Bahama Mama

A much needed distraction from my frenzied over-thinking regarding Venice and Internet Jim came about in the form of an email today. The scheduler was desperate for someone to fill in for a week on a ship out of Cape Canaveral. With no unfortunate overlaps into my travel plans, I’ve taken her up on the job. It’ll get me out of dreaded Salem, serve as a diversion from my fevered obsessive thoughts, and give an influx of hard currency. Not to mention the fact that I’ll get away from the cooling temperatures for a week in the Bahamas. Sometimes I love my job…

It’ll also be the first time I wear my knee-length pleated front khaki shorts. I’m gonna scare the natives with my deathly pallor.

Love Canal

According to Mr. G & T, I’m an idiot. I often agree with that assessment, as there has been a great deal of evidence of this fact throughout the years he’s known me. After all, I met him the night before I embarked on a European vacation to go see a tubby older gentleman forever known as the Dutchman. That incredibly defining relationship crumbled after a few years of depression-induced codependency. However, he did pay for my tickets to come see him. So, apparently I was worth the airfare. Then there was the previously discussed Norwegian. He wanted me to be his baby factory and live in a flat above his parents. He paid for my flight too, although I paid the fee to change the ticket departure date...

So, apparently I’m a sucker for international booty call.

Last August, in a crappy Marriott Courtyard near Detroit, Michigan, I met someone. As I was walking back to my room, I noticed someone trying unsuccessfully to unlock what appeared to be my door. I hadn’t yet seen my roommate, but based on the teeny silver sandals laying in a heap on the floor, I’d assumed it was a female roommate. However, this bespectacled gentleman did not appear to be the owner of said footwear. Rather than any sense of caution, I acted saucily, and a flirtation was borne. Throughout the four days that he was at the associate auctioneer conference, which overlapped my training, we sought each other out, sharing meals and conversation. I told my roommate (a Canadian called Jan) “I sold him in the first five minutes, he’s yet to sell me…” Which wasn’t really true, as I found myself hoping to see him throughout the day, during the ten minute breaks which were few and far between, and feeling a great deal of jealousy for the girl to his left at the final evening’s dinner party. I ran off without saying a proper goodbye that night, concerned both with the completion of an assignment due the next day as well as my own confused desire. In a rather piss poor attempt to make up for my nerve-induced disappearance, I slipped my contact information underneath his door, which happened to be right next to mine (and which I later learnt was occupied solely by him...) He emailed me within a day of his leaving, and over the past year, we have continued our flirtation via phone calls and email, leading my friend Stephen to bestow a nickname on my gentleman caller: Internet Jim.

Attempts to see one another again have been unsuccessful, the timing being difficult for two people who work on ships and calling different countries home. Because, of course he’s not American. That’s not how I get down. He’s British, and I’m sure I probably get a fake accent whenever I talk to him, sounding more and more like Madonna every minute that passes (which I suppose is fitting, considering our initial Motor City meeting). We’d loosely planned on meeting up during my vacation from this current contract, as I was to have two months off and money in my savings account. I vowed that we’d see each other by New Year. However, that too became unlikely as I’m going to be starting a new six-month contract in November. Yet, all hope was not lost. He’s in dry dock for ten days in October, the first time he and I will be on dry land at the same time for more than 48 hours. And the destination is as much of a draw as the person waiting for me at the airport.

I’m going to Venice. As a student of fine art, art history, and architecture (and I actually graduated...a surprise to Mr. G & T), this is paradise. One of the few tourist destinations that I’ve always dreamt of going, but never thought possible. I always figured it would sink well before I’d have the chance to go. There is the nagging fear that I’m going to be making European Mistake #3; and ironically enough I’m nervous that my significant nerves will limit my enjoyment of the place as well as the person. Yet I also know that I’ve learnt from my past choices. Should things not go well, I plan on sightseeing and experiencing the Biennale, as well as the many museums, galleries, and churches which surround the area. I have a back up plan, for once, and am equipped to act on it. This time I also happen to know that the person on the other end of the journey is just as nervous and just as excited to see me, as I am to see them; someone who knows that I am a big nervy nutjob and is prepared for it, and likes me in spite of it. I’m also terribly excited: the food, the wine, the chance to see if instant chemistry sustained over correspondence has developed to something a bit more both in reality as well as in my head...

I bought the ticket today... He’s giving me his half of the airfare when I get there. Just so long as he doesn’t leave it on the bedside table.

Puts a Smile On My Face...Or Is That a Rueful Grin?

I have finally received news from the company. The scheduler has indeed received my paperwork, and has even chosen to clarify my fate with the company in response to my email. She’s been “working the schedules” to see where an opening exists. She found one.

The position opens 4 November. On a GINORMOUS ship. Which means when I finally work (in two months)...I’m going to make up for my slothful lifestyle onshore. Now, should something come up sooner, and she says that it definitely will, I’ll be moved into that position.

