexico City with my pal Sean, who lives in Guatemala. If I never show, he won’t be completely screwed. He’s a seasoned traveler who can fend for himself. It would be a huge bummer, though. Hell, what if I can’t even get ON the plane in Portland, and I have to eat the 500-dollar ticket?
Man, I fucked up.
MALPHAS
In medieval demonology Malphas was the grand president of hell. Malphas appeared in the form of a crow as well as a human being. He often double crossed his devotees and he spoke with a hoarse voice. Malphas had forty legions of devils at his command.
TENGU
The Tengu is a boastful winged demonic spirit. It may be completely bird like or partial human with a long nose, wings and the claws of a giant eagle. The Tengu is often associated with swordsmanship in Japanese mythology. It was said that the best martial arts teachers in the world were all tengu shapeshifters.
In Greek Mythology the Keres was a female black winged death spirit that had huge white teeth and pointed talons. They tore apart corpses and drank the blood of those wounded and dead. The Keres is the personification of death that is always present at scenes of battle.
HARPIES
In Greek Mythology Harpies were winged creatures which had bodies of vultures and the heads of women. They stole the bodies of the dead, gave off a bad smell and contaminated the food.
Yesterday I had to attend an all day class on how to better our Service Technician Department. Going in, I knew that it would be painful. I woke up at 6:30 am, last night’s wine stagnant in my limbs. I toddled to the bathroom and pushed the button above the sink for light. Then I stared at myself in the mirror for a minute. “Fuuuuuck,” I said slowly. Sucking it up as I have done so many mornings before this one, I made my way to get coffee and a bagel for the road.
As I drove I decided the only way I was going to make it through the day was to pay as much attention as possible, so that my mind had no choice but to force the words into my hand through the pen to the paper. I’ve learned the only way to make these situations pass quickly is to fully engage them. This was about the time I spotted a stray dog digging through garbage behind Pizza A Go Go. I contemplated stopping…what if this is someone’s lost dog?? What if it were me? I came to the stop light and decided I couldn’t let him get away. Parked, I walked around the side of the lot. There he was taking a giant dump, minding his own business much like I probably should have been doing.
I knelt down about ten feet from him. “Puppppyyy? Come here!” The dog bared his teeth and growled at me. I stood up. “Be nice….” My voice trailed off as he lunged forward. That guy chased me all the way down the alley back to my car. I guess some dogs don’t want to be had.
8:15 AM. I am lost in Tigard. I considered going home, back to my warm bed and Monday Meow curled up at the foot of it. Instead I answer the unknown number calling my cell phone. “Erin? It’s Colin, your _____ rep. Are you lost? Are you alright?” No. Can you tell me where I am?
Here I am. I’m settled in the corner on a hard plastic chair, with a notepad and my feet propped up. To my right sit about 50 men, filling the room with bad breath and hat hair. An overhead projector looms in front of us, manned by a small bald fellow in a bright red button-down.
About 45 minutes in I decided to keep a tally of how many times my mind wandered off, which was eleven times before twelve, and nine times from noon to three o’clock. The speaker touched on a broad range of topics including geography, diet issues, his marriage and even our solar system. And I quote:
“I had plenty of people tell me I couldn’t play college baseball. They were wrong.”
“My wife’s favorite feature on the Pro9K is the back light.” (Chortling) Making fun of your wife is cool, right? Enabling her to be so fucking uninformed that she can’t even run her own thermostat makes for one helluva industry joke, as long as it looks pretty.
“We call each other hunter-killers. We laugh all the time together.” Wait, what?
“Atkins is the men’s diet. You’ll probably notice I won’t be eating any of that pizza for lunch. I control my diet more than most people in the world.” You can believe the rest of us ate the shit out of that ‘za.
“White men CAN jump.” = (
“My driveway is exposed aggregate concrete? Do you know what that means for me?” Nobody did.
“You guys are the center of the universe…I mean isn’t Nike here?”
“Who here drinks Starbucks?” (silence) “The secret to affording a $5 cup of coffee is to have someone else buy it for you. TRUE OR FALSE?” This was about the time I began tallying how many times he asked true or false. We reached 19 before the lunch break, and then I gave up.
“The average home where I live, in Brentwood Tennessee, the average home is $400 grand with 2 refrigerators. We golf.” Gross.
By 3pm I was cooked. The prescription painkillers had worn off and I didn’t pick up when my boss called. Earlier in the day I had felt a twinge of guilt for attending this expensive class, knowing I will soon embark on a new endeavor and leave his Popsicle stand in the dust. But as I beelined it for the door I realized if anything, those last seven hours reiterated the fact that my exit plan has been a long time coming.
