Category — No country for old men

I had lunch with Lizzy Caston and Melissa Lion at Por Que No? on Mississippi Ave yesterday. I ordered a fish taco and a diet coke and they put a straw in the soda which made me feel either very ladylike or hospital patient-y. I haven’t decided yet.

Afterwards, Melissa and I went up to Muddy’s Coffehouse to talk about me and my stuff and my things because if you ever have the good fortune to sit and have a conversation with me it will always – ALWAYS – turn back around to the subject of me and my things. Good luck with that, future yous.

It was a really nice afternoon.

And then I drove fast and took chances in the rented Zipcar (I’m so maverick-y!) in order to be home and drunk in time for the Prezzy debate live blogging extravagasm with The Mercury people. We ordered delivered dish from Sansai (so many sushis), logged into the liveblog thingy, and then Dane and I ceased talking to each other for over two hours. Our plan was for Dane to feed me smart, political stuff to say when I started floundering but he got so involved with commenting under his pseudonym, that I WAS LEFT ON MY OWN TO BE SMART.

And I did just fine, thank you very much. Score one for feminism…I guess…I’m not sure. I’ll ask Dane if that’s right.

And finally, to kick your humpday in the pants, here is my very most favorite wardrobe_remix person. CLICKYANDSHIT.

My ex-husband, who is a musician, used to do a bang up cover of Sub Space Biographies by Guided By Voices. I don’t listen to them much anymore (for reasons too obvious to mention) but I dragged this song out today because it is our friend Nate’s birthday and he hates Guided by Voices (other than this one song) and I feel like it is my duty as an American with good taste in music to passive aggressively argue with him about this particular issue on the internets in honor of his 30th birthday. And I love this song, despite its being tangled up in some embarrassing emotions. Feelings are uncomfortable making.

I saw Guided By Voices at Berbati’s during their final tour and it was probably the best live show I’ve ever been to – save for seeing Duran Duran when I was 10 at the San Diego Sports Arena which doesn’t really count because I was pretty straight edge at the time, other than the odd cheeseburger or coke bump. Anyway, GBV fans are rabid, but rabid in a nice Joss Whedon-y way, where they hug you while singing along and make sure you have a beer in your hand and that no one hurts you with their imitation Robert Pollard high kicks. I think because Robert Pollard is such a rocky roll fan boy himself, he usually buys the crowd a bottle of whiskey and a case of beer and then lets them sing into the microphone with him. He gets just as wasted, if not wasted-er, as his audience and although he is dangerously close to breaking his hip while in high kick mode, he WILL NOT STOP DOING IT. For Portlanders, A GBV show is like when someone is doing the best karaoke you’ve ever seen at Chopsticks and everyone runs up to dance and like five guys are all hugging each other and singing the words really loud and breaking glasses on the floor…only 800 times better than that. And without the creepy staring dudes. Also, Bob Pollard has the softest hands I’ve ever felt on a man. I can only assume he moisturizes vigorously for some reason. Over and over again.

Anyway, what I am trying to say is Happy Birthday Nate, Happy Unofficial GBV Day Pip/Robert, and Happy Embrace Your Uncomfortable Emotions Day to everyone (okay me). Now, everybody better back the fuck up because I have some microphone twirling to do. WHAT? I work from home. ALONE.