Joy in Portland

You know how people tell you where to go? No, no. Silly invisible friend. Not that way. One mentions that she's headed to Portland, for example, and if one is very lucky, a flurry of information drifts down on one's head, like happy snowflakes. But warm. And not so wet.

This is what happened to me. After hearing about a little place called Voodoo Doughnut, I had to go. And you know...they're correct. Good things do come in pink boxes. Heh.

This, for example:


This is the Dirty Old Bastard. On top of an insanely fresh chocolate doughnut, crushed Oreos and peanut butter drizzled resides. Or it did. Now, it's hanging out in my cellulite, with plenty of little friends.

Voodoo Doughnut also makes incredible apple fritters, a tropical delight called Mango Tango, a maple bar with BACON, yes, BACON, and countless other delicious treats. My favorite, however, is this gift from heaven:



It's called the Cock & Balls. It's a huge, light, raised set of doughnuts, slathered in chocolate and [naturally] filled with cream. It took me two days, but I ate it all.

Yes, I did.

Top Ten What?

Oh, my darlingest invisible friend. Sometimes, in this wasteland that is my life, bounty appears. I never see it coming. I never know from whence it comes. But come, it does, in all of its glorious abundance.



This time, it came from the Land of eSchmarmony.



In case you were unaware, dearest, eSchmarmony will periodically email its victi--ahem, customers with gentle advice on how to find the love of one's life. These articles and slideshows are super, by the way, filled with words of wisdom. Things like, how to pick to the right photo[s] for one's profile. [NB: It's NOT the shot taken by cell phone in the bathroom mirror. Who knew?] How to recognize relationship sabotage. [Evidently, sleeping with one's emotionally abusive ex is bad.] How to spot red flags. [They're red. And they wave about like...well, you know.] And most recently, sandwiched between a list of movies that "make men cry" and a "free" newsletter that offers the secret to lasting love, was the unexpected wealth of information called.....



[Wait for it.]



Top Ten Pick-Up Lines.



Now, my initial reaction to this was a teensy bit derisive. After all, mine is a testosterone-poor existence. If I had eligible males in my vicinity on whom I could practice such techniques as pick-up lines, would I be on eSchmarmony to begin with??? No. In case you wondered, no. Okay, probably not.



Anyway.



I didn't realize the gift I'd been given, the gift I would share with you, dearest of all fictional friends. Let me extend to you now, the experience of eSchmarmony's Top Ten Pick-Up Lines.



And my responses to each.



All right, all right. These aren't necessarily my responses. They're just response one might encounter if trying to use these nuggets of social gold. Here we go

Top Ten Pick-Up Lines [from eSchmarmony]



Number One: Hey, I Love Your Shoes (or Handbag or Coat, etc.)



No. I'm sorry, no. Because you're gay. You might not realize it. But you're hitting on the wrong gender. Embrace who you are! Be proud! Yay, you!



Number Two: "Hi, I would love to get you a drink."



Sure....but who's paying for it? And I'm not easier when I'm drunk, just so you know. More belligerent. Or...oh my gosh! I'm sorry! I didn't realize you were our server tonight! Could I start a tab, please?



Number Three: "What kind of dog is that?"



[Okay, this one might actually work on me. Unless I get ultra-focused on dogs and forget there's a guy standing there. This has actually happened.



Friend: That guy was flirting with you.

Me: No, he wasn't.

Friend: Yes, he was. And you started talking about canine intestinal problems.

Me: So what?

Friend: You're an idiot.]



A non-dog freak, however, might respond with:



That's not a dog, that's my nephew/offspring/sister/mother/et cetera. [Things go downhill after this.]



Number Four: "Are you single?"



Insensitive reply: Yes, and thank you for reminding me why.

Sensitive reply: [muffled sobbing] Have you been talking to my mother???? I'm still a person, you know!! I still have value in this couple-driven society! [Things go downhill after this.]



Number Five: "Hi, who's your friend?"



