Amboy II

This is my second installment of the Amboy Chronicles. As I wrote in a previous (Amboy I) post, Amboy, WA is where my parents have retired, effectively removing themselves from any semblence of the city life they left behind in California. It is here that they've immersed themselves in country culture. Whether that may be going to get your mail on a tractor, building creeks ("crick" in country vernacular) on your property, or searching for bigfoot in the neighboring forest, it's all part of the daily life in Amboy.

Another part of daily life, at least for my folks and some of their friends, is to spend countless hours during the week hob-nobbing with the locals at Amboy Espresso, affectionately known as Tim's. As I mentioned in Amboy I, the town (more of a village), despite it's quaint and sleepy facade, is home to a disproportionate amount of odd characters. So it is here, at Tim's, sitting at the crossroads of "downtown" Amboy, that one can witness these various characters.

On a recent drive to Amboy, I made a stop at Tim's, as I saw my mom and Mike were already there. As I stepped inside the shop, Mike quickly greets me, "Brainstump, how the flock are you?" We then proceed to connect fists (think high five) a la Ali G and mutter "respect" to each other. Mike's friend Gary, a.k.a. Land of the Hawk, repeats the fist pounding with me, also muttering "respect" while doing so. I am then welcomed with a hug by my mom, and one from Susan Black Hawk (of no relation to the aforementioned Hawk). Tim promptly gets a mocha started for me and we all shoot the shit for a while.

As a few minutes pass by, one of us notices someone walking along the street donning a Santa hat. As the figure approaches the parking lot (dirt and gravel surface with potholes), someone recognizes the person as Rex, another local. Rex is in his mid-30's, but because of head trauma sustained in an accident as a teenager, as well as numerous acid trips, he managed to remain 17 and stop time still in it's tracks circa 1987. In his mind, Van Halen, Guns and Roses, and Judas Priest still top the charts. In fact, every time we run into Rex, he, in his raspy Don Corleone voice, generously invites Mike to go see Van Halen live in concert with him. And, for some odd reason, he always states that the concert will be on May 5th. Not that a concert can't take place on May 5th, but he's been referring to the same date for 3 years now. Mike always obliges and agrees to accompany Rex. Rex then, in a sign of excitement, gives Mike the "rock on" sign...you know, the one where you hold all your fingers down except the pinky and index finger. As soon as Tim pours Rex his frozen, blended mocha, he says his goodbyes and wishes everybody a "Merry frickin' Christmas and a happy frickin' new year." As he leaves, he once again gives Mike the "rock on sign," and tells everyone to "have a good one, bro."

Just as Rex leaves, in comes the local scam artist. Well, he's not a scam artist per se, as he is verifiably employed and runs a legit operation. However, his job entails visiting all the local businesses and selling discounted (stolen?) goods. He usually makes his rounds once a month, and actually does pretty good. His stock typically includes leather jackets, art sets, and kids' toys. He's always willing to bargain and rarely is an imposition. He is now quite a regular, and his routine has become somewhat of a scripted show with some entertainment value.

Before Pork, Mike, and I decide to leave, we can't do so without first running into another local. I won't name names, so as not to offend or stigmatize, but he was once the local drunk and part time stand up comic. He is in his 70s, but appears to be more of tough bulldog in his 50s. Now sober, he is the town fix-it man and knower of all, as well as resident Santa during the holidays. As we meet him in the doorway, we say our hello's and quickly catch up before taking off.

See, it is not an exciting way of life, but it is far from normal and monotonous. And despite the lurking oddballs that make up the town of Amboy, everyone knows everyone and treats each other with respect and kindness. The cast of characters may deter some, but the community they've created is quite comforting.


You know you're in Portland...

...when the security baggage screener at the airport reminds people, while in the middle of her spiel about what can and cannot be brought onto the airplane, that hummus, certainly a delicious treat at home, is indeed a banned liquid in quantities above 3.5 ounces on all domestic flights. Yes...hummus. God save us.

