ALSO- ERWIN makes up stories about other people’s lives, Erwin… I don’t know; I probably should include the dream journal-type stuff I definitely want to write. ALSO- ERWIN makes up stories about other people’s lives, Erwin… I don’t know; I probably should include the dream journal-type stuff I definitely want to write. We’ll see.

August 2, 2026-

This is in the category of: What image do I project? I am an older, blue collar white guy with some amount of concern that I might be mistaken for a trumpite, BUT I am fine not getting militant about it if I am working or dealing with folks who might be disciples and militant in their convictions.

SO, ever hesitant to mention Port Townsend in any way, but aware many surfers go through the town to get to somewhere that might have waves, I need to talk about the Penny Saver, closest roundabout to the ferry. When we moved to the Peninsula, 1978, there were gas pumps and it faced Water Street. Because there was a Canadian flag on display, we called it the Canadian Store.

Because I have witnessed many people cruising out with 24 and 12 packs of beer, usually but not always in the afternoon, I refer to it as the Half A Rack Store.

They do have sandwiches, main reason I go there. Lo dated next to the Co-op, hip market in the building that was a bowling alley, The Penny Saver clients are probably not as upscale as those at the Co-op, but I haven’t yet seen anyone with a cardboard sign at the exits to the road. Kind of grateful for this. Hypocrisy? Yes.

There are a couple of, to me, interchangeable men who have worked at the Penny Saver for years. I chat, somewhat, while, usually, on the phone listing all the available sandwiches and salads to Trish, one or the other of the men leaning over, waiting.

It is usually late, I am always in paint clothes.

On this occasion, one of the interchangeable men is outside, hand rolling A cigarette. I nod, he starts telling me about local cops arresting, wrongfully, some local character he seems to assume I know. “He had a concealed weapon permit! If they’d A looked.”

Sort of grateful he seemed to consider me a local, I had to ask a few more questions, shaking my head with his negative comments, nodding where appropriate.

“Cops. Yeah. I… I might have been the first person ticketed for talking on the cell phone. You talk about cops. Yeah.”

The guy lit up his skinny cigarette. Possibly unsure whether he should nod or shake his head, he blinked. Maybe it was the smoke. Still, better than the eye roll he might have saved out of politeness.

“Cops,” I muttered as I got in my car, setting my cell phone on the dashboard.

July 26, 2026

No, Reggie, I’m not missing. Thanks for caring.

The first clue should have been, despite all bald white-ish guys of a certain age looking like brothers, I’m taller, heavier, with blue eyes and not-quite-white eyebrows, and my mustache… well, I also sportr a soul patch. Oh, and the protruding adam’s apple… no. And no blue pickup. Otherwise, yeah, total Erwin ringer. Memmber of the doppelganger gang. Hope you’re safe, Brother.

I do have some concern that I might actually appear to be someone who needs special attention. Two recent events support this fear/worry:

ONE- COSTCO- We know they love to move stuff around, forcing their mostly overweight, mostly olderwas customers to walk… more. I was looking for the three pack of bleach. A woman, somewhat younger than me, when I made another trek through the section where the bleach should have been, said, “I’m following you.” Oh. Bleach. “Maybe it’s in the next aisle.” She followed me. It wasn’t. End cap. My wife always says… “End cap.” I proceeded toward the front. Two aisles over, the woman ran up to me with the box, three gallons, not light. “It was over by the dog food.” Thanks.

Now, this was unusual. I decided not to flatter myself; it was probably not a warehouse store pickup thing. More like, this old dude needs help. Costco-wise, I’m not that old. I will hold on to some of the self flattering portion of the encounter.

TWO- DISCOUNT GAS STATION- Gasoline, on the Kitsap side of the Hood Canal Bridge, is significantly cheaper. AND, if you pay cash… more cheaper. I’m cheap, so I took the opportunity to cruise into this station, give the guy at the counter a hundred dollar bill, saying, OF COURSE, “I’m hoping it doesn’t take all of it.” It didn’t. It was over seventy bucks, but… cheaper, and…

When I came in to get my change, I had to mention, and said I was hesitant to mention, that I had noticed the cash price was supposed to be $4.93 per gallon, but the pump said $4.88. “Oh, I gave you a five cent discount.” “WHY?”