Are you kidding? You walked across the room, shoved by hordes of people milling about, and you're asking about my friend??? [Things really go downhill after this.]



Number Six: "Nice to meet you. I'm ____ and you are beautiful."



Murphy's Law: Thank you, that's a lovely--oh dear, I can't believe I just spilled my....

Vision of self: Really? So you like the old-baggy-yoga-pants-and-ponytail-through-eggbeater look?

PMS: Uh huh. You're not getting laid.



Number Seven: "I bet you were an awfully cute baby."



Ew. That's just wrong.



And you're still not getting laid.



Number Eight: "How much does a polar bear weigh? Enough to break the ice."



Seriously? Is that [sniff] is that [sniff] is that Limburger? That was some majorly stinky cheese, buddy.



And you brought up the weight of a polar bear to me because...?



Number Nine: “Excuse me, but you have something on your face," (when she goes to wipe it off you stop her and say) "No, no leave it. It's beauty."



Excuse me, but I seem to have gotten something on your shoe. Yeah, you probably want to wipe it off. It's vomit.



And Number Ten: "WHO are you?"



Who am I? Who the [insert appropriate copulatory Anglo-Saxon term here] are you?



And you're still not getting laid.

GBS Groupie Moment

Hello, darling invisible friend! It's been too long, hasn't it? Oh, I am sorry. I really am. And so much has happened! We'll start small, though.

Last week, the roommate and I went to Portland again. Why? Well, for the very same reason we went to Portland this summer! Great Big Sea was there! And they performed a concert while they were there!!

This last sentence might seem to be unnecessary information; you might ask why the Newfoundlanders would be in Portland otherwise. I can understand the thought process. St Johns is a bit of a jaunt to Portland, Oregon. But...there are a lot of microbreweries in Portland. A lot. More than you think. Enough to tempt a beer-loving soul to travel. They could have just showed up for the beer.

But they didn't.

GBS performed at the Aladdin Theater, in-a-not-totally-residential-but-a-lot-more-residential-than-downtown Portland neighborhood. Yes, that is the official zoning description. According to a woman who stood in line with us, the Aladdin Theater was once an adult movie house that showed "Deep Throat" as its one adult movie. Now it's a small venue for musical acts.

Yeah. Just nod and smile. That's what we did. Well, that, and check the seats before we sat down.

Speaking of, we grabbed seats toward the front of the theater on the left side. Two rows back from the stage! And this is what leads me to my groupie moment.

Fairly early on, Sean McCann performed the title track to the newest CD, "Safe Upon The Shore." It was beautiful. One of those gorgeous, sad, a cappella folk songs that GBS does so well. After the applause died down, Alan Doyle said to the crowd, "Well...good night! 'Cause I don't what we're gonna sing after that!" There was laughter and protests and I called out, "Everything! 'Boston to St Johns!'" Around the same time, other people called out their own suggestions. I don't know if I was first or just loudest. But....

Alan laughed and said, "All right, no need for special requests." And the show continues. The first set finished with a brief break, allowing band and crowd to "refresh" themselves, in any way deemed appropriate [coughbeercough], followed by the second set and the obligatory departure of band from stage for the "encore."

Btw, I have no idea why this is necessary. They know we want them to play more. We know they're not really gone. But almost every band does this. Maybe it just makes everyone feel better about the end of the concert.

Concert goer: "Oh, they were going to end early, but we yelled their name long enough and loudly enough and changed their minds!"

Band: "They like us! They really like us!!"

Anyway.

When the sufficient volume of yelling and cheering had occurred, Alan returned to the stage. Alan. Not the whole band. Not Alan and Sean and Bob and Murray and Kris. No. Just Alan. With a guitar. After letting us settle down, he said rather quietly, "By special request...."

And sang "Boston to St Johns." I know!!

Now, I don't know that Alan heard my voice as I yelled out my request. Although, having met me, odds are pretty good. But I'm choosing to believe that this song was performed for me.

And yes, I giggle every time I think of it. Don't mock. You would, too.