Jeremiah's School of Levitation

Well, I'm doing the NaNoWriMo thing this year. It starts on Nov. 1 and I'm going to owe myself 1600 words a day for 30 days. As my regular readers who are left are probably thinking, "Yeah, it's more like Na-NO WAY for him." Yeah, I know that I've been amiss in the writing, which is exactly why I'm signing myself up for some serious novelling for the next month, so that I will be forced to produce syllables and sentences.

So, the result next month this time should be a book of some sort, but, likely, a little less than an active blog, though I will try to update as frequently as I can. In fact, the exact opposite of what I fear may happen -- I may end up writing like a damn fool, throwing words around like they're mere exhalations. I did come to some sort of revelation today after I had my head scalped by my barber -- it's possible that the only way I'm ever going to retain anything about my life is if I record it somehow. My brain is just too damn scattered to be counted on to serve me as an effective tool for conversation, recollection, and realization. I'm going to ultimately need to read what I'm thinking. That may explain my unnatural love for note-taking applications and pens and recording myself. I'm simply going to need to write everything down, or recite it into a microphone, in order for any word or work that graces my flighty brain to actually survive.

So, a de-levitating I go. And, it's likely some of you may go down with me because I'll be reporting from the depths. I promise I won't disappear. I'll just get real dark.

Down umbrella!

What do you get when you cross Hooters "breast-aurant" with Victoria's Secret with a coffee shop?

I know! I know! Call on me!

See ...

Coffee shops in this corner of The Great Northwest are ubiquitous, as you've likely heard. ("How ubiquitous are they?"says the audience). They are so ubiquitous that, if they were alligators, then every resident here would be missing at least two limbs because we'd practically be stepping on them and, if we were lucky enough to dodge one gator, we'd trip on the other one behind him.

With coffee shops being in such abundance, you can also expect that shop themes are starting to wear thin. Most joints just go with the multiple padded seating options, arranged as if you were in a discussion group, and they leave it at that. Some places go for more Paris coffeehouse style, others try to look like flophouse lobbies, and still others try the library look.

And, for coffee patrons who are just looking to arm themselves for the freeway, right before they have to merge, you've got your enclosed coffee stands sitting like satellites in random parking lots, like those old Fotomat booths. Even these booths try some stylistic touches. I've seen them dressed up as log cabins or with signs asking the trivia question of the day (which, I'm thinking, no one can get it together enough to answer UNTIL they've had their coffee), but essentially, it's nothing riveting, because, in the end, all we want is our freeway fix.

Enter one enterprising booth, determined to get us our fix alright. Their theme is as I stated at the beginning. They have combined the girls of Hooters with the garments of Victoria's Secret with, what seems like overkill at this point, caffeine. Yikes! It's your coffee served to you by your favorite pole dancer. It's a steaming cup of joe handed to you by the very cause of steam herself. For a certain segment of the crowd, this is a brilliant idea.

I actually never noticed this particular stand (really!) until my wife told me about it and, with her generous blessing, I had to try it out. Well, I'll say this: it works as designed. I drove up in line behind, surprise surprise, a couple of guys in pickups, hoping that they may score their own special pick up. When my turn came, I rolled up to the window and Barbarella leaned WAY too far out to take my order. I kept my head facing to the front. I couldn't even look at her, and,
if I did, I wouldn't be able to see her for I would have fallen into the valley of the shadow of cleavage (okay, so I looked for just a MILLISECOND). I mumbled "double Americano please."

When she went inside to make the coffee, I decided to take a look at the inner workings of this booth. There was another barista in there and, I swear, I at first thought she was a lingere mannequin. She was wearing something like a pink and black nightie that looked like it was sewn onto her. Man. I glanced at Barbarella and confirmed that she too had an outfit
that made the St. Pauli girl look like she was dressed for a funeral. She had on this miniskirt that seemed to begin and end at the same place. JEEZ!

Okay, whew, so Barbarella finally comes back with my coffee and I negotiated a very awkward exchange where I tried to grab the cup without touching her, or looking directly at her, and, all the while, trying to keep from trembling. It was an agonizing five seconds. We finally worked out the exchange of coffee and money and she gave me her thanks and my change,
and I tipped her (No, it's NOT what you're thinking -- I put the money in the TIP JAR!).

I drove off, laughing now because, man, as titillating and brilliant an idea this was, it was ridiculous.

