We were driving home from Bangor, my father and my brother and I. Down 295, it was snowing. The roads were bad, but the highway was clean enough to make some distance on. I was young, sitting in the back of my father’s silver and gold Jeep Grand Cherokee with my younger brother. Gazing out the windows at the dark trees sliding past, I let my mind wander and the fantasies of different extravagant scenarios play out in my mind’s theater. We came upon a truck stop, also an information kiosk. Dad pulled into the lot and parked the car before saying anything. Then he flicked the interior light on and twisted around in his winter jacket and seatbelt to talk to us.
“You know, once, years ago, I heard about this albino moose that lived around this part of the woods.”
We were intrigued.
“I swear, I saw it once, one night, coming home from Grammy Curran’s.”
“What did it look like?” Fletcher, my brother, asked.
“It was all white, and had red eyes that lit up bright when my headlights passed over it.”
He paused for a second.
“It wasn’t in the road though, I didn’t hit it. I just saw it standing off on the other side of the ditch and did this.”
He imitated a person staring wide-eyed, jaw hanging open, gaze panning from the windshield down the length of the Jeep, clearly seeing something that drew amazement, bewilderment and incredibility all over a man’s face. We laughed at his performance.
“I’m going to go look around and see if I can find it again.” He explained, unbuckled his seatbelt, and got out of the car.
Fletcher and I sat there, underneath the yellow incandescence, the light lime green leather interior, dead convinced our Dad was out there in the woods, searching for this rare albino moose he’d seen once. We peered out the windows, hoping to catch a glance of this creature, maybe we could see it’s sheer white coat, see how large it’s antlers were, if it’s eyes were really red. Or pink. I didn’t know much about albinism at the time.
My Dad doesn’t like his mother. We go visit her on holidays, but not every holiday. She’s old enough to always be sitting down, and is always delighted to see my brother and I, and we treat her like you should treat a grandmother. But he’ll tell us, over his shoulder in the dark Jeep Grand Cherokee as we cruise down 295 homewards, the yellow lines slipping away under the left side of the hood. He’ll tell us what he thinks of his mother.
But it was all a long time ago, when he hated her. Now she’s an old woman, who he is obligated to care for, and love, and bring her grandsons to on her birthday. And that’s just the way it has to be.
My Dad wasn’t outside looking for a moose. Of any kind, albino or not. He was taking a piss behind a tree. I didn’t know it until he got back to the car, then did it dawn on me like a setting sun of realization. Sometimes he’d say “I’m going to inspect some local flora,” or “I’m going to go check out some of those ferns over there,” and I’d know what he meant, but that night, sitting in that Jeep, I thought he was actually looking for some sort of albino moose.
12.17.2007
Once, in Ben's Room
Once. A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. There was video footage taken of me.
I, at 16, was wearing (only) lady’s underpants and wielding a large katana sword, fending off my friends from harassing me and removing the black and white striped panties, and making me further agitated and embarrassed. I was very hostile. I don't think I’ve ever been further embarrassed. And one of them recorded it with his home movie Hi 8mm Sony video camera And I’m sharing that with you right now. That footage will never see the light of day, be viewed in any format, or make it onto the Internet. And I thank God for it, every day of my life.
Amen.
I, at 16, was wearing (only) lady’s underpants and wielding a large katana sword, fending off my friends from harassing me and removing the black and white striped panties, and making me further agitated and embarrassed. I was very hostile. I don't think I’ve ever been further embarrassed. And one of them recorded it with his home movie Hi 8mm Sony video camera And I’m sharing that with you right now. That footage will never see the light of day, be viewed in any format, or make it onto the Internet. And I thank God for it, every day of my life.
Amen.
80's Night
I almost got in a fight last night. In the middle of a totally classic top billboard hit from the ‘80's.
The chorus was “‘Cause I don’t want to lose your love to-niiight!” but I don’t know whether that was the title or not.
It was 80's Night at Bubba’s Sulky Lounge, a slightly shady dance club in the Parkside area of downtown Portland. Every Friday night is 80's Night, and the people dress up and dance and there’s a costume competition at the end. My friend, hereby referred to as Charge, won 50 bucks one night. But tonight was the Finals Competition, where the winners came out, mingled with the judges, answered 80's trivia, and of course, had a dance off.
