you can't be all that busy, you don't have that much to do

05.09.04 @ 11:23 p.m.

Last night Martha called and we went to go see Young Adam, much better than hanging out at Starbucks with two high school acquaintances, which was the original plan.

I hung out with my mom until then, which was really great. I spent the whole weekend with her and it was just so nice. And I think I nailed the whole "thoughtful" thing with my Mother's Day gift by remembering that she had been looking for something in which to keep various little things in her purse. I bought a cheaply made silk wallet from a vendor at the Street Faire for her, which she seemed pleased with. It was quite pretty and I'm glad I chose the chocolate colored one rather than the black ones I'd been looking at.

I chose not to show my mother my "Guns don't kill people, People with mustaches kill people" t-shirt. I have lingering uncertainty about it.

Martha fell asleep between calling me at six and coming to get me sometime after 8. Odd. Anyway, it made her late, so we went up to look briefly at the puppies (so pathetic that I miss them SO MUCH already) and took off for Target, where Martha wanted to get something for her mother. Taking the MAX into Portland was uneventful, and the ticket guy did not ask us for ID to see the movie, which is NC-17. But I suppose whipping out your college ID to get discounted tickets negates the need to prove you are older than 17. Or maybe he's just a slacker.

The movie was good. Dark. I like Ewan McGregor in dark movies. Of course, no dark McGregor movie is complete without frontal Scotsman nudity. You know which Scotsman. A lot of sex, so if that bugs you, don't go, but I thought it was quite good. It was set in the late '50s or the early '60s, on a coal barge. Well, not precisely on a coal barge, but the coal barge figures greatly into the plot and scenes.

We headed out to MAX to head back to Hillsboro afterwards. Martha was distracted by a half-eaten plate of Baja Fresh nachos that had been left on top of a ticket machine at the MAX stop. She was obviously hungry, since once we got on the train (after having seen a homeless man rather casually walk away with the nachos), she sat in a seat next to an abandoned poppy seed muffin that she kept longing for the whole ride. It was funny. After a stop or two, some guys got on and sat across from us. We were in the side-facing seats. The middle guy, a 28 year old, large hispanic man (yes, he told us his age) asked Martha about her ever-present Elvis Costello button. This guy was THICK. First he asked if he was a musician, then asked about my buttons (Clash and Rolling Stones), then asked if we liked rock. Clearly, we do. Then he kept asking if Elvis Costello was hispanic (?!?) and his 25 year old friend (yeah), who looked like both a poor man's Who Boy AND, according to Martha, a poor man's Brian Adams the Paramedic, whom she is in love with. He came to her aid when one of her parents' cars flipped on the ice a while back. She asked a question about what they do for heroin overdoses and he said "Are you a heroin addict? Don't worry, I won't tell." ANYWAY, Poor Man's Who Boy and Martha both tried to explain that no, he was not hispanic and Costello was just a stage name, but this guy, who wore a bright, shiny plastic medallion that said "Corona" and had a map of Mexico on it, Corona Medallion Guy didn't get it until his other friend, who had not been involved in any of the other conversation chimed in and said "Actually, he's white." And commenced ignoring us again.

Poor Man's Who Boy seemed slightly embarassed about how forward yet dumb Corona Medallion Guy was (their relationship seemed more coworker than friend), but still talked with us like he was interested in chatting us up, too. Corona Medallion Guy asked us where we were coming from and where we lived (I said "Eugene" very quickly to discourage an excess of hitting-on, no, I don't live around here, you'll likely never see me again, goodbye). Martha and I had to try very, very hard not to stare at the ridiculous Corona medallion. It was on a necklace of red beads and looked like something distributed at Mardi Gras. None of his companions were similarly adorned. We talked amiably with them, we weren't at all rude, but once we got off the train, we confirmed that we were both worried the whole time that they'd do something like ask for our phone numbers, because then what would we do? Also that we were both amused yet horrified by the medallion and had to try very hard not to stare at it.

We went to the Tanasbourne 24-Hour Starbucks to get pastries and work on the Trio story, R.E.V.O.L.U.T.I.O.N.. Amy and Martha wrote a chapter in my absence where I took a handful of pills in Ena and Oliver's bathroom (they run an opium den, you may recall) and Oliver and Martha snorted rather a lot of cocaine. Amy intercepted a package intended for Ena that instructed the receiver to steal "The Diddy Diamonds." So Martha and I wrote a chapter where we walked down the street, coked up Oliver frisking like a puppy and me being dumb because of the pills. Everyone got to say "No!" sharply and sometimes brandish a rolled up newspaper. Oliver passed a young girl in an alley way and said "I loves me some cherry tart." (At Starbucks, Martha had ordered a cherry lattice tart and said "'Cherry tart' would be a good way to refer to a slutty virgin.") In the story, Martha's fictional counterpart lusted after the nachos and muffin from earlier. The jewelry store clerks were the guys from the MAX, and the Corona Medallion had the mystical ability to mesmerize women. It was up to Oliver to take action, and incidentally, take the medallion.

It's such an awesome story. I'm looking forward to future appearances of the medallion. And when I meet Justin Hawkins and he gives me the bitchin' heavy metal lighter we saw at Saturday Market that one time.

Today, Mother's Day gifts were purchased for my grandma, puppies were played with and I carried young Iggy Pop up the driveway during Ruby's walk. My dad got home earlier than he expected and I got to spend at least a few minutes with him. The two with tails (Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix) had them mostly detached this morning after I wiggled them around a bit yesterday. I did not have the stomach to pull them off all the way, but my dad did. YANK! "Just like pullin' a tooth," he said, and handed me Bob Dylan, who did not even yelp.

Yesterday, when I named him, I sang part of "The Times Are A-Changin'" to him and he peed on me. "Bob Dylan peed on me!" I said, then continued, "How many times do you get to say that in your life?"

Oh, the dogs are named:

Must sleep now. My eyes are killing me.

[title: lyric from Nesmith's "Michigan Blackhawk"]

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Previously

fuck it @ 08.01.05
fanciful imaginary sea voyages to come @ 07.20.05
*dies* @ 07.19.05
more ootp @ 07.17.05
harry potter: driving our children into devil worship @ 07.17.05
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