Pass the Buck on the Left Hand Side

As my two loyal readers already know, I’m sick of Salem. I’m also sick of being ignored by the bitchy lawyer at the head office. I wrote her an email. I waited two days. I called and left a message. I waited the obligatory 48 business hours that she asked for in her voicemail. I called back. Still nothing. While perhaps not an urgent matter, I took her prerecorded direction and called her supervisor. Finally, that seemed to light a fire under her ass. She called me fifteen minutes before she left the office. Left me a voicemail…which didn’t answer a single question I’d posed. To say that I was feeling fucked about doesn’t quite cover it.

The scheduler had previously told me that she was “pretty sure” she’d be able to place me, as soon as she received my paperwork from the bitchy lawyer. Now while I have already commented on my lack of faith in such a definitive declaration as “pretty sure,” it was more than I had gotten from my friend at the head office. But based on the mail I received from the lawyer today (amazing what cc’ing someone’s supervisor will do for their communication skills), someone doesn’t want to take responsibility. For the lawyer claims that she has a mere advisory role, and it is Human Resources who is in charge of scheduling, and she has no control over the matter. And yet, it is her signature that is required on the paperwork which stands in the way of my placement…

Get me out of here. I have to relearn some line dancing so that I can teach it.

Cue the Trumpet Fanfare

I’ve known a number of musicians. Hell, I tried to be one in elementary school when the school band will take in absolutely anyone with a half-hearted inclination. Except it requires a linear form of logic and thinking that I do not possess; reading, translating, and doing in a fleeting moment and repeating this for an entire song’s length was far too much for my addled brain to process. Yet, a musician’s relationship to music is odd to me; its analytical rather than emotional. I don’t understand it anymore than I understand making music.

As established earlier, I’m a committed listener. And for me the best music elicits an emotional response, whatever that emotion or sensation may be. Lately I’ve noticed that I’ve had a sense of yearning when listening to a certain selection of my cache. Yet, it’s a really pleasant sensation. It’s not some sense of wretched pining; it’s the feeling of being open to something new, and there is a calm sense of serenity.

I think I’m gay for a guy.

Welcome to the Weekend

The sign read “MOUNTAINS OF COKE.” Conjuring up visions of whores and a late 80s hair band; I was concerned by its presence at a bowling alley. It turned out that it literally meant a very large pile of 12-packs of Coca Cola products, rather than anything illicit.

I remembered that vision yesterday morning when I awoke with my first massive hangover in a very, very long time. I felt as if I had consumed a mountain of beer. Not just any beer though, my welcoming committee had Pabst waiting in the fridge, just for my arrival. Welcome back to Portland.


Every infinitesimal movement caused a flurry of pain, followed by a “fuck” or a “shit,” whichever seemed appropriate at the time. While I knew how much alcohol I’d ingested (as did my constricted blood vessels), I had been saved the awkward embarrassment of falling down or gesticulating wildly while inebriated—or worse crying. Rather, I kept my cool during our night on the town, which could not have been more perfect.

We started the evening with a trip to the Delta for some southern inspired treats, a greasy delight that I have fondly remembered while out at sea. I had the sweet potato fries, and happily drank the two beers our waitress had mistakenly thought I ordered. I had also ordered a fried chicken sandwich (I was at a table with a vegan, and two vegetarians…and as a relapsed vegetarian, I felt guilty ordering and ingesting meat in their presence)…but again it was miswritten as a blackened chicken sandwich; I ate a few bites…sadly, I wasn’t a fan. So, on to the second beer. I was happy again by the time the dum-dums arrived with the bill.

We arrived at the Crystal Ballroom to see Eugene and the rest of the gypsy punk crew, just as they’d begun their set. The last time I saw them was at Berbati’s about a year ago, and there were several men in the audience obviously gleaning their styling tips from promotional photos of the lead singer (Eugene Hutz):


I saw some guy in this exact outfit, and sadly the ladies seemed to be fine with stroking the ego of a poseur.

The Crystal show was PACKED. The audience was far more diverse than at the previous show, there was the requisite overweight nerd, myopically busting a groove, devil horns raised in salute. It was a sight. There were the hot chicks dressed to score in little more than bras and skirts too far away from the band to be successful groupies. There were some elderly couples standing to the side, gentling nodding their heads to the frenetic strings and insistent percussion. It was a really good time. As we left during their extended encore, it was decided that a night out in Portland was not complete until naked ladies were seen.

On to Mary’s, a Portland institution. The woman at the door, easily in her 60s, is Jewish. We wished each other a good Sabbath. Flesh was observed; beer continued to flow. Which led to the massive headache discovered hours later upon waking in my friend’s bed.

I love Portland.