I've not gone back there because, really, I actually despise strip joints and Hooters-type enterprises simply because I refuse to pay for titillation. Overtly paying money for sex, or to have another human act all heated up in front of me, or expose themselves to me, doesn't do it for me. I prefer to EARN my titillation, thank you.

Then again, isn't it really just the coffee I'm paying for? Hmmm....

Well, because this place is a few miles from my house, and kind of out-of-the-way, I've never really thought much more about going there.

But, now, they've put one up close to my house. What's interesting about it is this new place is just about 100 feet FROM a strip joint, which made me chuckle. I wonder if the strip joint is something of a farm team for the coffee shop or if doing a double shift at the strip joint means dancing until 2 and then serving coffee from 5 to noon. And, if this idea catches on, I can see a whole new type of car wash springing up next.

Aye, matey! I am hereby cured of the pleurisy! I may now continue me plunderings about the land and sea without pain or hindrance! Watch my size! I'm dangerous!

However, my ravage upon the unsuspecting was very quickly curtailed this fair morn when I stopped my vessel to go use a public toilet facility, for, as I approached the urinal, I was greeted with a big, yellow sign that screamed at me, in big black blocky letters:

"Please do not urinate on the floor."

I, for one, was glad that someone decided to remind users that floors, though they offer much more surface area, are generally for walking upon and, occasionally, as probably was the case in this particular restroom, sleeping in a heap upon.

However, if this place actually needed such a sign to assure that it remained a relatively clean room of rest, then I had to admit that the sign probably could have been a little more encompassing. Maybe something like "Please do not smear feces on walls" or "Please do not clog toilet and then flush several times" or "Please be aware of how damaging to your political career it could be if you decide to solicit other men in stalls adjacent to you."

I'm not of the "the floor is always an option" crowd, so the sign didn't sway me (no pun intended), but I was glad to see it and, so, it qualified as my levitation celebration of the day, which tells you a little about my day.

Well, I'm still suffering from my pleural issues. I don't feel much like moving around, and I'm not good for the kids because whenever a bolt of pain erupts across my chest, my Tourette's acts up and I snarl out words that, normally, I reserve for errant drivers, conservatives, or for bad Dallas Cowboys plays. The kids act shocked and run from the room in faux horror, and that just makes me laugh, which in turn aggravates my pleural issues, which in turn makes me curse again. It's a vicious, vicious sphere.
Ha! Ha! Ha! (URGH!! SON-OF-A ... !!!)

Labels: body

Today (urgh) not much writing (ackee!) is going to happen (oof!) because I have a case of pleurisy, which, according to the Mayo clinic "occurs when the double membrane (pleura) that lines the chest cavity and surrounds each of your lungs becomes inflamed (their words)" and "feels like someone is slamming a big, wet sea bass into your sternum at 50 mph (my words)."

This pain is somewhat (veeep!) random, though I can count on it happening when I move, even if when typing, I move my hands too much (gish!). But, even when perfectly still, the speeding fish will get me at any special time, without (teeek!) provocation.

Years ago, when I first contracted this wonderful thing, I'd never heard of pleurisy. So, when my doctor said I had it, I thought I'd somehow contracted some ancient ailment that I thought went out with Blackbeard the pirate, or something.

"Pleurisy?" I said to the doc. "Didn't we eradicate that about 300 years ago? What's the treatment? You going to bleed me?"

Turns out, of course, I was just delirious and that, actually, pleurisy is quite common, even if you aren't a pirate.

So, I'm going to take some pain (whooop!) killers and get back to levitating sometime tomorrow because (uhhh!) it hurts to hold up that umbrella ... (guh!!).

Labels: body

I decided to celebrate another day of living today by getting an extra
large cup of my Herb-O-Charged 7-11 coffee and, as I went up to pay,
some patrons in front of me unknowingly blessed me with a new
Jerimi-oliday idea.

See ...

The folks in front of me were all painters. I knew this because, using
my keen powers of perception, I could see that they were wearing
paint-splattered clothes. Now, my first coffee-deficient thought was
"Why would they get up in the morning and put THAT on first thing?"
Well, almost suddenly, I caught a whiff of sensifying coffee and I
realized, of course, why they dressed like that. If they're going to be
painting all day, why the poop would they wear clean clothes? They're
just going to end up paint-splattered anyway. Duh on me!

But, then, that's when the head gears got to cranking. I told myself,
"Hey, Self! How cool would it be if everyone did that? You know, in the
morning, just wear clothes that will resemble what your clothes will
look like at the end of the day anyway! Or, even further, just go in
behaving like you're going to end up behaving anyway!"

