“A man with a beard was always a little suspect anyway. You couldn’t say you wore a beard because you liked a beard. People didn’t like you for telling the truth. You had to say you had a scar so you couldn’t shave.”
John Steinbeck, Cannery Row
I thought couch-discarding season was over when the weather turned cold and rainy, so I was happily surprised Thursday morning when I saw this beaut sitting on a quiet residential street. It’s right across from a park, so you could presumably use the couch for a nice picnic, if you wanted to lug it across the street.
I put it up on Discarded Couches of Portland, so go check out all the discarded couches I saw this year.
Just for kicks, here are two couches currently languishing in a warehouse in SE Portland. Will they ever find a good home? They don’t get to be included on Discarded Couches (because technically they haven’t been discarded so much as forgotten) but you can think of them as a bonus.
I used to want to hide from my past. Specifically, the three years I spent in Middle School. With the recent unearthing of my middle school yearbooks, however, I felt compelled to revisit those years. Not for reasons of nostalgia, but to have something to post on this blog. Eventually I’ll have my entire history right here, for easy access.
Some Like It Hot is my seventh grade yearbook. That was the year of my Bar Mitzvah, the year my friend Andy began going to the same school as me, and it was smack dab in the middle of middle school. The deepest, darkest depths in the most horrible phase of my life.
Ramblin On was the motto of my middle school. We were the Cross Rams, so we rambled. We rambled around until we were allowed to go to high school.
The theme of the yearbook explained.
Mr. Dooley, a fantastic teacher. He looked like a Biology teacher from the 50’s, but in fact he was a Biology teacher in the 90’s.
This year, the yearbook staff was unable to finish the yearbook in time. Instead of the actual book, we received a four-page insert that our friends could sign. Then we’d stick the insert into the book when they finally arrived.
Against all odds, almost all four pages of my insert have been inscribed by multiple people.
If you’re wounding why I’m not posting my mug shot, it’s because there is no un-posting something as embarrassing as that on the internet.
I remember a distinct feeling of disappointment when I finally received my book. This is what we were waiting for? On the other hand, I knew a true account of my life and times would have looked much, much more hideous.
The gap between Some Like It Hot and my real life may be larger than any of my other yearbooks. I’m not sure how many memories will be warped due to this disparity, but my guess is all of them.
I wonder of there is a subgenre of book criticism called “yearbook criticism.”
I found this unclaimed dinosaur hunting license. It is signed and sealed in Vernal, Utah, home to many, many dinosaurs. Since I don’t think I’ll be using it this season, I’m going to sell it to the highest bidder. Ever wanted to hunt a T-Rex? Here’s your chance! Biding starts at ten million dollars. Time machine sold separately.
Hobbes passed away last week after fighting a long and heroic battle with Mr. Death himself. That’s right; I truly believed that, if any cat could achieve immortality, it would be Hobbes.
My bond with Hobbes was built during our earliest days together, when we would play together until she fell asleep on my chest. Sometimes I tried mimicking her meow; she always looked at me with a very confused expression. Human/cat relations have always been tenuous at best, but I think we made some real breakthroughs there.
Sadly, we never spent as much time together after I left for college. Like all true friends, however, we always picked up right where we left off when I returned during breaks.
Hobbes relocated to New Mexico to live with my brother and sister-in-law for most of the Aughts. They gave her a warm, loving home for her Golden Years. My last visit with Hobbes came when I visited New Mexico. I helped brush out the burrs in her fur. In spite of the intervening years, she recognized me. It nearly brought tears to my eyes.
Hobbes was variously described as “jealous,” “spiteful,” “mean,” and “cantankerous.” Like professional basketball players and hip hop artists, she never let the haters get her down. She’d just hiss and go back to lapping up water from the bathtub floor.
Thanks to cutting-edge cell phone video technology, I saw Hobbes one last time on my birthday, a few days before she died. She was an old lady able to hold her own in a house full of younger, more sprightly animals.