<-- apparently equates to -->


SantaCon '06

I promised Jeff I'd get to this today, but man do I feel like shit...in the hopes that it's just a little bug, I'm filling up on DayQuil and Gypsy Cold Care (just had to throw in "gypsy" somewhere). Worst case scenario is that it's not a common cold, but a potentially nasty case of Hepatitis A that I picked up from this year's SantaCon. The most common reaction so far when I mention that Jeff and I went to SantaCon is "Huh?" or some such neanderathal grunt. SantaCon is an experience that is not to be missed if you happen to have one in your city, and most major cities do; the event was initiated by the Cacophony Society in San Francisco back in '94 I believe, quickly spread to Portland the next year, and then basically went global. In a nutshell, hundreds of kindred souls dress up as Santa, then rampage around town drinking obscene amounts of alcohol and generally spreading holiday cheer. There are a few rules to this here Santa thing...I won't go into details, so just check out the Four Fucks of Santarchy here: https://home.comcast.net/~hhinman/Ettiquette.htm
A few other pages of interest:

The event kicked off innocently enough, with everyone gathering at the Skidmore Fountain, smack dab in the middle of Portland's Saturday Market.
Jeff and I arrived by the MAX (basically a giant steel sleigh) suited up as Santa, and were greeted by several hundred fellow Santas belting out "Hi Santa!"...whenever talking to another Santa, their name, as well as yours, is simply "Santa." This moniker was also our stock reply to all questions from non-Santas...why are you guys doing this? "Santa." Who organized this? "Santa." Why is there vomit in your beard? "Santa." So anyway, Santa Jeff and Santa Old hung out at the Fountain for a good hour waiting for all the rest of the Santas to arrive, chatting it up, handing out gifts to random passerbys (nice toys for the kids, naughty stuff for the adults), and taking photos of the more creative Santas (Apocalypse Santa, Rasta Santa, Pirate Santa, various Slut Santas, and Santa Jeff's favorite, the Urban Scout Santa, hipster moccassins included).

Well, by this time we were all getting more than a bit antsy for a stiff drink (don't worry Mom, I'm not an alcoholic, I just get the shakes when I first wake up), so the group headed off to McFadden's, an Irish pub a few blocks away. The barkeeps there were certainly not expecting us, and we soon found it impossible to order a drink or food from the lone two working the bar...the place was packed wall to wall with red-suited creeps, smoking and drinking from their private stashes (a SantaCon tradition is to empty out Windex bottles and fill them up with something hard, then walk around spraying each other in the mouths)...it felt like a Hunter S. Thompson hallucination, you wierd fucker. Luckily for us, the Santas closest to us were well-enough prepared to have lugged around a few extra beverlies, and were kind enough to cure what was ailing us. Pounding the beer down quickly, we noticed the Red Tide was on the move...pouring out into the streets we walked back towards the Skidmore Fountain under the Burnside Bridge and waited around for a MAX train. One finally arrived and we swarmed inside, filling that fucker to the gills (and leaving a full 3/4 of the Santas behind for the next round of trains)...felt like a tin of red herrings.

Finally we were released at Pioneer Courthouse Square, Portland's official living room, where most of the family-friendly city-sponsored events take place (and the site of the pillow fight we participated in a few months back). I'm not sure why we stopped here, except to mill about handing out candy canes and disturbing toys (Barbies with their limbs sawed off and replaced with Wookie arms, etc.) to the hundreds of families here for some tuba band playing Christmas carols.

That's when the chanting started. It felt like a war protest gone mad, with drunken Santas marching towards the riverfront yelling "HO, HO, HO...WE WON'T GO!" and "WHO DO WE WANT? HO! WHAT DO WE WANT? HO! WHEN DO WE WANT IT? HO!"...I can only imagine the type of trauma this causes for children suseptible to the whims of fantastical reality. Thankfully, the parents down here are fairly well-off and should be able to fund the therapy little Johnny is going to need in the years to come.