Since the coffee in my thermos was two days old and cold, I decided to treat myself to some. BUT, the machine available was way too high tech, offering iced or hot coffee. The attendant had to run over and assist. OK. I went back to the counter to pay, the cup way too hot. “I guess I look like someone who needs help,” I said. The attendant nodded. I turned to the guy now behind me. “Do I? Do I look like someone who needs help?” The man’s expression and body language said, “Yes,” though he was too polite to actually say it. I hope he got the five cent ‘special’ discount.

July 23, 2026- DREAM- It was definitely Stephanie in my dream. She was laughing as she passed me, me standing chest deep, holding my surfboard. She may have said, “You can’t catch me” as she rode down from the closeout section. I turned and caught the soup in, prone, on the same wave. I landed on the beach. I was laughing. I heard laughter. I woke up.

What. may have put Ms. Gilmore into the random ramblings of my brain loop is seeing a Roxy ad on Instagram. Sexy. Undeniably so. SO, do I hit the like heart, do I comment? NOT SURE.

This isn’t the ad in question, but the question is… Ohh, there are too many questions.

IN looking for photos I came across a controversy caused by a Roxy video from 2013 (13 years ago) featuring what the chat thing described as a semi-nude Stephanie that did not feature her face or her surfing. So, blatant sexualization! Bad. I remember the ad. I’m fine with her face, extra fine with her surfing. So, I could have objected.

When I worked in the sign shop at the shipyard, in the eighties, mostly, there was a collection of girlie magazines, “signs” was spelled out on the ceiling of the dark room in Playboy centerfolds. I spent part of my lunchtime, and an amount of government time, drawing… nudes. Tasteful. Of course. I also brought in surfing magazines to use as reference material. One of my co-workers, all male at this time, checked one out and said it’s a FAG magazine. “All those guys in swimsuits… So gay.”

“No it’s not! Maybe it’s you!”

It was pointed out to me, when we had some women apprentices going through the sign shop, that drawing attractive naked women is objectifying, sexist, and otherwise wrong.

Tasteful.

Also tasteful.

A couple of silkscreens from my shipyard days, with a newer illustration thrown in. YES, I am trying to evolve in my thinking about what is appropriate in art, bearing in mind that part of the reason I started drawing involve me thinking, at about twelve years old, that if I told Wendy Brooks I could draw some pictures of her, I might be able to talk her into going up in my tree house, and then… Didn’t happen.

Yes, being old and getting older has changed my beliefs… somewhat.

July 9, 2026-

                                    Erwin and Trish Amuse a Guy from U.S. Bank

Trish was well into a panic when I got there. We were frozen out of our bank account. It was right there on the screen. She didn’t explain how this happened. Not at the time.

“Here, read this. On the screen. They said they sent a code.” “Yeah. To your phone.” “Oh. Is this it?” “They sent… several. Okay. This one; it’s the most recent.” “Try it!” “I can’t read your screen. Wrong glasses.” “Oh! Now it says, ‘reset password.’ How do we do that?” “I don’t know.”

I tried. I failed. “I can call them.” “Please.” “How did this happen?” “It just… did.”

I called the number, got on the automated switchboard, punched in numbers. Okay, now they were sending my phone a code. “FUCK!” I know just enough to realize I could be on the phone and check messages if I put my phone on speaker. Too slow. “FUCK!” Now I had to wait for a person. Bear in mind it was about 8pm, PDST, when this started. I got one person. Wrong person. Couldn’t help. Meanwhile, Trish, mostly hidden behind an oversized computer screen, was adding commentary. “Not sure how it happened.” Or, “Tell them it was an accident.” Stuff like that.

I (we) get transferred to another real person. I’m on the phone, our account pulled up on my tablet, Trish monitoring on her monitor.

