Saturday, December 22, 2007

A Yuletide Classic

Originally published last year on my myspace blog, so you probably didn't read it yet.

Observations made at the Lloyd Center Mall, 12/16/06
Current mood: savage
Category: Fashion, Style, Shopping


Some observations from the Lloyd Center Mall:

1. It is okay to take your kids into the bathroom with you. However, I did not know that that rule has been expanded to include taking your children into the stall while you sit down for an extended dump session, as exhibited by the guy in the last stall of the bathrooms by the Mail Box and his daughter in the rather cute pink, fuzzy jumper sitting on the tile floor of said bathroom stall. I did not know that you could do this. The rearing of children seems a lot less complicated and a lot more convenient.

2. I did not know that plus-sized women were so fond of the colors red, black and purple. Nor did I know that they wore so much trashy lingerie. Is this a new development in plus-sized fashions? Do full-figured ladies give it up more or is this the new leisure wear for the house-bound?

3. There were no women (of any size) in the plus-size store.

4. You can buy a set of Metallica shot glasses and a "crunk" goblet at the same store. You can also get a pimp stick with a die-cast metal dragon's head on the handle at that store. Would you like a Slipknot or Guns 'n' Roses Christmas ornament for your tree? Do people who have Christmas trees want Slipknot Christmas ornaments? Do people who want Slipknot Christmas ornaments bother to have Christmas trees? Maybe I'm stereotyping here.

5. There are three pages of new Mac Dre images that they can put on a t-shirt, hat or Converse All-Star for you at the t-shirt kiosk. Almost as many as Tupac has.

This is merely an observation. If you have anything to add to this brief anthropological excercise, feel free.

Thursday, December 6, 2007

I, Car-mo

I'm sure that everyone is dying to hear about my life as a driver. It's sad, really, seeing all of you ride around town on bikes, while stuck in a car. Of course, riding in the style and comfort of a Ford Aerostar has its merits. The van is kinda like my bike, it's old and dirty, but it gets the job done. It has a CD player, though, and NPR, so at least there's that. You have to turn it on by grounding the wire to the battery. Charm? Style? Call it what you will, but I got car sounds.

On the bright side, I have the newest, fanciest Nextel in town. Yours is not as fancy as mine. It just isn't.

Some driving favorites:

McCoy Tyner "Expansions." Start your day off with this CD and you'll be okay. This guy was Coltrane's piano player in his prime. "I got two sealed copies of Expansions/ I'm Like Tom Wu, with yachts and mansions."

Funkadelic "Maggot Brain." The title track is the greatest/saddest guitar jam EVER. I don't have enough room to really get into how many ways this record kicks your ass. "I have tasted the maggots in the mind of the universe, but I was not offended. For I knew that I had to rise above it all--or drown in my own shit." Words to live by in traffic.

Ornette Coleman "Science Fiction." Out there "free jazz" from the master. The entire session comes on this re-issue. More melodic and cool than, say, Miles' wild '70s stuff that tries too hard. Ornette was getting weirder than shit, but still wore a suit. Y'know? This is the musical conversation that jazzbos speak of. Beats talk radio any (and every)day.

ZZ Top "Tres Hombres." There was life before "Eliminator," you know. It was a good life, too, as this record will attest. "Waitin' For The Bus/Jesus Just Left Chicago" is as good as it gets for the end of the day. If you time it right, the tightly syncopated groove helps you crawl through traffic on the freeway or downtown. If you do it right, you'll get on the bridge right when the restrained swagger of "Waitin' For the Bus" exhales and the heartbeat rhythm section pumps out "Jesus Just Left Chicago" to take you home. Once again, I could go on...

The Dirtbombs "Dangerous Magical Noise." Scratchy, raw garage soul from Motown (the city, not the label). Mick Collins and company played a crucial role in a hot job to Hillsboro yesterday. I'm new, so if someone's going to have to get stuck on the freeway, it might as well be me. I didn't give a shit, I had the Dirtbombs.

