The End Of An Era?

Brian Boru Public House has been my Sunday night destination for close to ten years now. The number of times that I don't visit Brian's House on Sunday in any given year I can count on one hand, usually due to being out of town or simply being broke. Or that one time Phish came to town, and I was forced to move my birthday party to Ruski's (yet another reason why Trey Anastasio can eat shit and die).

The main draw for me is the Irish and English beers they sell for cheap: pints of Guiness, Harp, Bass, and Smithwick's (not to mention Black and Tans and Half and Halfs (Blacks and Tans, Half and Halves?)) for only $3. When I first started going to there they were only $2 a pop BUT STILL! $3! That's some fucking deal!

The usual crew has been swindled over the years. Jimmy quit, and Jodi got married. Nowadays it's usually just Rob and me, and sometimes Regan and/or Teddy. Throughout the years the bartenders have taken care of me, and I've taken care of them, starting with Roger and Paul and up to, and including, the current pourers of brew, Chris and Whitney. I love outside drinking, and their two decks ensure I can sit down and do just that. And maybe, just maybe, I enjoy the bouquet of stale beer mixed with the subtle aroma of vomit.

But that may be changing. A little over a month ago Boru's weekly open mic night moved from Mondays to Sundays. I FUCKING HATE OPEN MIC NIGHTS. I just want to go and talk with my friends over some beer. I don't want to hear some asshole play "Wish You Were Here" or "Karma Police." The open mic night at Brian's isn't as bad, mostly because very few people get up to perform, leaving the emcee, Brendan, to do most of the heavy lifting. I like Brendan (who also works there as a doorman), and his interesting takes on Sabbath and Zeppelin songs usually aren't vomit-inducing. But, like I previously mentioned , I have very clear reasons why I go to Brian Boru on Sunday nights, AND A FUCKING OPEN MIC NIGHT IS NOT ONE OF THEM.

It wasn't all that bad: he played inside, we drank and talked outside. Bearable. But Rob and I posed to ourselves a damn good question: what happens in October when it's too cold to be outside? Do we suck it up, or do we go elsewhere? We both came to the same conclusion that maybe finding another place to go, when the time comes, is our best option.

But it got worse last Sunday. He moved open mic to outside! Nooooooooo! And, AND, to make things worse, Brendan played "Ace Of Spades!" Oh, fuck no! There are two reasons why no one should ever, EVER, cover that song. One, as one of the greatest songs ever written and performed it's bordering on sacrilege. And two, every cover of "Ace Of Spades" sounds like fucking shit. That's science fact, brother (or sister, depending who you are, dear reader)!

So, now I have a more immediate dilemma: do I suck it up and have my ears poisoned so I can enjoy these nice summer nights with beer at the bar that I've been patronizing nearly every Sunday FOR A DECADE, do I spend the nights inside at the bar and deal with the heat (Brian's House does not have air-conditioning), or do I go somewhere else?

I am really really torn. I don't know what to do.

I Was Screwed Over By A Poop-Faced Man

Monday just before midnight a bald drunk man jumped into my cab while it was parked, with me in it, at the taxi stand in front of Paul's Food Center, the leper colony at Congress Square. The job was to drive him to the airport, pick up his wife, and drop them both at their place. This pleased me greatly: my night was dreadfully slow, and if this guy didn't tip it was still at least a $25 fare.

We arrived at the Portland International Jetport (what is up with the name?!), and he asked me not to leave him alone with the missus. I believe the quote was "I'm poop-faced. She'll fucking kill me, but she won't if you're there?" What the fuck was I getting myself into?

The guy goes in looking for his wife, while I hang out in front of the baggage claim entrance; as a hack I'm not allowed to leave the cab parked unattended. He once again made me promise to leave him, and I said I wouldn't: I had to make sure I got paid. He guaranteed me I would get my money.

I gave the man fifteen minutes before I started charging him for waiting time. I'm not a hard-ass when it comes to that stuff. Some drivers will hit the "time off" button the second the passenger steps out of the cab (which is his or her legal right). I find a lot of people get pissy and won't tip if I "run time" on them. So I usually give some leeway. Unless they're regular customers that don't tip then fuck 'em: I get paid to wait.

I waited almost another fifteen minutes, and I had no clue where the dude was so I had him paged. He emerged. My fare had no idea why his wife had not arrived yet. I informed him it was much cheaper for him to pay me and grab another cab when he was ready than it was for him to have me wait. He guaranteed he would take care of me.

About ten minutes later, right before 1am, he came back after another disappearance. I told him I had waited long enough, the meter was up to close to $32, and I had to go. It was then that the drunk dickhead revealed he had no money, and his wife had to pay. I told him she had better show up or his ass was going to jail.

