Shorts Subject

Summertime and the living' ain't easy...

Yeah, I know. It's hot. You don't have to tell me. I don't have to tell you. Is it getting hotter? Sure seems to be. The world's on fire. I know it's summer. Don't state the obvious. It's becoming unbearable and not because I'm getting older. Everyone is, ya fool. 

Here in Oregon, we don't do heat. The temp rises to 100 and the local news announces a warning of EXTREME WEATHER CONDITIONS. But unlike other parts of the country where it maintains a constant cooking temperature, we Oregonians bitch and moan about it until it goes away in a couple of days, back to what could be considered normal for us. Then it returns and the whole process begins all over again-lather, rinse, repeat.

However, I find myself in the uncomfortable position of wearing shorts. This is abnormal behavior for me. I'm just not a short pants person. Never have been, even as a kid. In recent years, I've conceded to wearing them around the house (or apartment as my case might be), but out in public? That's where I usually draw the line, that is, until lately. My smart-ass line of defense is usually "You're going to have to pay good money to see these legs." No one has taken me up on that, not even spare change. I would have taken a check. 

So what's my hesitation? It's not my legs. They're still in pretty decent shape. A few years back, I was in the A.R. Gurney play SYLVIA where I played three roles-male, female and to be decided. (I suppose now the character could be considered non-binary.) Anyway, greeting the audience after the show one night, an older gentleman approached me with the line "Hey, you gotta nice set of legs." Even though flattered, I still called security. (My wife has made the same comment, but her opinion actually matters.) Under wraps from the sun, my stems are pretty translucent, so there's that, but that's not the issue. What is it then, you nutjob? I suppose I feel too vulnerable, as though I've afraid of losing whatever dignity I have left, such as it is. In another play, I appeared in the buff from behind when I dropped the only thing I was wearing on stage at the time, that being towel. So much for my spurious argument. 

But that was then (25 years ago) and this is now. I finally had to bow under to the pressure, the high pressure that is Since I'm still working, I reserve the 95 degree plus days for the donning of the shorts. Some wear better than others, though I'm restricted by a goddamn company dress code. (At my fucking age. Jesus Horatio Christ) So I'm stuck with khaki Cargos. One has leg holes twice the size of my thighs. I call them my fat shorts. I wisely try not to look in the mirror for fear I won't be able to leave the house so I avoid any and all if possible in this garb. Accidentally catching my reflection in a window the other day nearly gave me the cue to run into freeway traffic. Horrified, I can see myself as I truly was in my sporty ensemble that day consisting of those attractive overweight bloomers, a bright blue polo shirt w/company logo and an ID lariat around my scrawny neck. I looked like the Head Counselor at Camp Polanski. "Hey, kids! Who wants to go an overnight nature hike?"

At least I'm not wearing black socks. White crews are evidently off the menu as well, looking almost as dorky, but at least blending in with the paleness of my gams. Now, after more whining from yours truly, I've been forced to don low-cut ankle socks which I had abhorred for decades. They creeped me out over the years. I have a tendency (or nervous habit, if you will) of pulling my socks up more than the average bear. Wearing this non-footwear, I can't. They won't make it past the top of the shoe. My ankles are exposed. They are my Achilles heels. They're out there for the world to see and do their business on or with or...I have foot issues, okay? I have a lot of issues if you want to know the ugly truth. More like volumes, but that's beside the point. (Or is it?) The bottom line is what my spouse told me so. I forgot all about them after awhile. Fine. I'll admit when I'm wrong. This time. Wait. Now they're an issue with these as well? Thanks, Gen Z! Who asked you? Go stare off into space and leave me alone, you little goons.

Whatever the damn hell. I've had it with summer. Get this season over and done with already. Soon the air will turn cool and crisp, the leaves and foliage will transform into a beauteous display of autumn, my favorite time of year. 

Then I can begin my incessant bellyaching about pumpkin spice...in my long pants.

Can't wait. 

Labor Pains

As Labor Day signals the end of another summer, it's time to sit back and reflect on the season gone by.

Well, that was quick.