The minutemen "What Makes A Man Start Fires?" This one may give way to "Double Nickels On The Dime," but doesn't it always? Like "Science Fiction," it's like a musical conversation, but with a lyrical conversation over it. This is just my favorite shit ever. It never goes out of style because it was never in style. Maybe Mike Watt got lots of his ideas from all the time he spent driving his van on all of those tours?

If I seem smarter, then that is why.



My first day of training was spent in a tiny car with a guy whose first question to me was "Do you mind if I smoke?"

The second thing that he said to me was "If you get tired of Jimmy Buffett, let me know."

We then drove around for the next five-and-a-half hours like this. At 1:30 in the afternoon, he put on the radio. "Afternoon Zoo"-type shit. The cloud of smoke lasted all day.

Day two was similar, except we listened to Korn and Marilyn Manson. And I drove a little.

Day three I was on my own, in the dirty white van. It was alright until the end, when I got lost in Jantzen Beach and ended up going back to the 'Couv on accident. before locating a houseboat off of Marine Drive. Much heartache and soul-searching. Got the radio to work, but no CDs. Channel surfed for a lot of the day.

Things heard on the radio:

"We can't hear your costume."

"Let's do some giggles."

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

Some Observations from the Country Music Awards

Is it just me, or does that dude from Brooks and Dunn look like Annette Benning with a goatee?

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Jorrorfest '07: The Freakmaker

Just in time for Halloween I found myself on a horror movie kick, which I have cleverly dubbed Jefe's Jorrorfest (I just now thought of that). Not surprisingly, I feel the need to talk about it. Which is why it is perfect for this or any other blog--you don't care and I assume that you do.
In the spirit of the event, I have instructed The Captain (pictured, at right) to peer menacingly into my window, like he's doing right now--only with a greater sense of foreboding, through October 31.
I won't get into the first two films that I've watched during Jefe's Jorrorfest, except to say that The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is a brilliant, disturbing and sometimes hilarious horror masterpiece, and that Halloween somehow seems like a cliché nowadays, if only because it has inspired so many others. I could go on at great length about each, but I've got another lesser known "classic" to discuss.

For the third installment of the Jorrorfest I decided to take a chance on 1974's The Freakmaker (a.k.a. The Mutations, and later, Dr. of Evil). My initial attraction to The Freakmaker was the 1970s B-movie kitsch factor. When I discovered that director Jack Cardiff was inspired by Tod Browning's 1932 classic, Freaks, and cast real sideshow “freaks” as the films sideshow freaks, I was sold.
Oddly enough, I unwittingly chose to view back-to-back Donald Pleasance films! This might be a stretch, but the man is like the Vincent Price of the 1970s. The intensity of Dr. Sam Loomis in Halloween, the cold, calculating evil of Professor Nolter set the bar for character actors of the genre. Much like Price, he adds credibility where there should be none.
About the movie itself. Don't let the first half of the movie fool you. It sucks--bad. It is a whirlwind of polyester plaid leisure suits, mock turtlenecks and dialogue that is as snappy as cheese-flavored wood. I turned it off and was about to send it back. Luckily I decided to give it another shot and found found it strangely endearing.

Basically what you have are two plots that are unnaturally fused together like half-plant half-man experiments of the evil Dr. Nolter (Pleasance), whose plan is to make a plant-human hybrid. As it is with plants and humans, and the two parts of this movie, both are fine by themselves.
The trouble starts when Dr. Nolter, who teaches at an esteemed English university, enlists the help of the grotesque giant Mr. Lynch (Tom Baker), the feared leader of a traveling circus sideshow on the outskirts of town. Lynch nabs unwitting college students who are coincidentally enrolled in one of the professor’s classes. The absent-minded professor then fails to recognize them, even as they lie naked (obligatory gratuitous breasts) on an operating table in his secret laboratory.
Mr. Lynch and the rest of the freaks are members of a traveling circus sideshow that is kind of a freak-owned co-op (ring a bell?) that acts as both a holding cell for Dr. Nolter’s unwitting victims and as a clearing house for his horribly failed experiments.