And I, of course, was there getting my boy’s back. Aviator’s and this brown and tan velour longsleeve with these retro stripes on the shoulders. PBR tallboys. My hair still had some gel products in it from the performance earlier that night, and was slicked into a major part.
Oh yeah, should probably mention Charge had also choreographed a piece for DanceUSM, a dance battle with themes from the 80's, early 90's hip hop, electro-pop and modern dance. I was part of Charge’s posse and we rolled up on my other friend, hereby referred to as Tails, I had this little bit where I sort of “announce” the dance battle drawing influence from southern LA’s krump dancing scene. It’s pretty intense, but this isn’t about that.
I’m at Bubba’s, busting some moves, too legit to quit, getting my drink on, supporting the intensely 80's-ified dancer extraordinaire ex-Resident Assistant of mine, having a great time. Tails is there. He’s having a great time. One of my best friends from high school, hereby referred to as Mothernight, is there. She is having a great time. Amelia Airheart is there. She’s having a great time too. There’s a large assortment of other random acquaintances of mine speckled about the light up dance floor. These are great times happening.
But things got not so great. Mothernight, a friend of mine in pretty much a sisterly sense, started to have not so great a time. This 17-year-old kid, hereby referred to as Douchebag, with a fake ID was dancing with her and coming on a little too strong. She was legitimately dancing with him and it wasn’t a huge thing at all yet, but I told her she just had to say the word and I would do my best to pretend I was every dominant masculine archetype I’ve ever seen on TV and tell this kid what’s what. Mothernight can take care of herself, but she told me my support was appreciated. I mentioned Douchebag’s unwelcome advances to Tails and he became very excited at the prospects of getting into a fight for something noble like a woman’s honor, and frankly I was too. We had a posse. This could go down.
That wasn’t the primary focus here. I was dancing with AA, grooving to the jams of a decade long past. A tumultuous and confusing time for our country’s culture. A lot of shit happened in the 80's we weren’t ready for. My roommate, hereby referred to as Juniper Bush, or JB, said that to me, and he’s right. Somehow in the mix, the young and hip started wearing big hair, acid washed jeans and fashion choices now considered vaguely homosexual. Reagan was in office, the Taliban was getting American funding to fight off Soviet Russia, a bunch of people were held hostage inside an airplane in Iran. The B-52's named an album “Rock Lobster.” On one dark morning, rain poured down over the bricks and asphalt of Portland’s building and streets, the streetlights incandescent, lightning struck, and in a fluorescent lit hospital room I was brought into this world. Oh, to be back in ‘86.
Instead I’m here, dancing like a dance machine with the children of this crazy era The same decade responsible for Cyndi Lauper. (But that’s okay, I fuckin’ love Cyndi Lauper, and would father her children and start a family with her whenever she desired. Cyndi, if you’re reading this, we belong together. I will be waiting. Time after time.) There is a trivia contest for the finalists only. Not every question is answered. Nobody here has studied Three’s Company extensively. Charge told me he got one right, and that made me proud. Then they had the dance competition. The judges were dispersed among the audience, only the finalists are allowed on the light up dance floor, and what does the DJ play? “Blister in the Sun,” by the The motherfucking Violent Femmes. I freak out. This rocks too hard. Charge did a damn swell job, the other finalists clearly did not dance much outside a drunken bar setting. The song ends, we all cheer, they tell us the winners will be announced shortly.
We all flood back onto the floor. The dancing recommences. And it’s not long before I see Douchebag kissing Mothernight’s neck, and deep within me the urge is summoned to simply approach the two and knock him directly in the face with my fist. But that’s just the testosterone and secret desire to see how well I’d hold up in a fight. I weighed the good idea vs. the bad idea and realized punching Douchebag in the face was not the appropriate course of action. I’m having a great time, I don’t want to get kicked out of Bubba’s, maybe Mothernight is starting to dig on him. So it gets brushed off into “Whatever. Just dance”
But Mothernight comes up to me a bit later, still peeved at this kid. She doesn’t want to be a bitch and tell him off, but also doesn’t want anything to do with him, and at this point he’s definitely getting the wrong ideas. So things are set in motion. Tails’s girlfriend moves in between the two, soon followed by Tails. I have Mothernight switch places with me, to my right, further from Douchebag, and given the crowded dance floor, there is some solid distance placed between the,.. I’m still dancing with and paying attention to AA, but some side glances tell me this kid is searching the crowd. He locates her and stops dancing and pushes his way up to her. Words are spoken, he begins to dance up on her again, but she pushes him off with a full two arm extension shove. Awesome. Grand slam. Ace in the hole. Peace out, kid. He sort of disappointed wanders off past me, and we meet eyes. This is my moment. I have slicked hair and aviator’s and do a silent and simple one, two head shake. A very clear and orderly "no way, pal." It looked pretty funny. Douchebag just smirks and pushes me to the side a bit and walks off. I laugh and continue with getting my dance on.
Five to ten minutes later, I check back around the floor. And there’s Douchebag, grinding up against this random taller chick than him and staring DIRECTLY at me. It was ridiculous sight and I grinned at him and didn’t see much of him the rest of the night.
They announced the winners, there was a Fancy Feet award, then a second place, then a first place, with a prize of 1,000 dollars. Charge nabbed second, and $500 big ones. The grand prize winners were this friend of mine Ben, and his other friend. They both wore dark blue biker suits laced with those glowsticks you can attach at the ends into necklaces, also interwoven into their bike helmets, and around frisbees they had. They danced like robots the whole night, and would throw the frisbees up and around and catch them in different dance positions. Real cool. They deserved it. Charge deserved his 500. I deserved not getting into a fight with a stupid kid way younger than me.
So I didn’t actually almost get into a fight. Kinda lied with my opening sentence there. But that’s the hook, y’know? If Douchebag kid had handled the situation differently, we might have thrown down outside in the slushy parking lot and cold winter night, or right there on the floor under and over the bright flashing lights in between everyone. Am I upset I didn’t get in a fight? No. Not really. I had an awesome time. There’s still the bottled rage testosterone wanting to legitimately fight a man urge, but maybe that will happen another time, in another place, hopefully over a lady’s honor, and then I’ll write a Travipedia article about it. Just for you.
The chorus was “‘Cause I don’t want to lose your love to-niiight!” but I don’t know whether that was the title or not.
It was 80's Night at Bubba’s Sulky Lounge, a slightly shady dance club in the Parkside area of downtown Portland. Every Friday night is 80's Night, and the people dress up and dance and there’s a costume competition at the end. My friend, hereby referred to as Charge, won 50 bucks one night. But tonight was the Finals Competition, where the winners came out, mingled with the judges, answered 80's trivia, and of course, had a dance off.
And I, of course, was there getting my boy’s back. Aviator’s and this brown and tan velour longsleeve with these retro stripes on the shoulders. PBR tallboys. My hair still had some gel products in it from the performance earlier that night, and was slicked into a major part.
Oh yeah, should probably mention Charge had also choreographed a piece for DanceUSM, a dance battle with themes from the 80's, early 90's hip hop, electro-pop and modern dance. I was part of Charge’s posse and we rolled up on my other friend, hereby referred to as Tails, I had this little bit where I sort of “announce” the dance battle drawing influence from southern LA’s krump dancing scene. It’s pretty intense, but this isn’t about that.
I’m at Bubba’s, busting some moves, too legit to quit, getting my drink on, supporting the intensely 80's-ified dancer extraordinaire ex-Resident Assistant of mine, having a great time. Tails is there. He’s having a great time. One of my best friends from high school, hereby referred to as Mothernight, is there. She is having a great time. Amelia Airheart is there. She’s having a great time too. There’s a large assortment of other random acquaintances of mine speckled about the light up dance floor. These are great times happening.
But things got not so great. Mothernight, a friend of mine in pretty much a sisterly sense, started to have not so great a time. This 17-year-old kid, hereby referred to as Douchebag, with a fake ID was dancing with her and coming on a little too strong. She was legitimately dancing with him and it wasn’t a huge thing at all yet, but I told her she just had to say the word and I would do my best to pretend I was every dominant masculine archetype I’ve ever seen on TV and tell this kid what’s what. Mothernight can take care of herself, but she told me my support was appreciated. I mentioned Douchebag’s unwelcome advances to Tails and he became very excited at the prospects of getting into a fight for something noble like a woman’s honor, and frankly I was too. We had a posse. This could go down.