Our next stop was McCormick & Shmicks (the chain originated here in Portland) at the new Waterfront development...this is one of those fancy restaurants that serve shit food and attract the "movers and shakers". Well, we stormed this fucking place, finally got some beer (Santa Jeff and I strategically raced here ahead of the tide following us to beat the crowd), and then walked over to a little asian market to pick up a six-pack of Old Milwaukie and a bag of Munchies (which quickly turned into a communal Santa snack pack), skipping the generically labeled hamburgers that were sitting out at room temperature next to the cash register...we inquired about where the store owner had gotten the burgers, and he replied "burger." Great.
Now fully stocked on beer, we proceeded to get down, and so did the other Santas. We cheerfully watched a Santa walking down the docks harrassing old ladies, a Santa attempting to catch 3-eyed fish out the Willamette River, a newly married couple taking a joyride on the Urban Scout's sleigh, an improptu game of Santa Tug-O-War, and heard a sermon from the Devil (disguised as a Santa taking wippet hits). Jeff and I began to stub out bogues on each other's Santa costumes at this point for inexplicable reasons.

We all headed down to the docks when Jeff and I were somehow split up, and we boarded separate boats bound for the east side of the river...the Santas I was riding with passed around a bottle of vodka to ward off the chilly winds, and a girl said I looked like Ali G (must be my new glasses).

Disembarking, I took a much needed piss off the dock, and stumbled up the stairs to the Burnside Bridge and followed the thin red line of santas down to the world famous Skatepark of the same name...here we were greeted by Voodoo Doughnuts (their face-sized apple fritter is a personal favorite of mine), and Jeff and I, once again reunited, finished off our remaining beers. It felt a little strange to be drinking and cavorting in costume in the shadow of my office building just up the hill...

At this point, the night began to wind down as we headed to the ironic hipster/country bar, Outlaws. Mostly Santa sat around drinking, savaging the pizza buffet, and watching the sad, sad strippers. Santa Jeff had a fun schizophrenia-inducing encounter. A random female Santa began stripping down to her moose knuckles in front of him, then kindly asked him for his pizza crust. Immediately afterwards some fruity-two shoes Santa dude walked by and blew Santa Jeff a kiss and pointed at him like "Come get your ahnoos broken in the little boy's room." We had a good laugh at that one. After a few hours, we all filed out into the streets, played some dodgeball, then walked back across the bridge downtown to the shittiest nightclub in town, Bliss. The techno music was a complete buzz-killer, and rather than stick it out we headed home, weary and only slightly drunk. It was a good time, but we also learned a few important lessons for next year, namely drink beforehand, and bring plenty of food and alcohol to keep the fires burning. Oh, and get that Japanese exchange student ASAP, 'cause he'd love this shit.

Until next year...Santa Old, signing off.


Oh joyous fun

Oldie and I have been quite adept at finding and/or creating adventures in Stumptown. I've now lived in the Stump for a year, Oldie and his wife, Kesia, for two. In that time, we've been to roller derbies, had drunken screaming matches with trains on the Steel Bridge, come close to fighting random Bilbo Baggins look-a-likes (Rusty, you got lucky), had pillow fights downtown, come close to being arrested (damn Taco Bell manager), and impersonated Santa Clause with hundreds of other revelers.

It's been joyous, indeed, but we've grown bit bored with our recent adventure-seeking ways. We've decided it's time to spice things up a scoash (that's for you, Kes). To add flare to our now mundane adventures, Oldie and I, after much deliberation, have decided to make a change. After viewing the files of US culture-seeking foreign exchange students from Japan, we will carefully select one lucky "participant" to join us in our adventures. The goal here, aside from our pure enjoyment, is to educate and mold. Yes, we will turn a young, repressed, and innocent Japanese boy into a thrill-seeking, heckling, and hipster-hating goonie.

As sick as it may sound, think about this. Will this child, in his homeland, be able to drink 40s, pillow fight in the streets, and harrass people while dressed as Santa Clause? The answer, you'll quickly discover, is NO. You see, while we'll get entertainment from our new sidekick, we'll also be waging a war of liberation. This poor young soul will soon be able to express himself freely while also declaring his full individuality. It's a win-win situation.

To get the ball rolling, we're now accepting donations so we can fully subsidize this foreign exchange student's education. Please leave a comment with contact information if you're interested.


Gypsy, gypsy, 1, 2, 3...

Fart. Drunk. Gypsy. Poop.

Stream of consciousness, it's a beautiful thing. So, too, is celebrating your 25th, er, um 27th, uh, 26th birthday while drinking and listening to gypsy music. Yes, Gorky Bucheck puts it down with the sounds of Khazakstan, while getting the gypsy spirit roaring to the max. After a night of drinking, I can think of no better way (in my current state) to cap it off than to dance to the sound of gypsies. So, as the night unraveled, and I dreaded the thought of growing a year older, I danced under a full moon to the smooth melodies of gypsy calypso.