A TSA agent was observing the conversation. He asked for the man's ID and his lady's name and left to check on her status. The agent came back a few minutes later to say the missus had missed her flight in Atlanta. I was livid. I had wasted over an hour on this jackass. I wanted the paper owed to me. I called the cops for theft of service.

Two police officers, a man and a woman, showed up at the airport about ten minutes later. They run the fucker's license and hear his tale.

The guy had been drinking at Rockin' Rickey's all night. He lived in Lewiston, and I'm not sure how he got to Portland. And he was out on bail (for what I do not know).

I was asked if I wanted to press charges. I really just wanted my money. Yours truly did not want to send a guy to jail over $40, even if it sounded like he was an unsavory fellow before the incident. So I caved and decided to give the guy a week to pay me. But even if he doesn't I won't press charges. It sounds like a colossal pain in the ass for me over a few bucks that might take me FOREVER to get.  The male cop didn't seem to like my plan: "he's out on bail so we already know what kind of character we're dealing with here" and shit like that. He obviously wanted to cuff 'im and stuff 'im. But it was my call to make. Because even though the "perp" was a drunk who never bothered to confirm his wife was even on the fucking plane, he struck me as a nice guy who merely fucked up.

So the cops instructed him that he had to a week to send me a money order or they will arrest him and charge him for theft of service. I appreciated how they lied and threatened him for me.

I might be proof that there's a sucker born every minute. I'm hoping I get my money, but I doubt I ever will.

La France Aime Le Guak?

After publishing my last installment, "Music To My Ears," I decided out the readership statistics for GuakTalk.

For the past week or so my readership has averaged around forty-five hits a day. Sa-weeeet! It's reassuring that more and more people are checking out my world wide web log. While the handful of you that consistently read my stuff are fantastic (and I am eternally grateful to boot!), most of you I can relate these things to you in person since I see you face-to-face on a regular basis. So new blood is appreciated, particularly the blood of total strangers.

Upon closer inspection I noticed most of that traffic is coming from France. France? The only people I know living in France are my close friends Johnny Depp and Robert Crumb, and they both have told me repeatedly that I can take my infrequent mildly amusing musings and shove them up my derriere.

So what gives? In the past month 158 of my hits have originated from the United States. 222 were from our Revolutionary War saviors from across The Pond, and 220 of those were from the past week. Sacre bleu! Did something happen? "A Fond Farewell, Fort Bitchin'" was the only thing I published last week, and I can't find anything France-related in that post.

Is this some error? I ask you my French brothers and sisters, if you are out there could you please leave me a comment here or drop me a line at strutting_guak@yahoo.com? I'm incredibly curious as to what you find appealing, and how you across GuakTalk in the first place.

And if you like fiction in small easily digestible chunks may I suggest my serial, The Ballad Of Harry Guakomoli. This suggestion is directed to the rest of ya as well.

Before I sign off, I would like to thank Sofia for translating the title of this post for me; I am afraid my knowledge of the French language is limited to fromage, croissanwich, and Dave Coulier.

Music To My Ears

I had some time to kill earlier today so I decided to do some laundry. There were a few guys doing some work on the building next door, and they were rocking out to Creed. God, I hate Creed.

Scott Stapp's brand of shitty Bible-thumping "rock" reminded me what I might encounter at the Washboard laundromat. It seems whenever I go in there lately the same older lady with the funny accent was working, and her music is fucking atrocious. A few weeks ago her musical choice was The Coast 93.1 FM. Easy-listening ear poison. The week after it was the fucking Eagles. And last week it was today's hot country. It's a good thing I'm a firm opponent of concealed handguns because otherwise the lady may have had to clean my blood, brains, and skull fragments off of the bedding she had just laundered.

But on my way to the Washboard I saw the lady walking down Clark street away from the laundromat. score! Then I crossed my fingers hoping it wasn't the grumpy guy working.

And it wasn't the grumpy guy! The blonde cutie with the glasses who I haven't seen in months was manning the station. This pleased me mightily. The last time I was there while she was working she played The Rise And Fall Of Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars. This time around I was welcomed by the sweet sounds of Elvis Costello. He was followed by Nirvana Unplugged. Ahhhhhhhhh...

I left the Washboard content having spent a little over an hour in aural bliss. On the way back to Fort Awesome the construction guys were blasting Matchbox 20. Fuck.

A Fond Farewell, Fort Bitchin'

For the last year and a half I had been fortunate enough to have three fantastic neighbors: Bethlynne, Sofia, and the only child I have ever really taken a shine to.

I use the past tense because of yesterday at noon they have ceased to live across the hall from me.

Yours truly was considering expounding on why these three were the best neighbors this fella has ever...EVER...had, but I think I'm going to keep my pleasant memories to myself.

Though they are still part of my life, their super-close proximity will be surely, and sorely, missed.

To my former Lady Neighbors and The Coolest Baby In The USA: I miss ya already.