That wasn’t the primary focus here. I was dancing with AA, grooving to the jams of a decade long past. A tumultuous and confusing time for our country’s culture. A lot of shit happened in the 80's we weren’t ready for. My roommate, hereby referred to as Juniper Bush, or JB, said that to me, and he’s right. Somehow in the mix, the young and hip started wearing big hair, acid washed jeans and fashion choices now considered vaguely homosexual. Reagan was in office, the Taliban was getting American funding to fight off Soviet Russia, a bunch of people were held hostage inside an airplane in Iran. The B-52's named an album “Rock Lobster.” On one dark morning, rain poured down over the bricks and asphalt of Portland’s building and streets, the streetlights incandescent, lightning struck, and in a fluorescent lit hospital room I was brought into this world. Oh, to be back in ‘86.
Instead I’m here, dancing like a dance machine with the children of this crazy era The same decade responsible for Cyndi Lauper. (But that’s okay, I fuckin’ love Cyndi Lauper, and would father her children and start a family with her whenever she desired. Cyndi, if you’re reading this, we belong together. I will be waiting. Time after time.) There is a trivia contest for the finalists only. Not every question is answered. Nobody here has studied Three’s Company extensively. Charge told me he got one right, and that made me proud. Then they had the dance competition. The judges were dispersed among the audience, only the finalists are allowed on the light up dance floor, and what does the DJ play? “Blister in the Sun,” by the The motherfucking Violent Femmes. I freak out. This rocks too hard. Charge did a damn swell job, the other finalists clearly did not dance much outside a drunken bar setting. The song ends, we all cheer, they tell us the winners will be announced shortly.
We all flood back onto the floor. The dancing recommences. And it’s not long before I see Douchebag kissing Mothernight’s neck, and deep within me the urge is summoned to simply approach the two and knock him directly in the face with my fist. But that’s just the testosterone and secret desire to see how well I’d hold up in a fight. I weighed the good idea vs. the bad idea and realized punching Douchebag in the face was not the appropriate course of action. I’m having a great time, I don’t want to get kicked out of Bubba’s, maybe Mothernight is starting to dig on him. So it gets brushed off into “Whatever. Just dance”
But Mothernight comes up to me a bit later, still peeved at this kid. She doesn’t want to be a bitch and tell him off, but also doesn’t want anything to do with him, and at this point he’s definitely getting the wrong ideas. So things are set in motion. Tails’s girlfriend moves in between the two, soon followed by Tails. I have Mothernight switch places with me, to my right, further from Douchebag, and given the crowded dance floor, there is some solid distance placed between the,.. I’m still dancing with and paying attention to AA, but some side glances tell me this kid is searching the crowd. He locates her and stops dancing and pushes his way up to her. Words are spoken, he begins to dance up on her again, but she pushes him off with a full two arm extension shove. Awesome. Grand slam. Ace in the hole. Peace out, kid. He sort of disappointed wanders off past me, and we meet eyes. This is my moment. I have slicked hair and aviator’s and do a silent and simple one, two head shake. A very clear and orderly "no way, pal." It looked pretty funny. Douchebag just smirks and pushes me to the side a bit and walks off. I laugh and continue with getting my dance on.
Five to ten minutes later, I check back around the floor. And there’s Douchebag, grinding up against this random taller chick than him and staring DIRECTLY at me. It was ridiculous sight and I grinned at him and didn’t see much of him the rest of the night.
They announced the winners, there was a Fancy Feet award, then a second place, then a first place, with a prize of 1,000 dollars. Charge nabbed second, and $500 big ones. The grand prize winners were this friend of mine Ben, and his other friend. They both wore dark blue biker suits laced with those glowsticks you can attach at the ends into necklaces, also interwoven into their bike helmets, and around frisbees they had. They danced like robots the whole night, and would throw the frisbees up and around and catch them in different dance positions. Real cool. They deserved it. Charge deserved his 500. I deserved not getting into a fight with a stupid kid way younger than me.
So I didn’t actually almost get into a fight. Kinda lied with my opening sentence there. But that’s the hook, y’know? If Douchebag kid had handled the situation differently, we might have thrown down outside in the slushy parking lot and cold winter night, or right there on the floor under and over the bright flashing lights in between everyone. Am I upset I didn’t get in a fight? No. Not really. I had an awesome time. There’s still the bottled rage testosterone wanting to legitimately fight a man urge, but maybe that will happen another time, in another place, hopefully over a lady’s honor, and then I’ll write a Travipedia article about it. Just for you.
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