Here's how it went down. As the bartender declared last call, a sudden urge hit me to toe-tap and knee-slap to gypsy music. So, as we left, I invited a few people to follow me to Stacey's (designated driver) car for a surprise. Fortunately, Oldie had just given me the Borat soundtrack for my birthday, and gypsy music was soon blaring from Stacey's speakers. Not long after, I was rhythmically bouncing in the street to the sounds of Gorky Bucheck. Due to the magnetism of gypsy tunes, Casey soon joined me in making an awkward, artistic mark on the world. As laughs were cast at our expense, horns honked as warning, and we lost our breath, our jigs subsided and the night came to an end.

It was a great way to end the night, as odd as it was. As I sit here, contemplating laying down in front of a toilet, the sounds of Gorky Bucheck still reverberate through my mind. In the end, I must say, I heart gypsies.

To get a sample of my birthday soundtrack, go here: http://www.boratsoundboard.net/boratsoundboard2.php


Not sure what Rip City even means...

Having been in Portland a month shy of two years, I guess it's still a bit of a stretch to claim to be a Trailblazers fan. You're probably questioning why would I even consider such a thing in the first place. Well, I can't really explain it, but this team has captured my heart since we first began to lay down roots in the Stumples. It's not just a factor of location, as I wasn't too far from the Golden State Warriors when I lived in Northern Cali and I never attended a single game. No, the major contributing factor is that this team makes me laugh...they're awkward, accident prone, inexperienced, foul-happy (at all the wrong times), defenseless, and seem to be sleeping a good deal of the time. But they have Sergio Rodriguez, nicknamed Spanish Chocolate for reasons that escape me (he's from Spain, but is a white dude)...he isn't particularly good, but hustles like he's running from a hungry Danny Devito in a wig holding two giant forks. This kid is Cah-razy. He seriously plays like he's the only one on the court, passing outrageously to invisible amigos, shooting (and missing) like the devil is breathing down his neck, and dribbling like a red breasted-squirrel on nine sheets of acid. He's seriously funny as shit...and tonight he actually did okay, hooking the team up with a handfull of points and 11 assists. Aside from Zach Randolph (affectionately nicknamed Z-Bo, which to me conjures images of a hillbilly rapist from the Ozarks) scoring over 30 points, the team never really woke up from their little group nap in the locker room before the game...Martell Webster did better than he has all season, but I expect him to play like that...he's got the skills, just doesn't have the confidence to use them on any consistent basis. Anyway, the team lost for the their thirtieth time (at least it feels like it) in a row, and Kes and I left the Rose Garden more than a little saddened. For fuck's sake guys, score 100 points next time if you're planning on losing the game, so the fans can walk away with a goddamn Chalupa (an actual promotion paid for by Taco Bell), if not an actual win. Oh well, they're going through obvious growing/learning pains...but mark my words, this team will be hot in another three years, if not before. It's just going to be a reeeaaall long season...at least I'll get a few chuckles from Sergio for the admission price.


Homebwoyn Hoagies

Okay, so I've been in a bit of a writer's funk these last few weeks. I'm sure it mostly had to do with my last post getting deleted as I was polishing up the final draft...it was a wonderfully funny telling of my trip to the Star Wars exhibit at the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry (OMSI) that included death threats made on my behalf towards a group of Girl Scouts, building a magnetic levitation vehicle, drooling over the original props and costumes from all six films (Luke's lightsaber, C3-P0 & R2D2 cold chillin'fucking Darth Vader...), creating a virtual blow-up doll, and riding a hovercraft. Alas, it was apparently not meant for your eyes. Too brilliant, I suppose.

A few nuggeteers:

-I checked out the Stark Vacuum Cleaner Museum on NE Couch, a block away from my office...I'd passed it on several dozen previous occasions on my way to pick up my weekly copy of the Portland Tribune (one of our three free city papers), but never actually thought to go inside. Well, let's just say it was as exciting and as deeply interesting as it sounds. The only item that latched onto my memory (a difficult task these days) was a tricked-out cleaner with spoilers, racing flames, and exhaust pipes...quick somebody call up Pimp My Vacuum, they need to hire this guy.