The record heat this year is responsible for losing me as a fan of summertime. I don't do extremes very well any longer. Maybe I should move into a nice temperature-controlled mall. On the other hand, life was certainly a lot easier with the miracle of air-conditioning. (You can blame me personally for destroying the planet, greenies) We've lived in a rented townhouse for the past nine years, originally through a property management group. When we moved in, we were informed there was no central air. Fine and dandy, we thought. We had already lived in an apartment w/o said amenity, making do with ceiling fans. This place had no such appliance in any room. My son Matt graciously donated his two box fans that we placed strategically in the house. We made due with what we had. Besides, this is Oregon. It never gets above 90 for very long. Who needs anything else? It's like umbrellas here. They're for rain-sensitive pussies. Cut to: Last Year at this time. The townhouse owners decided to wisely show the property management group to the curb due to their gross incompetence (Their name is The Alpine Group, by the way. If you're in the market for a new abode, steer clear of these maroons.) The owners took over the lease and after our initial meeting, they inquired as to how the place was holding up. For example:

"How's the air conditioning working?" they asked.

"We don't have air conditioning," we scoffed.

"You'd better have air conditioning. We paid for it."

The owner walked over to the thermostat and flipped the switch. For the first time in eight years in this home, we had air conditioning.

Thank goodness for that. Egg on the face is so much worse in the heat.

I didn't attend one movie this summer, the first time in forever. There was nothing I felt compelled to run out to the cinema that I couldn't wait for at home. Isn't that a sad state of affairs? Even worse was another fatal shooting in Louisiana, echoing the psychotic Colorado rampage that finally made its way through the courts. On top of that, when I do finally visit a local cinema, it will a solo affair as per my usual. I allowed a nitwitted Facebook posting to take me aback, proclaiming that "There a guy sitting behind us in the theater...AND HE'S ALL BY HIMSELF! OMG! I CAN'T RELAX AND ENJOY THE MOVIE! WHAT IF HE...???". 

I don't know. Told you to put your fucking phone away during the movie, you dumb-ass doorknob. But that's not what kept me out of the theaters this summer. Product and product alone. Sequels, remakes and bland blah blah blah.

Naturally, that other thing didn't help matters any. Paranoia, justified or not, can't help but creep into what used to be considered our general well-being. Profiling can't be avoided when the guilty parties fit the same demographic. But those that don't are seen as predatory time-bombs, ready to snatch your kids and/or waste everyone with the same vigor as aggressively taking out the garbage.

So no film outings for me this summer, but I wasn't a complete shut-in.

Fortunately I managed to see Grant-Lee Phillips this last May in concert at the Alberta Rose Theater in Portland, performing with Steve Holtz, a fine singer/songwriter in his right. After yet another amazing set by this artist I'm proud to call my friend, I had an all-too brief but still gratifying reunion with Grant. He gave me a copy of his 2012 album WALKING IN THE GREEN CORN, another sensational solo work that I highly recommend, containing one of his most beautiful compositions, "Bound to this World". Yeah, I'm three years late to this party. What else is new? Besides, is there an expiration date on art?

BOUND TO THIS WORLD

In the meantime, the world continues to back up my proclamation that 2015 is the Year of the Sap. Need I really mention Trump? I think not. How about the other occupants of the clown car known as the Republican presidential contenders? Hillary ain't looking so good, but I don't think she ever did. Christ, will she win by default? Bernie Sanders is this election's Dennis Kucinich and Dopey Joe...oh, say it isn't so. It looks like I am probably sitting this election out and will be proud to admit it. Add this to the ongoing shit storm of cop killings, black people killings, religious crackheads, sandwich pedophiles, moralistic hackers, transcendental transgenders...it all makes me want to yell "Uncle!" 

But I won't, Not just yet. There's a balance in my world at least.

I haven't mentioned the stage productions of my melodramas because I have done so ad nauseam. I'll only say that it was indeed a swell season professionally and it's even sweller to able to say those words. (See previous post- A MELO SUMMER)

The BIG event of the summer was the visitation of family members far and wide when I got immersed in major grandpa love from my three grandchillun. That's the icing on the cake known as Summer 2015 and my life in general. It's a well-worn cliche' to say that one most focus on us on what is best in life. No, Conan, it's not to crush your enemies, see them drive before you and to hear the lamentations of their women. Those are pretty sweet, but at this point in my time here on Earth, I take solace in this:. I have a great family and feel blessed to be a part of it. They manage to center this oft-kilter life of mine and the time in which I exist. Things could always be better until I am in their embrace. Then I realize that this is the best of all possible worlds. Everything else can take a powder.

So long, Summer

Bring on the Fall.