We'll call it "Go to Work Looking Like You're Going to Look After Work" Day!

So, people in pressure jobs can go ahead and wear a sweat-stained,
wrinkled shirt to work. Food workers can come in with grease smeared on
their chests. ER workers can on the blood before getting on the
bus. DMV workers can go ahead and practice that frown as they brush
their teeth for work. Me, I'd have some fun with it. I should just go in
with a martini in my hand and a maniacal look on my face. My shoes will
be untied and my fly will be open. All of these are ways that I have
ended my work day. And, on each occasion, I bothered to come in feeling
pretty slick and cool and ready for the day.

In fact, now that I think about it, I'll just wear paint-splattered
clothes to the office because, figuratively, that's probably much closer
to what I look like at the end of the day than anything else.

Today, I celebrate (oof, argh, yikes) that I saw Satan. On the freeway.

My daily commute to the fact'ry involves, part of the way, crossing a floating bridge that stretches across a sparkly lake, and burrows into bumpy evergreen hills. It is usually a heavenly spectacle; however, it could, in some ways, be hellish, depending upon whether I managed to leave the house at 7 am or at 7:30. The difference between blessed and ungodly, in terms of that commute, is only a matter of those 30 minutes. On this day, I'd left on the early side of the morning and with a levititious cup of 7-11 coffee in my hand (the subject of an upcoming blog, the coffee will be), I was enjoying an uneventful and appreciatively rapid cruise.

When all of a SUDDEN ...

... on my left, a car passed. I glanced at it and, as is my habit, I took a look at the license plate. Oh my. Clearly spelled, without any attempt at clever character-play ("I 8 U" or "Q T"), the plate boldly read ...

"SATAN".

At first, I figured that the 7-11 coffee, with the herbal additives, had accomplished its hallucinatory goal. But, a few hard blinks of my crusty eyes later, the plate still read "SATAN". So, shit-fire, I guess it was real.

I could only laugh, for three reasons:

1) Only in this mossy corner of the Pacific Northwest could you get away with this. Our permissive, liberal culture says of weirdos "Oh, let them be. They are only EXPRESSING themselves. Though their expression hurts me, my repression of their expression hurts EVERYONE. So, I'll just turn a blushing cheek and have some more coffee, and be snitty behind their backs." In contrast, if you were to drive just up the block in the Deep South with "SATAN" on your license plate, you may make it back home with only a couple of bullet wounds, if you drive quickly.

2) How did they ever get the "SATAN" thing past the Department of Motor Vehicles? I thought there was a line on what you could put on a license plate. Does this mean that my dream of putting "VODKA" on my license plate could actually come true? Surely, even the die-est in the heart-est of conservatives would admit that they enjoy a little vodka at night before they would say that they enjoy a nice glass of SATAN at night (the truth, however, may be different)!

3) From the observation that I made as I caught up to the car and glanced at the driver, Satan apparently is an African-American woman, around age 40, who drives a black BMW 325i, and so, thereby, is a fine representative of a diverse upper middle class. I'd expect Satan to more resemble Dick Cheney driving a black Hummer. I could only shrug in approval.

And, so, there was the day's celebration, come early.

So, I reclined for a month or so to find out why I really exist, is how tha story goes. Guess what? I fount out.

I'm here to do exactly what the dang title of my dang blog says I'm here to do: Levitate! Celebrate something every day, that is (black gowld, Texas Tea)..

Because, hell, as Joy Roberts used to tell me back in 4th grade: "Jeremiah, you PLAY too much!"

So, okay, maybe 34 years later, I can admit that she was right.

I celebrated this epiphany with a bottle of cheap wine cooler, after a kick-butt session at the gym, thereby probably ruining all the reps on the bicycle that I did so determinately as I read that Andrew Jackson, in his life, had been shot in the chest, where a bullet remained for life; shot in the arm, which shattered his bones; had been shot by smallpox and, somehow, survived, in spite of the ignorant medical treatments of the time (bedrest, warm wet towels, and, probably, a good bleeding every day). Finally, as prez, he had been the almost-victim of an assassination attempt by a crazy who had two guns, which both misfired--the odds being 1 in 125,000 that such a thing would happen. I had another shot in his honor, this one, though, only FIGURATIVELY from a gun.

Andrew Jackson. The American Rasputin. Reason to celebrate!