From there it just gets weird, not so much because of brilliant plot twists, although the story’s gaping holes will keep you guessing. Of interest is the seemingly candid acting of sideshow people, who give you the only characters in The Freakmaker who elicit any sympathy. The rest of the characters are pretty much douches. Aside from that, it’s all rabbit-eating plants, re-animating laser beams, pseudo-scientific mumbo-jumbo, cannibalistic human Venus flytraps, freak-on-prostitute action (they use the “L” word), and deadly, knife-throwing-freak-and-vicious-dog-on-freak revenge killing. German sexpot Hedi (Julie Ege) sums The Freakmaker with horrifying accuracy as she cries out “Ziss is like a bad trip or zomesing!”

A bad trip indeed.

Monday, October 22, 2007

Eight Ball Continues To Crush Souls

It wasn’t enough for the Eight Ball to throw a tantrum last Thursday, making life hell for tenants, messengers and (most of all) security as every elevator in the joint seized. No, the business end of Pioneer Place Mall needed a thorough scrub--on the same day as a well known corporate tax deadline. This was no spit-shine, mind you, so the water fell and fell.
So, in effect, at 8am it was raining on the sidewalk--and only on the sidewalk--at 888 SW Fifth Street, as I struggled with a full and almost unliftable Manhattan Portage messenger bag (yes, it's the big one, asshole). (Dude, let me tell you--my bag was FULL. Not like “hey, dispatch, I can’t move until I hand off some of these packages.” No, my friend, it was heavy like “Joel, drive the car up here because I can’t lift my bag off of the ground” heavy. Even Beefa would cringe. That being said, that's how you make the cash, fuckers. It was like carrying a pot of fucking GOLD. When you see Jefe rocking those sparkly false fronts, you'll know why.) Needless to say, if I would have tried to get that thing on my back, vertebrae would have been crushed, and this was no time for work-related sacrifice.
The deluge went on throughout the day. Metaphors aside, I have never had a rain cloud hover over my head, a la Charlie Brown. But this was even more frustrating. Chuck eventually accepts the permanence of his proverbial dark cloud only once. Each time I left the Triple Eight, the weight was lifted and I prayed that this would be the last time that I would have to darken the Eight Ball’s door. Yet each time that I rolled up the sidewalk, each time fate dragged me back up Taylor, the tainted water rained down on me, taunting me, taking another piece of my soul.
Eventually, the calls stopped coming and I could relax, knowing that I was done with the construction-scarred intersection of SW Fifth and Taylor.
Suddenly, a voice came over the radio, "Jefe, can you do the mail?"

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

The Eight Ball Had Had Enough

I was finally at peace with the dreadfully time-consuming and demeaning task of travelling through the bowels of the Eight Ball to Bullivant Houser. It helped that yesterday I delivered lunches to the actually front desk of "the Bull," and felt like I'd bested the system at 888 SW Fifth once, so after gaining clearance in the lobby, I strolled back to the loading dock through the "servant's entrance" and into the sweet odor of the giganto-dumpster adjacent to the freight elevator.
Lo and behold, the thing was there, waiting for me with open doors. Yes, this must be my lucky day. I pressed three and was on my--wait. I pressed the number three button, but the orange light would not stay on. I looked at the control panel on the other side to see if the light was burned out. Nope.
I stepped out and summoned help on the intercom. The voice that suddenly erupted from the speaker spat out a panicked muddle of words, one of which was "malfunction."

"They'll be forced to allow me to through the Bullivant lobby," I thought as I walked back to the lobby and the guard desk. But no, building personnel would be forced to do many things that afternoon, but letting set foot inside the Bullivant lobby would not be one of them.
An alarm buzzed away as people had began collecting in the lobby, staring at the elevator bay as all of the elevator doors stood agape and white-shirted security guards rushed in and out of a heretofore top secret room. It was as though the curtains had been pulled, exposing the Wizard of Oz, only to reveal Hal from 2001, silently, coldly sitting there, refusing to acknowledge its deeds while a bunch of scared kids in their police suits scurried like startled roaches as the alarms from the elevators and the eyes of the grown-ups in their suits turned the whole thing into a scatological nightmare.

One of the guards discreetly mentioned that the freight elevator was working again. Most of the suits standing in the lobby didn't even know that there was a freight elevator in their beloved building. So of I went, back to the dark and putrid bowels of the tower, where the rehabilitated freight elevator awaited. I didn't think that anyone had followed me, but after I tried pressing the call button several times I looked up to see a mob of businesspeople anxiously marching into the loading dock, led by a large-yet-cherubic security guard.

With any luck, the young man's competence would get us safely to our destination. I made sure that I was first to hop into the compartment, the mass of humanity flowing in around me. Yet the episode was yet another in which acting on assumptions cost me dearly. The car began to bounce (yes, bounce) up and down like it was some kind of ride at Disneyland (not a carnival ride, however, so panic did not ensue). The door opened and we all reluctantly got out so that the security man-child and the newly arrived building maintenance guy mentally and physically battled the mighty beast and its throes of seizure, unleashed by the building's revolting cenral nervous system.

We eventually set sail with about 15 people and went straight to Tonkon Torp, passing the third floor mail room and the single envelope that was apparently worth all of this trouble en route to the 16th floor. It was logical, but it sure as hell didn't jibe with my needs. But we were finally making some progress and the whole thing was still quite amusing, so I kept my mouth shut.
As I left the big car, the brave pilot stood alone in the temperamental metal box. Through the cacophony that was blaring out of his radio, he'd heard that the elevators were all now working again. Just the same, I took the stairs on the way down. They let out on Fourth Street, so I walked around the corner to retrieve my bike. As I walked by the loading dock, an older--perhaps semi-retired--security guard smoked a cigarette. The scatological goings-on of the afternoon were not enough to keep him from his break, or ellicit any concern whatsoever. I asked him if what I'd heard was true, that the elevators were, in fact, working again. He just shook his head, laughed and took another drag.



Postscript:

As luck would have it, my next job was a 1000 Broadway back to the Eight Ball. I pulled my stuff and took the advice of the old security guard back at 888, and kicked it at 1000 B'way for long enough to put a dent in the crossword. The "big plan" had me meeting up with D to switch out some packages. I pretended like I was doing him a favor, as I was able to pawn off one drop and two picks at the Eight Ball for two Northeasts. After what seemed like an eternity, he emerged from the purgatory at Fifth and Taylor. His voice quivered like that of a man whose soul was no longer complete as he muttered over the radio, "Please...don't send me back in there."
And we never saw D again.

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

The Hiatus Is Over

I'm back, sort of. I must apologize, as I've been busy and had writer's block for the past few weeks. So rather than bore you with half-assed, sub-standard posts, I just decided to let them rot on the vine, unfit for your consumption. If I knew how to overcome such mental obstacles, then you'd be enjoying an entertaining piece of literary hubris. Sadly, you are not.
Could it be the pressure of providing some kind of meaningful content? Possibly. Or could it be that my trip to California, Disco and Mady's wedding and jury duty were truly overwhelming. Maybe all of those things in succession are just too much to sort through. Or, maybe I'm trying to cull something out of those events that somebody would want to hear about. It could be the fear of having my reportage of a commonly experienced event scrutinized by my peers. Or maybe it's my roommates propensity to discuss trivial matters when she hears the typing noise. There's got to be someone to blame for all this.

Thus, the responsibility lies squarely at the feet of Ryan Kelly. "Damn, Jefe, the weather? No one wants to talk about the weather, least of all bike messengers," Ryan laments. Hurtful, just hurtful. As part of the healing process after such a harsh critical outburst, however, I shall retort. The protagonist of the story, being an unemployed bike messenger, spends his day pathetically looking at his homepage and waiting for the weather to change, thus illustrating--however poorly--his refusal to take action on his own behalf, as he opts to wait for some outside force (i.e. his computer and it's perceived control over the weather) to improve his standing in the universe. So sorry about the phrase "grey drizzle," but it was essential to the story. I open up to you people and look what happens. Hurtful.

