This is turning into an essay, so let's cut it short for now with: Yes, I do think that song is about me. Add more text here later. Or not.
(the other thing I realized: I don't need to be anonymous for work anymore. Robin at Inkstuds posting a hi-def pic of me leaning out of a shot to the Internets helped a lot, but really it was long past time I gave up on my career of CIA assassin. They never return my phone calls anyway.)
Anyway, for my first day as a 36 year old, I thought I'd take a reflected self-portrait of the moblogger strongly disapproving of the half-assed state of bar-game entertainment. What's next? A fucking WII in every dive instead of a 3/4 scale pool table? You want manly video games in your bar, buy an old PUNCH-OUT arcade cabinet with the arm controls and rake in the quarters. I hate bars, but I would spend hours and all my self-imposed allowance on one of those simulator-like arcade games.
Flanders is fine now, wanted to go outside immediately after breakfast the next morning. What an odd way to spend your birthday afternoon.
Have I mentioned that the day was sunny but cold and we had been periodically pounded with hail and rain all day? I haven't? Oh. The day was sunny but cold and we had been periodically pounded with hail and rain all day. Ticktickticktick!
The second time the ladder was blown sideways in the wind, by sheer dumb luck I set it in the perfect spot to climb up a foot higher than where Flan was, grab 'im and ease down the ladder without a scratch. Huzzah.
[I must admit, I laughed so hard at seeing how middle-aged cats, like people, look extra-flabby/puffy in the face when looking down at a viewer that his rescue probably could have been completed in much less time. I am not an entirely good man. If Flan had received an Injury, me laughing at him every time he looked down at me would have been the Insult. Then again, I was already very sick and shaky, so that furball gets no apologies from me.]
I hear a ghastly, high-pitched roar and get outside in time to see these mutts circling Flanders like sharks waiting for a shipwrecked man to get a bit tired from treading water before they strike. I've never seen a cat arch his back so high before.
After I chase the dogs away for good, I finally turn around to see how The Big Man is ... as he climbs this tree as high as he could. He didn't look hurt, so I figured I'd give him a few minutes to cool down and come back with food to entice him back down. It didn't. He was still pissed/scared a half-hour later, although it might have been the blusteriness of the afternoon making the tree sway so hard that upset him.
It gets worse/better.
After noting yet another seafoam-green scooter, we went to Laurelhurst Park to relax and let the rhinovirus that I felt when I awoke that morning take full root in my sleepy head.
A night at the ballet ["Song & Dance," as put on by the Oregon Ballet company at the Newmark Theatre] was fun. I don't know enough about dance to know if it was great, but I know one guest dancer [Artur Sultanov] has buckets of charisma after I realized I was watching him simply sitting deep upstage sucking wind after a pretty grueling duet while a handful of dancers were whirling around in the foreground. That segment was the best, contemporary and artsy in the best possible way. It came off a bit like an animated early Dali painting before he became a pondering profiteer.
I then lost my foodcart virginity on a medium order of poutine (French fries & chunks of cheese smothered in brown gravy; the Cannucks love it and so should you) at Potato Champion at the pod community on Hawthorne & 12th. S'bon!
You could imagine my surprise to find that the joint turned out be a modern, curiously elegant and almost airy (perhaps they save all the seediness for the Rialto OTB storefront next door). It's the first hall I've seen that looks like a pool hall went down on a sports bar in the shell of a dance club. I'm already a fan. Table rates were reasonable, the mezzanine has a great view/less noisy area for actual conversation while playing.
After a few games, we discovered that the bistro-looking shop on a side-street is also part of the pool hall, so we popped in there for a very large, intriguingly flavored fish sandwich & fries. The menu is definitely a cut or two above the usual fare; I'm still struggling to wrap my mind around the idea of a pool hall serving brunch, even in this town.
After eating, we staggered North a few blocks to see a Satanic/420/heavy-metal/sci-fi burlesque show at Dante's, aka another Wednesday night in Portland.
It seems I didn't miss much; here's a delightful collection of shamelessly reused material from those movies -- what offends me isn't that they reused so much, it's that they didn't even show a flicker of imagination in the recycling. Even in those pre-VCR days, the animated features still saw reissues and TV airings often enough that they should have known people would catch them eventually:
My sympathies to anyone 5-10 years older than me, who probably was dragged to see such weak sauce as THE JUNGLE BOOK, THE ARISTOCATS, ROBIN HOOD and THE RESCUERS as a kid.
Thankfully, we have this film adaptation of the show -- Reilly's last stage performance prior to his 2007 death at age 76 -- to enjoy, which the film's producers have chopped up and uploaded to YouTube.
The DVD's extras include this tremendously valuable Making Of documentary, which moved me further by showing the actor's unvarnished vulnerability and irritability before a project finally snaps into focus. It's not something you see in proper context every day; typically, such footage is sliced down to the worst moments and shown on Celebrities Behaving Badly-type shows, where the hosts and audience can chuckle and/or cluck-cluck about these crazy divas and their outrageous demands for a cold diet soda. If, like me, you came away from SAVE IT FOR THE STAGE/LIFE OF REILLY with a vastly expanded view/appreciation of Reilly's unique mix of fear, pluck and adrenaline, this doc will expand it even more: