pdxcabbie

The older I get, the further I move, in an emotional sense, from familial traditions like holiday gatherings. That isn’t to imply that I’m making a conscious choice to avoid these traditions. It just means that the pull, the gravity if you will, and the need to fulfill my role in these traditions has diminished over the years. It should come as no surprise given the fact that I’m unmarried and have no children. Furthermore, due to the fact that my parents married each other very young and then divorced only to both remarry others later means that all my siblings are at least fifteen years younger than myself and have yet to begin any new traditions that I might feel compelled to attend. At forty, I’m some sort of over-the-hill ‘tweener.’ Acknowledging this, as I have, does little to improve my standing within the family. Quite the opposite, it makes me seem as though I’ve purposefully avoided taking part. My new role after this lazy descent into exile is that of pariah. If that teeters on the maudlin, than perhaps a more fitting synonym, such as ‘black sheep’, might right my posture.

I bring all this up simply to illustrate that after years of living away from family and therein filling out the ranks at many orphan Thanksgivings and Christmases, I’ve come to understand that once one stays out, one runs the risk of being left out. Like so many of the restless passengers I’ve had in my cab over the years, I too have had to sit idle and anxious at holiday get-togethers, clock-watching and waiting for an opportunity to bolt after having said all my strained goodbyes. Mine is just one example among many. And yet I have to admit, most of the anxiety has been of my own creation. These events needn’t be staid but, at the same time, one shouldn’t presume they be frivolous either. It might be that the best course for all families may be to acknowledge that holidays such as Thanksgiving and Christmas are in need of a more cohesive ritual, one that places importance on each attendee. That way, each member will see that he or she is properly integrated into the whole and not left to feel as though the invitation was forced and their presence somehow superfluous.

There’s always a great economy practiced around ritual. This is where only essential elements need play a part in explaining the formal nature of any given rite. In light of this example I can’t say which casualty occurred first; the unraveling of the family or the profane celebration of the ritual. But what I can say, with great certainty, is that the two play off one another perfectly. Each allowing the other to further marginalize and alienate with little concern for conviviality and sharing. Left this way, the rituals will seem dated and their constituents atomized, each pursuing his or her own individual celebrations denuded of any greater importance. All for the sake of simply marking off the days till the next holiday arrives. And with that said, I may just be home for Christmas.

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It’s no play on words to say that each time I record a podcast; I’m really just calling it in. That’s how the podcast is set up. I call from my cell phone and record over the line in the least sophisticated manner possible. There’s no postproduction, no bumpers, no sound effects or transitions. It’s just me recording my latest observations for the sake of sharing with my audience. This podcast seemed easy enough until I started to reflect upon the subject and what it might mean in the greater scheme of things.

As I sat down to write about gambling and what I see of it from the driver’s seat of my cab, I thought I’d be able to point the finger at all the gambling addicts both seasoned and green without considering much else. But before I could shine a harsh light on their habit, it occurred to me that the gambler in front of the craps table or the slot machine, the one that takes risks and assumes the inevitability of future losses, does so in a very deliberate manner. They’re aware of the stakes and fully prepared to accept the losses. It may be argued that, while gambling, an individual’s judgment might be impaired or that he or she wasn’t completely able to comprehend the extent to which losing would impact their lives. But, with that said, the gambler, in the act of gambling, is living in the moment, fully aware of the fact that he or she is gambling.

Life and every action we take while conducting our lives, from stepping into the shower to eating a hamburger, carries some sort of risk. If there is risk involved than we are, in some small way, gambling. The question then becomes; is the gambler the only person among us truly aware of what’s at stake?

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Wow, that’s a splitting headache! I spent the better part of Monday afternoon in a sort of hangover triage, recovering from my umpteenth dose of vodka-tonics. There’s obviously a direct correlation between how much one drinks and how much one spends to drink. If liquor is free and the time spent waiting in line is less than 2 minutes, it looks like I’ll drink a gallon of whatever they’re giving away.

Such was the sight down at the Mount Tabor Legacy on 48th and SE Hawthorne Blvd. for the November 4th Barfly Awards. Good lord, there must have 500 people in the joint, each smoking 15 cigarettes apiece. I blew through a pack in less than 4 hours and managed to yammer on about this blog and its attendant podcast (which picked up 12 new subscribers over the next 24 hours, I might add).

Many thanks to Jen Lane, the publisher of Barfly Magazine, and all her crew, for putting together an absolutely fantastic party. I also have to thank Jen Procter and Scott Gillan who, independent of each other, nominated me in the “Favorite Cabbie” category. I didn’t win but it was a great honor just to be considered and a lot of fun just to take part in the campaigning. Congratulations go out to Holly Morgan of Radio Cab fame, she took home the prize and deservedly so since she’s a great asset to the company.

It was my intention to podcast from the event and I did so with all the aplomb of an ape with a tape recorder. What a mistake! Thankfully my subject, Julian Chadwick, a Portland blogger over at PDX Pipeline, was gracious enough to provide me an impromptu interview and somehow fought the urge to submerge the mic in my last few ounces of Stoli. There’s a reason we never hear good content spoken in that woozy slur of heavy inebriation; vodka not friend.

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In the taxi business, a driver tries to rely upon his or her instincts to determine whether or not someone is a threat. It isn’t enough to simply rely upon the sort of instincts one develops from accessing obvious danger at first glance. It’s true; one can’t judge a book by its cover but one can tell if the book is too heavy to begin reading. We’re all less inclined to begin a weighty tome if only looking for light fare over a three-day weekend. The same holds true for passengers that attempt to flag down my cab.

Over the years I’ve come to understand that four young men, disheveled and drunk, with one retching in the gutter, may not be the best fare to stop for if only to collect an additional $3.00 in extra passenger charges. Live and learn. That doesn’t mean that the bright-eyed stripper I just picked up isn’t a sociopath or that the sober and brooding young hipster isn’t Dr Lecter’s protégé. It just means that I have to try to rely upon my ability to interpret a vast mosaic of behaviors and attitudes. I have to suss out the tells in people’s voices, those little snags that betray their ulterior motives.

Todd, my last fare of the night, was not complex. Among other things, he was just some girl’s scary boyfriend. Stranded on the bad side of town, far from his home, he was like so many that just needed to get away. But, in doing so, he spent too much time and money all for the opportunity to find out that his girlfriend wasn’t home after his raucously good night out with his mates. His costume was only his street clothes and his makeup, at least for one young lady, had long worn off. Oh well, you can’t dress like a clown every year.

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Flight crews are always a gamble. It’s not like they’re going to give a cabbie any trouble or anything. It’s just that sometimes they’re so, so…well odd in their own idiosyncratic way. Every occupation has its own particular culture. The airlines and their flight crews are no different. They gossip, complain, conjecture, and flat out make things up. Or do they? You be the judge of this odd little bit of gossip and decide for yourself.

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It goes without saying that cabbies have to be ready for anything. Sometimes that just means being there to listen. I seldom fight the urge to dole out advice and maybe that’s why so few passengers seem to take it.

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I average close to 3000 customers in the course of a year. It still amazes me that I even consider letting a guy with a bloody gash over one eye and a garbage bag over his shoulder get anywhere near my cab. For the love of filthy lucre!

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