Also, the proposed relocation of a certain pigeon population (referred to in Sept. 13 post) has yet to materialize. This doesn't make it off limits here, but I'm not sure if it is a devious plot, an interesting (maybe even controversial) process or total bullshit. But here's the lowdown:

Apparently, one of the more humane options available to those wishing to deal with a bothersome pigeon "infestation" is to trap the entire flock and relocate it. I raised a sceptical eyebrow as my anonymous source explained what sounded like no more than a hair-brained scheme hatched late at night in a local tavern. It seems that a flock of pigeons is indigenous to a specific nesting area. I guess this explains some of the behaviors and practices of homing pigeons.
After having lived in one place for several generations, pigeons are understandably reluctant to leave their home. Thus, the entire flock must be repatriated to a different location that is far enough away from their original home that they can't find their way back, much like the Cherokee relocation to Oklahoma, commonly known as the Trail of Tears.
Or, as my friend offered with a shrug, "Maybe they just kill 'em."

Thursday, September 13, 2007

On an early September day the Yahoo weather report says that the temperature is supposed to be 75 degrees farenheit. The sun shines in all of its glory on their site. The grey drizzle that floats down on me as I make my mid/late-morning trip to Stumptown would say otherwise. It's currently holding at 60 degrees with a projected low of 58 degrees. The day, and my personal feelings about the day, take a turn for the worst as I elect to take my triple iced Americano hot. Not only is this a truly uncivilized way to transition from late morning to early afternoon, but its implications weigh heavily on my psyche as I realize that a summer of laze and leisure might be at an end.

Just yesterday I was watching the sun try its best to pierce the thick, brown layer of smoke from wildfires too numerous to bother keeping track of. Each part of the state I was in had a little fire that it could be proud of. Who says the seasons aren't distinct in California?

I had excercised what was left of my grand plan to spend large chunks of the summer out of town, and spent a week visiting relatives in California.
So in a gloomy Portland summer, I'd managed a week of California sun, abeit with a brown hue.

My return to reality was decieving. I'd stepped off of the plane into a beautiful, late summer evening in Portland. It was 75 degrees and the sun was just beginning to set. The MAX and a bus had gotten me home in about 30 minutes and for $2.05 (suck it, airport cabbies!!) I stopped by Stumptown for the ol' triple iced and was back at home. It felt good to sleep in my own bed.

The next morning, my eyes opened to an unexpected, yet familiar sensation. The birds were not chirping as the morning sunbeams welcomed me back from the land of sleep. No, it was cold and grey, and the birds felt no reason to sing. I was forced to forsake my flip-flops in lieu of shoes, socks and a hoodie. I didn't even bring my sunglasses. Before I left, I noticed that my beloved tomato plants had turned to a light green color, with some of the leaves becoming yellow and brown as they had begun their inevitable decline as one of the minor, yet sure, signs that fall was here. This sent me into a slow, melancholy kind of panic.

Wait. I can't be thinking like that, because those a-holes that do the weather on my computer said that it is supposed to be seventy-fucking-five degrees out and VERY sunny. There were no clouds on the thing for the day. I could understand if it was merely some jackass at Yahoo (they can take their trademarked "!" and shove it up their copyrighted asses). But they've contracted that stuff out to the Weather Channel. Another reputable source debunked.

After about an hour and a half sipping warm esspresso, some crossword, soduku, eavesdropping on some self-proclaimed artists and a conversation about the potential abduction and forced relocation of a certain avian population, I headed back. A look at my computer revealed that it was, in fact, only one degree warmer than it had been when I left my house. Also, the sun was NOT beaming down on me and melting away the cold, cloudy haze that hung over my morning. As the day progressed, my paper-shuffling was interupted by glances at my homepage, which still maintained that the day's high would be 75 degrees--and sunny. Very sunny. "It might even be 78 degrees tomorrow, there buddy!" it seemed to say to me.
"And just as sunny and beautiful as today! We're Yahoo (!) and The Weather Channel and we say so!"

I continued to look for them to change their tune, but those weathermen, or whatever they are, wherever they are, stood by their claim. And, as the September sun began to set on the West Hills, I dilligently did my part, waitinig for the sun to redeem itself and burn the clouds away.