“It still says ‘reset password.’” “I know.” “Tell him…” “It was an accident. Okay, I told him.” “We don’t know how it happened.” “We don’t know… yet… how his happened.”

Because I am me, not a robot or a bank robber, I give all our pertinent data… several times, with Trish feeding me info, just in case. “Our physical address is…” “He didn’t ask.” Somewhere in here the guy on the phone, in Minnesota, as it turns out, seemed to be amused. I mean, I was chuckling, Trish was commenting- all almost like fun.

He did ask something about the cause of our being locked out. “My wife,” I said, has a bit of Chemo brain; I’m catching it.”

“Chemo brain,” Trish said, though she isn’t generally fond of admitting that chemotherapy and radiation treatments (I do believe she was over-chemoed- the cancer is gone, but…) have, if she is dehydrated or her blood pressure drops (there is a connection), the fog comes up.

The solution, partially, was, about ninety minutes into the ordeal, and after it was solidly confirmed we are us, to keep trying to open our account with the unchanged, un-reset password. Five tries, probably. 

“The chemo brain thing… we think it’s getting… less.” “Yeah, now that Erwin has it.”    

I may have promised to give the Minnesota phone guy a good review. If this was, as the earlier recording said, recorded, I did.

“I think you should write something about this, Erwin.”

“Oh, yeah, like ‘Erwin AND Trish talk to Strangers.’ Sure, but, really, Trish, how did this happen?”

“You told him; Chemo brain.”

I did eventually discover what caused the lockout. I (we) will endeavor to not have it happen again. But, we will see.

June 30, 2026-

This is a shopping list I found. on the ground in the very hip UPTOWN section of PORT TOWNSEND.

THE LOST HEDGE TRIMMER STORY ends with me finding the hidden (rather than having been stolen or left on some project) tool about two hours after having purchased a replacement. Actually, two replacements. I damaged thee first replacement after about two minutes of use. Hit a metal thing meant to hold plants up (going for some uninvited blackberry vines). Jam! Damn!

That’s the story, but, the talking to strangers part is this:

My Volvo, which. Has been my work/surf/everything rig, is broken. I want to get the blown head gasket fixed, but… In the meantime, I have been using the Highlander, officially Trisha’s vehicle, while waiting for a replacement work rig I am buying from Adam Wipeout James. Yes, I have my big boy gashog van; would rather not use it every day. And I don’t need to.

The point is, my tools are spread between three rigs and a white trash garage, and I couldn’t find my hedge trimmer, and I ever more desperately want to push back the trees and shrubs that overhang my 200 feet or so of driveway. And the ever-intrusive scotch broom and blackberries. 

So, I’m going up to Port Townsend and I see one of those feather shaped signage things at the Habitat for Humanity place. “Tools.” I whip around, park. A guy says, “Yeah, yeah; we put up the sign, lots of people showed up, cleaned us out.” Then he starts talking about… didn’t matter; he was a low talker, I was in a hurry; so I nod and explain my situation. Another guy, wearing a blue Habitat t shirt, says, “Yard tools. Over here.”

There were, behind their box truck, tools laid out on the grass. Eww, an electric chain saw and a Greenworks hedge trimmer. I imagined, like, fifty bucks each. I ask blue t shirt guy for a price. “How about twenty bucks?” “Each?” “For both.” “Sold. But, wait a second. Do you actually work here, or do you just have the shirt?” “Do you care?” “Not really.”

I haven’t tested my ten-dollar CraIftsman chain saw yet. I plan on. Dropping off the jammed trimmer with George Takamoto. Pretty sure he can fix it.

Still desperate, hedgewise, I go to Home Depot to get just the trimmer. I have chargers and batteries because I made a purchase of several other yard tools a few years ago. Reggie did break my saws-all (reciprocating saw, officially) in about ten seconds when I let him use it. Not apologetic about it because it was ‘on the job.’

I find the trimmers, locked up. I go back to the desk where four people are looking at computer screens, even though there are no other customers waiting. They send a woman from ‘returns’ to help me. She doesn’t have a key.

“Hey, Erwin,” a voice says, “Haven’t seen you in a while.” OH. It turns out Chris, who worked as a carpenter for one of the contractors I painted for, is now working at the Depot. So, that was nice. A little catchup. How long have you been here? “Three months.” Did you know Doug (another carpenter) worked here a while? “No.” Paint department. Didn’t last long. “Yeah, well, it’s more money working construction, but…” I get it. “You’re still painting?’ Of course. “Madman.” Yeah. Good luck. “Nice seeing you.” Likewise.

I have the receipt. I plan on returning the trimmer today. Maybe I’ll see Chris. Maybe I’ll get a replacement reciprocating saw.

ALSO- ERWIN makes up stories about other people’s lives, Erwin… I don’t know; I probably should include the dream journal-type stuff I definitely want to write here. So, okay.

June 12, 2026- “The green sunglasses and the pay-to-park dealie.”

I tried to make it a rule that I would never pay to park somewhere surf-adjacent. I’ve pretty much stuck to this; and, yes, I am aware this has become so much more difficult. in the years since I left California. I have broken this pledge, most notably in my total willingness to park at Doug’s, five dollars for access, totally worth it. Doug died, the opportunity has been replaced with a long hike. Like a six dollar hike.

Probably not surprising, I also refuse to pay big money for coffee when I can make it at home. But I left my thermos at Dru’s house the other day, had to go to the bank in Port Townsend (because they closed the only bank in Quilcene), and I figured I would go to Quimper Mercantile and get a cheap thermonuclear recepticle, fill it with coffee from the Penny Saver, and get on with the day. So, I pulled up to the storefront, parked in a handicapped spot (Trish, who deserves the placard I hung from the rearview mirror, calls it paralyzed parking), and contemplated whether or not I should go in.

I pretty much had to. The lot, other than a cordoned-off area at the bank, is now a pay lot. Maybe they use cameras to track down and charge scofflaw freeparkers. I didn’t know. I went inside, evidently to an auxiliary counter, one with a young man, looking pretty bored. I asked about a thermos. He pointed to the back corner; camping and fishing stuff for tourists braving the wilds, and clothing that might make one believe they are, like, locals. Hats; lots of outdoorsy headgear. A sixty dollar stainless steel thermos. No. I grabbed a ten dollar item designed for, perhaps, soup. Hungryman. Chunky. Hearty.

There are several spinnable racks of sunglasses at the bored guy’s counter. Some have stickers with $3.99 in big letters. I always. need sunglasses; I’ve broken or lost every pair I’ve ever owned. The more I like them, the faster they. are lost or broken. I put a pair on the counter; the frames a lovely shade of seafoam green. I throw another pair on the counter. Backup. The cashier points to a different rack. I may have mentioned my cheapness, or he figured it out. Maybe it was when I complained about the parking fees.

“Oh. So… how much are these?” He hits it with the pricing gun/device. “$29.99” “Oh.” The seafoam green wasn’t that lovely.

Because I have never done the ‘take a photo of the square thing with your phone and…’ thing, and because there was no one behind me waiting to check out, and because I wanted my. parking validated, I asked the obviously savvy young man to do it for me. Yes, I took the photo, yes, I ran out to get the license plate number. So, mission accomplished. On to the Penny Saver.

But, a few hours later, I get a text message from the private parking corporation asking if I want to extend my stay, along with a list of rates (like $26.50 for 24 hours) and convenient ways to pay, and, I think, an NDA. I text back. That doesn’t work. I hit on another spot. “Thank you. Look forward to helping you with your paeking needs in the future.”

Probably not. I can walk over from the bank. Yes, agreed, I shouldn’t have used the paralyzed parking.

COMING UP soon; a story to go along with this image, taken on the shower wall of a house I was painting. A woman with two young children moved out of the house.

It got smudged before I took the photo and is now gone, but the one message says, “I love you moreee,” and the other saiys, or said, “What would you do if you weren’t around me?”

I did see the woman when I looked at the job. She seemed overwhelmed. She and the kids are moving to oh-my-god Alabama. You make up your story. I’m working on mine.