anniversary

I ask you. How could I not have fallen in love?

And now, five and a half years later, he lets me fall right to sleep after the movie, and he does the dishes.

tattoo machine

Another window display for the month of August. I'm going to stick with the top part of it so that the picture doesn't lose the cool tattoo machines the author let me borrow to include. I have to say, it was a little exciting just having those things in my hands. Ooooh, dangerous! And shiny!

(OK, there aren't any needles in them.)

The book is Tattoo Machine - a memoir that is full of brash and hilarious and fascinating and flesh-crawling and at times poetic stories of a crazy tattooing life. Jeff Johnson, the author, lives here in Portland and owns Sea Tramp Tattoo Company, the oldest tattoo shop in the city.

I wanted to include a snippet from the book - in fact, I had in mind a certain story that made me laugh out loud, but

I just can't.

It's just too

I think my fingers are too wussy to transcribe the story of the Cleveland Puke Walker.

Wow, I just said puke in my own blog.

(Heck, if Shakespeare can say it, I can.)

One of the fascinating things about tattoos, of course, is their permanence - or mostly-permanence, anyway - and even Jeff Johnson has made choices he regrets. To set this up, Jeff has gone to another tattoo artist, Matt Reed, to see if Matt can cover up a tattoo on Jeff's arm, that he wishes he hadn't gotten.

"I've got good news, and I've got bad news," Matt Reed said.

"The good news had better be that you can cover this up," I said.

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

"That is the good news," he replied. I sighed with relief.

"The bad news is that it's going to be a shark biting an anchor."

I wish I could include the whole story of the origin of the tattoo Jeff had to have covered up with the shark biting the anchor - I will say it did involve a Las Vegas Elvis wedding chapel - but what I really want to put out there is his lovely musing on the subject. Tattooing someone's name on your body forever...

Beware the meathead dork who won't tattoo names. Art is an exercise of the imagination. If an artist can't imagine that a perfect stranger might have a chance at happiness, then I doubt they can imagine very much at all.

and

At the time I got the tattoo underneath the shark biting the anchor, it seemed like a good idea. My mind recoils from any deep probing of that period, like a tongue poking around a shattered molar hole, but a hazy overview summons up a feeling of general well-being and happiness associated with that time. I was having fun then. It was a lighthearted period eventually made sober by fanatics and by growing up. I was that young person. Things change, but history is real and permanent. I can lie to myself all I want, but there on my arm is a shark biting an anchor, a memento of failure and poor judgment, impermanence, and the worthlessness of personal fiction. Maybe we all need such a totem.

Nice.

José

If I’ve done my math correctly (debatable), José would have been eighteen this month. When he was given to me, they said he was two and a half. I never knew what his birthday was, but supposedly he was born in the month of August.

Here are a few moments in a good dog’s life:

Young and chipper and sitting in the front seat of Tom and Elmo’s truck, on some lot, in some town, in some state, on the José Colé Circus (the names are just a coincidence). I’d never seen him before and glanced as I stepped by, and thought, oh, that poor, ugly dog.

*

Jumping from the seat on one side of the trailer to the seat on the other side of the trailer, all excited for guests, as we arrived at Tom and Elmo’s for dinner. Spaghetti. They fed him from the table. That was the night before the afternoon after, when Tom would come up to me and say, are you interested in José?

I thought Tim would never go for getting a dog, so I turned Tom down. Later in the day, Tim came up to me and said, guess what, we could have José.

*

First time being fed by his new owners, sitting on the floor of our clown van. He would go to the dish and fish out one kernel of food. Bring it over to me. Drop it on the floor. Look at me with that face that looks like love. I’d pick the thing up and feed it to him. Then he’d run over to the dish and come back with another. It was so cute I could hardly stand it, and he trained me good.

*

Nose to nose with a tiger rug – which is like a bear skin rug but an actual tiger – head and all, for little Chihuahuas to growl at and feel themselves quite the menacing beast. This was in a mansion once owned by one of the Ringling brothers, and the carriage house would soon become José’s first real home. He’d be there only for short visits between circus seasons.

*

Sleeping on my lap on the long jumps from town to town. Curled up happy, but never quite satisfied unless he was using my writing arm for a pillow, and I would sit for long hours journaling and writing stories with just the tips of my fingers moving the pen while he slept.

*

On my lap, again and as always, me cross legged on the carpet floor. Feeding him by hand. This, to most people, is the most idiotic way to treat a dog, and I understand all the implications – understand what it says about the pushover I was.

Am.

But if you take away all that, take away what it undoubtedly did to the human-dog relationship, making José the alpha dog, not me – I. E. spoiling him – if you put aside all of that and just sit in the moment – what lovely. To give someone complete security and happiness, to give the utmost of what a life wants.

*

Walking on the leash up to the circus arena, passing the line of shifting cages, each with a tiger inside. Tigers that jump up and bounce around behind the bars, eyes on José for a snack. José pulling against the leash to growl and bark at the tigers. He figured he could take ‘em.

*

Bites of hotdog and then lifted into the clown prop – like a cylinder – like a pet carrier but rounder and thinner, a painted-over grating for air to get in, but not much room for a dog, and I hated hated hated that thing.