Editor's note: It did not. Also, the Yahoo!/Weather Channel claimed that things would be different tomorrow and there would be sun and warmth. And, much to my disappointment, they let me down again. Oh, well, they can't be wrong forever.

Monday, August 27, 2007

bad vibes

Early on, I knew it was going to be a weird day. I sat in front of Stumptown on a cold, windblown morning that felt more like early November than late August, steeling myself for a hard day of delivering stuff by bike. It was early still, when I took the first sip of the essential triple-iced americano. Even though the air was crisp and the sky was overcast, I ordered my caffeine on the rocks, anticipating the arrival of the summer sun. It was an uneasy wait, made harder to bear by grey-skinned street urchins milling about.

The presence of these sleestack-like raggamuffins gave the cold wind and grey sky an ominous quality. It also made me think of something that Anne said at the flower cart late last week. She'd claimed that all of the psychics were leaving town because they could sense that something terrible was about to happen. At the very least, something was creating some very bad vibes.
At the time I thought nothing of it, but now I reallized that her fear was becoming an acute reality. A chill rattled my spine as a group of the walking corpses shuffled by. Their heads oscilated back and forth, one cyclopitic evil eye surveying the landscape, looking for something that only they could detect. They could smell it like the musty smell of a flophouse mattress or a dirty Raiders coat.
It was not the first or the fifteenth day of the month, but somehow they knew that it would be a good day to be downtown.

Wednesday, August 1, 2007

It was during the downtime between my calisthenics regimen and the mid-morning shower when the phone rang. It was approaching 10am, and NPR was taking its toll on my fragile psyche. Even though the outside world was doing quite poorly, I picked up the phone and looked at the incoming number. How was I to know that a simple phone call would turn into a full blown attack on my dedication to leisure.

The number didn't look like that of the collections agents or their machines that frequently hound me. It was just a 503 number. A friend? Not likely. My old friends are most likely at work at that time. My new friends, those who have chosen to ride out the summer months on the dole as I have, are just waking up. Still others, like myself, are locked in a desperate battle against the clock. Iced Americanos don't make themselves, and the woman that gets her double iced latte (with soy, please) at about, oh, say 11:13am? She doesn't know that I exist, so the onus of our relationship has fallen upon my shoulders.

She'll come around, just you....wait. What the fuck was I talking about? The phone call. Thank God I'd just finished my morning work-out and gotten the blood back into my brain again. I answered the phone.
"Hey, this is so-and-so from unemployment something-or-other and we've found a position that we think you're qualified to fill."
There must be some mistake. My work experience has been painstakingly tooled to repel potential employers like a healthy shot of bear mace straight to the mug. How could this be happening?
This is one of the unpleasant aspect of being unemployed. At a certain point you stop worrying, learn how to live within your meager means and begin to enjoy your free time. So when someone calls you and informs you that they've done you a favor by finding some kind of gainful employment, you may not be as enthusiastic as the squares would like. But you've got to play ball with these employment accountants or facilitators or whatever they say they are when you're trying to not listen.

So, the guy says some more specific ramblings about the requirements and qualifications of the position that at least one of us is interested in. At this point, I'm fully puckered, with "yes" and "you bet" and "that sounds great," flying out of my mouth like I mean them. The feeling was not unlike that which one gets when tucking a golf shirt into a pair of Dockers.

So when it came time to tell me what my future employment could possibly be, things got a little strange. "Well, it says editor-T.O.C.," the guy said.
"Uh, what's that," I replied, adding that I'd had editorial experience and I'd never heard of that job title.
"Let's see," now we were on common ground, "editor, table of contents."
Was this some kind of joke? It wasn't, and, well, how hard could that be?
Things were looking up, I thought. Maybe it was time to re-enter the workforce?
It was then that things took a turn for the worst.

"It's in Lake Oswego, is that a problem?"
Before I knew how to react I heard a cheesy and insincerely enthusiastic voice say, "Not a problem."




Tuesday, July 31, 2007

Time Management The Jefe Way

My long-time friend and mentor Matt Hogan once told me, "You know, Jefe, the hard thing about doing nothing is that you never know when you're done."
You see, Hogan was a musician, and even in the depressed live-music industry of rural Northern California, it was his sole source of income, save the annual prune harvest. Hogan always had a surplus of leisure time.
I never understood his words--until now. I didn't even take him seriously, as I never expected to be in a position to benefit from his sage advice.
I also think of Chuck Bukowski saying "the days run away like wild horses over the hills."
And so they do.


You see, I'm currently unemployed. My skills include nine years as a bike messenger with some "editorial" skills from long ago as a hazy afterthought. The Clift Notes version: virtually unemployable. And so, with a Hogan-esque amount of free time, minimal time-management abilities, an over-active imagination and serious lack of focus, not to mention a stunted maturity level, I found myself mired in an state of nervous lethargy.

Just as the sun rose to exciting and lofty goals and the best of intentions, it would set to loose ends, wasted time and predictable disappointment. Like the Tell-tale Heart, Hogan's words beat like a drum, unrelenting and clear in my mind. The day doesn't last forever, I told myself, and my days as a man of leisure would not last forever, either. If I couldn't find a way to effectively structure my time, how close was I to spending my days with Regis & Kelly, Montel and Springer?

In order to cope with such a dire predicament I've developed a routine. The beauty of a routine is that it forces you to make a kind of non-binding schedule--and keep it. Now, it may sound like an intimidating task, but look at a routine for what it really is--a kind of structured rut.

My routine helps to keep things like looking for work or calling the weekly claims office from getting lost in the shuffle, safely tucked away in an implied to-do list.


My routine goes a little something like this:

First, I get out of bed. Once I've turned on NPR, I settle in for an intensive briefing on world events until about 9:30am, 11am at the latest. A jingoistic world-view and an Amero-centric sense of superiority aren't helped by listening to "World Have Your Say."
Next, I dive right into a rigorous 10-minute calisthenics program I've designed for myself before hitting the shower--I'm in the job market, so I've got to groom for success.
After that, I check my e-mail and see if the iSkills Match has found a job that I'm qualified for. Hmm, no luck (relief masked as disappointment is part of routine). After my morning meet and greet with the cat, I grab the newspaper, shades and flip-flops--I'm Stumptown bound. If I've slept in--I mean listened to "World"--I'll get that quadruple iced Americano to go.
If I can find an outside table, I'll quietly do my crosswords and "people-watch." Eventually, alienation and my overriding sense of purpose will drag me back home for a little lunch. Now, for a while I was watching Perry Mason from noon to 1pm. But this proved to be too restrictive, schedule-wise, so I don't watch TV (except baseball) until the first Simpsons comes on at 6pm.
This is about the time that my schedule gets tight. Housecleaning and other projects usually take up the rest of the pre-ride afternoon. I've got to stay in shape, so the ride is soft-scheduled at 3pm. Often times I'll get a late start and not get on the road until 4pm--like today. When I'm done writing this bullshit, I'll have to kick it up a notch and/or shorten my ride, because now it's a mad rush to get home by 5:45pm, in time to fix dinner and have it ready by 6pm.
The day being finished, I can settle in for a much deserved night of Sanford & Son until mid-August when the cable gets disconnected.

Regrettably, road blocks occasionally appear on my horizon. This is where flex time becomes invaluable. Take today, for instance. It was time for coffee and I was out the door. Just as the door closed, I had that feeling that one gets when he's just realized that his keys are locked in the house. I had misplaced them during calisthenics.
My initial reaction was to panic, or erupt in a tantrum of expletives and foot-stomping. I was, however, able to keep it cool and gain access to the back yard through a sleeping neighbor's house. I'll save my comments on cleanliness for another time. I then proceeded to the basement to get a ladder. Yet again, fate would not smile upon Jefe, for the paranoid douche bag that lives next door had locked the (communal) basement door AGAIN. After some strategic swearing (NOT a tantrum) under said neighbor's window, I spied a long-dormant gas barbecue rusting in the bushes. It was a short drag to my bedroom window. The aged grill held my weight as I slipped, ninja-like, through the window.
Vindicated, I grabbed my keys, returned things to their rightful order, reapplied my flip-flops and headed for a well-earned Americano. Right on time.