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Of Portland & Groodles
Aug. 9th, 2005 09:38 amI got paid yesterday in Mexican money orders. Hey! at least I got paid.
The little circus has been having a very hard time these past two weeks, wending its way along the stations of the dead lumber trail in the Pacific Northwest. Just hearing the names of those towns makes me want to reach, screaming, for a bottle of Prozac: Mt. Vernon. Aberdeen. McMinnville. Fucking Lebanon for Christ's sake. It's enough to make me want to spend the rest of my life in a bathrobe and fuzzy pink slippers, watching Oprah and eating Twinkies. Money? What's that? We ain't seen no money hereabouts since D. B. Cooper landed with his parachute and 21 pounds of $20 bills back in '71.
I can't imagine why anyone in their right mind would book a traveling performance venue into places like this. Further evidence (as if I needed any) that Gorman is fucking in-sane or maybe suffering from terminal syphilis, legacy of time spent in the glorious Castro bath-houses of yore.
It turns out I'm a talented publicist. I did good for them in Portland. A nice piece in today's Oregonian. A half-hour segment on one of the locally produced morning shows for Thursday. And – coup of coups – on Friday, just in time for the afternoon commute (the one that fuels all weekend dreams of recreation) I actually managed to lure a DJ from the big-time local rock station to do a remote from the circus lot. Portland is a hard nut to crack PR-wise – the stuff that isn't syndicated is kind of snarky which means selling the circus not as wholesome family fun but as Fellini-esque and strange, the vulgar sharing common bandwidth with the sublime.
In other news, the little store had its second best sales day ever last Saturday, and it was a comfort knowing that if I could only have 30 such days in a row I would be debt-free and humming "b-b-b-blue skies smiling at me-e-e-e" on my way to make the down payment on that Florida beachside property.
Also Robin asked me yesterday, "Why do you use so many big words?"
"Why do you ask?" I said.
"Oh – never mind."
"Do you think it's weird that I use so many big words?"
"Kind of," he said. "And you make words up. Like you called that dog at the beach a 'groodle.'"
"Well, he was half greyhound and half poodle. His owners told me. What would you call him?"
"A dog," said Robin. "Then you went around for half an hour afterwards singing songs about him."
"Yes, well, you must admit there's something viscerally satisfying about saying 'groodle.' It fills some deep inner need." I began to sing. "'When you meet a groodle, offer him some strudel –'"
"Stop it, Mom," Robin hissed. "You're embarrassing me."
The little circus has been having a very hard time these past two weeks, wending its way along the stations of the dead lumber trail in the Pacific Northwest. Just hearing the names of those towns makes me want to reach, screaming, for a bottle of Prozac: Mt. Vernon. Aberdeen. McMinnville. Fucking Lebanon for Christ's sake. It's enough to make me want to spend the rest of my life in a bathrobe and fuzzy pink slippers, watching Oprah and eating Twinkies. Money? What's that? We ain't seen no money hereabouts since D. B. Cooper landed with his parachute and 21 pounds of $20 bills back in '71.
I can't imagine why anyone in their right mind would book a traveling performance venue into places like this. Further evidence (as if I needed any) that Gorman is fucking in-sane or maybe suffering from terminal syphilis, legacy of time spent in the glorious Castro bath-houses of yore.
It turns out I'm a talented publicist. I did good for them in Portland. A nice piece in today's Oregonian. A half-hour segment on one of the locally produced morning shows for Thursday. And – coup of coups – on Friday, just in time for the afternoon commute (the one that fuels all weekend dreams of recreation) I actually managed to lure a DJ from the big-time local rock station to do a remote from the circus lot. Portland is a hard nut to crack PR-wise – the stuff that isn't syndicated is kind of snarky which means selling the circus not as wholesome family fun but as Fellini-esque and strange, the vulgar sharing common bandwidth with the sublime.
In other news, the little store had its second best sales day ever last Saturday, and it was a comfort knowing that if I could only have 30 such days in a row I would be debt-free and humming "b-b-b-blue skies smiling at me-e-e-e" on my way to make the down payment on that Florida beachside property.
Also Robin asked me yesterday, "Why do you use so many big words?"
"Why do you ask?" I said.
"Oh – never mind."
"Do you think it's weird that I use so many big words?"
"Kind of," he said. "And you make words up. Like you called that dog at the beach a 'groodle.'"
"Well, he was half greyhound and half poodle. His owners told me. What would you call him?"
"A dog," said Robin. "Then you went around for half an hour afterwards singing songs about him."
"Yes, well, you must admit there's something viscerally satisfying about saying 'groodle.' It fills some deep inner need." I began to sing. "'When you meet a groodle, offer him some strudel –'"
"Stop it, Mom," Robin hissed. "You're embarrassing me."