He’s in there for half a minute, Tim said. And there were more bites of hot dog inside. But it was dark and small, and how could I know how scared he was for that half a minute? It was the stomach pump gag, and I was the nurse (balloon boobs) who came out to pump the stomach of the poor, ailing clown who ate too many tacos. Usually it’s too many hotdogs the clown eats, and when they pump his stomach, a dog comes out. Get it, get it? Groan. But this was the height of the Taco Bell Chihuahua campaign. So, out comes a Chihuahua. Cheesy, cheesy gag, complete with that horrible catch phrase.

I can’t remember how long that Chicago date was – two weeks? three? – but when we closed there, I said José wouldn’t be doing that anymore. That was the way I was back then. Took me all that time to finally put my foot down.

Here and there, Tim used to consider producing him in a magic routine. I said, sorry, it’s never going to happen.

*

Curled in the travel pet carrier on the floor of an airplane as I left Tim and left the circus and left the Midwest. Pissed off in the pet carrier. Not knowing he’d never see one of his main two people again, only focused on my fingers coming small through the unzipped zipper in the top.

I believe the next time José was in a plane, when he and I moved from Orange County to Portland, the nice stewardesses let me take him out and have him on my lap.

*

José’s first time meeting Stephen – neither too enthusiastic about it. In the beginning each one was a bit jealous of the other – José most of all, as evidenced by the fact that as Stephen and I were hanging out in the evening, José came, looked at him, and peed in the doorway.

*

Suddenly, after years of being only dog, now having to be around other animals – first the big and laidback dog Angus and cats Baby and Oreo, then the puppy Quigley – already bigger than José and as fast and full of energy as a balloon that slips between your fingers before the tying. Then, when Stephen and I moved into the apartment – Kitty. I never thought José would get along with another animal, but he did surprisingly well. Never bit anyone, though I’m sure he thought about it sometimes. When he moved in with Kitty, neither was too happy about it, but they begrudgingly accepted each other’s existence.


(Looks like they're sleeping together, but José's all eyes-open and watchful.)

*

But happy in Portland, with a steady home, no dressing rooms to wait in, no hotel rooms. Long walks down the Portland sidewalks, no burs in the grass, and snow only once in a while. Everything familiar – José’s home and José’s bed and still the same lap and still the same pushover to feed him by hand and give him an arm for a pillow. A good place for a good dog to grow old.

euro

In the Dangerous Writing basement, coming up to the end of the night, and Charles and I were going to have to duke it out over the last spot to read. Tom said, okay, flip for it.

Somewhere in the middle of the lovely, crazy clutter that is the Dangerous Writing table was a tiny glass bowl with a couple euros in it. We didn't know what to use for heads and tails.

"No," I said, "let's call them... pips and..."

"Wankers," Kevin said.

I tried really hard to get them to let us flip pips and wankers, but I got overruled. I did wonder in the moment whether I was being disparaging to England. If the coin were from a country that didn't speak English, I'm sure it would have been in poor taste to say let's flip for [you fill in the blank].

But I just wanted to get to say wankers.

Alright, grow up. This is, after all, a serious place, this basement. One of the most important places on earth for me, in fact, for these past fourish, fiveish years. Charles had the euro, and he flipped it high. A tiny gold spin up past the hanging lights and then back down into his hand.

"Call it," Charles said.

"Wankers."

Which I figured meant tails, right?, or kind of the opposite of tails, if you think about it long enough. At least it seemed to at the time. Then I thought about what that word means and, wait a minute, wanker means the person doing the action, not the object the action is being done to. In fact, I just went and wikipediaed it to make sure, and they actually have a photo illustration in there of that hand gesture people make where they

[ok. look it up yourself.]

.

"Tails," I said

Crikey.

Should have gone with pips.

no no no i won't

... this I vow tonight - I will not - hear me, NOT - watch Metropolis a fourth time

in a row.

Sunday - the film
Monday - the film with the commentary
Tuesday - oh god, alone in the apartment, and I watched it a third time...

Tonight, no. I swear it.

There's something in me that says, since this is the Big Number One silent picture in film history, I should not like it. No, my sophistocated tastes should have me obsessing over some obscure piece of brilliance no one's ever heard of - not boring, popular old Metropolis.

But I love love love

it.

The magnificent, futuristic cityscapes with little toy biplanes on strings flying through. And robot-Maria / Hel laughing as she burns at the stake is the loveliest bit of fiendish I've seen in a long time.

But I think my favorite moment is when Rotwang - evil scientist and builder of the robot-Maria - tells Joh Fredersen - the dude - the builder and ruler of Metropolis - that soon no one will be able to tell the difference between a "machine-man and a mortal" - and Fredersen runs his hand through his thinning hair. One little move that shows the weakness and the humanity of mankind.

Beautiful.

ahhhhh...

I have to say, cutting a corn tortilla with scissors is very satisfying.

shipping window display

Finally getting around to posting the pictures of the shipping window display I put in. It's actually 5 windows. The ones on the end are big posters to bookend these three. These are going left to right down Couch Street, the boxes getting progressively fuller, to advertise that Powell's will ship ten books or more for $12.98.

It was a fun one to put in. And frustrating as I decided to back each shelf with tissue paper for some color. To use lots of pieces of colored paper would have looked too second grade bulletin board, and wrapping paper would have crumpled irreversibly. Tissue paper is just a ball to tape together to fit in a window and then try to slide down inside without crushing or ripping. Especially when the air conditioning stream runs right across the windows, and customers want you to move so they can look at the paper dolls.

Actually, one of the biggest challenges - that I didn't anticipate - was actually fitting at least ten books in each box.







Notice how many times I slipped Portland Noir in there.