b/w the bars

b/w the bars

Dave left a very astute comment, “Wait until after TequilaCon!” and those words bounced around inside my numbed skull like Obiwan repeating, “Trust your feelings, Luke.” And no matter how melted down I may have felt last week, how lovingly I caressed the self-destruct button, how achingly close I drove to the rumble strips along the highway, I knew that I still have some bit of purpose left in this life, and that purpose is to review potential bars so that Jenny doesn’t wind up hosting bloggers from all around the world at some corner Gas ’n Sip all the while thinking, “YOU ARE ALL GOING TO DE-LINK ME JUST BECAUSE BRANDON DECIDED 2006-2007 WOULD BE THE YEAR HE DECIDED TO BAIL ON SANITY. AREN’T YOU?!”

On Friday, I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and started all over again. Once in Portland, I made a bee line to Kevin’s house where I said, “LET’S SHOWER OURSELVES WITH AFFECTION.”

If all of this sounds like some song you vaguely remember from childhood, it’s only because I’ve been humming this tune and marching to the beat of that drum for so long that it’s surely infected your subconscious spaces. But it doesn’t carry that joyous tone of old, though I’m smiling, like how MISSION ACCOMPLISHED has taken on an ironic meaning of late (CRAP).

I tend to throw down the drinks a little more heavilier and oftener when I’m in this state (OREGON).

But I did manage a few laughs, and though I made an ass of myself, I hear that some people are fond of asses, fonder than even less offensive parts, and I had a good long ride home the next day where I could yell GAH! DAMMIT! every time I remembered something else I done or said. It was a cathartic and woefully short 100 miles.

We stopped by Paddy’s, and I hadn’t seen Asia in far too long, and I forgot about my leaking reactor core momentarily, and I basked in the dark glow of the bar and in the fierce kind of energy she exudes, which must be an accumulation of all the miles she has stepped on, all those marathons and bike trails. I feel slower than her in almost every way, ‘cept talkin’, my own barnacle growth from years of never saying a damned thing.

We ambled on to Rialto Pool Room, which smelled more of empty furnaces than movie stars, and though space aplenty, ill suited to a gathering of international bloggers. Even those enamored of pirates and ninjas. But we were joined by Sibyl! and Vahid and their friend Chelsea. And I continued to drink, this time moving on to a dirty Churchill martini (2 parts gin, peek at the vermouth, 1 part gin, drop of brine), more because it’s a favorite joke of mine. And because I was still carrying a bit of the melancholy with me, and sadness is a mission for alcohol (ACCOMPLISHED).

By this time I cannot but barely remember, but I know we went to another joint. And I can’t for the life of me remember the name of this place, though I do know it didn’t make the TequilaConPACNW07 shortlist. And I don’t know how we got to the next place, which is my favorite (HOLD ON, I’M GETTING THERE), but we got there.

The Rose and Raindrop, in addition to having upstairs space, also has wi-fi, so at the TequilaCon event, none of us even have to speak to each other, but can rely upon instant messaging and electronic mailing and live blogging and pod casting, should anyone be so inclined. And anyone who can’t be in Portland in the real-sense, can still be there in the non-sense, and drink from the comfort of his/her own home.

There is a place across the street where they serve french fries. And it was the second time I’ve had drinks at Rose and Raindrop only to be followed by across-the-street french fries with Asia. But it was the first time I ever clipped the butt off a half-cigarette and started smoking it in front of a group of shocked onlookers and friends. Mercifully, Chelsea joined me, so that the whole thing seemed quite normal.

At Kevin’s house, these are the words that were exchanged:

Brandon: I want to check my email.
Kevin: Nope.
Brandon: Please.
Kevin: Nope.
Brandon: Ple—zzzzzz.
Kevin: Good night, you sweet thing. /kisses me on forehead and tucks me in *

*I’m guessing.

In the morning, he said, “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever spent the night without vomiting.” And I said, “I’d like some water. And a banana. And some of that fizzy orange powder that wards off colds and recollections.”

On the way home, I kept seeing things that reminded me of my camera, and how it forced me to stop for what remains beautiful in this world, as though having a camera was like a responsibility to remember and share. And now I fear that I’ve returned to my old habit of walking with my head down.

I also found $20 in my pocket, which concerns me, because they are not MY $20. And I would like very much to return these monies to their rightful owner.

In my backyard, one of the remaining sunflowers, heavy with seed and underfertilized, had fallen nearly to the ground, pendent, watching over a newly sprouted dandelion. And there’s me, caressing a button that no longer exists.

I learned last week that I always imagine the worst when faced with silence. It’s a minor failing I worked on correcting between the bars on Friday night. Mission accomplished.