-Our local director Gus Van Sant set up shop a few weeks back at the legendary Burnside Skatepark, located down below my office building...he's filming his latest movie titled Paranoid Park. I got to hang out for a few hours (getting paid at work at the same time, of course...I was out "visiting a client.") on the set, watching them set up shots, film for two seconds, reset the scene, shoot another few frames, repeat ad naseum. It was all a bit less glamorous than I would have imagined, though Gus seemed like a nice guy. I ended up sending several of my clients his way for extras, which felt pretty good...though, apparently extras only get paid minimum wage (maybe a bit more if they get to go home early), so my kids didn't thank me too much. This was the second time I've seen Gus Van Sant out and about in Portland, the first being at the kick-off event for the Time Based Art festival in Pioneer Courthouse Square, where 30 electric guitarists performed a "choose-your-own-adventure"-like symphony.

-I spent a week traveling with a Bedouin family in Saudi Arabia...it was a sublime experience. We laughed, we cried, we talked about Gypsy catching. Keep your eyes peeled for a full account at my other blog http://www.oldhatesworking.blogspot.com


And the rain begins

So, after a beautiful and unusually long summer, Portland's rainy season has begun. To kick off the season, we've seen about 10 straight days with at least some rain. About half of those days saw a serious pissing from the gods. Last winter, my first in the Pacific Northwest, was difficult for me. I was new to Portland, didn't enjoy my living situation, didn't really know anybody, and had no idea how to pass the time away during a perpetual shower.
Well, after being in Portland a year now, I'm a bit more prepared for the 3-4 month drenching that is winter in Oregon. To get a glimpse of how my winter will be spent, here's a recap of the last week.
An education in gypsy hunting: Straight from the genius of a Khazakstani media correspondent, Oldie and I learned how to hunt, capture, and make use of gypsies (gypsy tears are known to ward off disease) from Borat. Of course, this education took place at one of Portland's 374 movie theaters. Yes, Portland has a lot of movie houses, and I expect to be at one (especially the $3.00 ones that serve beer and pizza) pretty frequently.
Beer sampling: Wino's can get away with wine-tasting in the name of sophistication, so why can't I do the same while sampling the many locally brewed beers of Portland? On Thursday, Oldie and I went to Holman's, on 28th and E Burnside, to guzzle a few pints. While walking around the neighborhood afterward, we managed to walk in and out of another watering hole, The Lounge, three times without ever making it to the bar. Apparently we were suffering from severe indecision, and every time we walked into the bar, we decided we didn't actually want to drink there. I'm not sure why we kept returning, but by the third time (within a 10 minute period), we were getting some seriously perplexed looks from confused patrons. Patronizing the many taverns, pubs, and saloons is one way to make it through the rain. I'm not an alcoholic, though, I'm a connoisseur.
Blazers basketball: Oldie, Kesia and I recently stumbled upon a sweet promotion for the Trail Blazers. To attract a larger fan base to a turned around franchise, the Blazers were offering a ticket package of 25 games for $100. The three of us jumped on the deal, committing ourselves to an up and down season of Blazers basketball. Our first game was Friday, and in overcoming a 27-point deficit, the home team won. 24 more games are in store to help us get through the winter.
Football and board games: On Saturday, I got together with a few college football fanatics. Stacey represented for Oregon State; Casey and Chrissie put it down for Texas. I could care less, but seeing them scream and burst aneurysms over their beloved teams was quite amusing. After both of their respective teams lost, we played Scattegories. A bit nerdy, I know. But, like I said, it rains a lot and you have to open yourself up to other forms of entertainment. And, to be honest, I like playing games.
Coffee, philosophy, and good food: In addition to having a lot of movie theaters, Portland also has its fair share of quaint little breakfast/brunch joints. On Sunday, Oldie, Kesia and I met a Junior's, on 12th and SE Clinton(?). Over numerous cups of coffee, we talked about the recent election results, as well as the merits of joining an armed uprising. The question we posed to each other was, "at which point would you feel comfortable taking up arms to revolt against the 'establishment'?" None of us could come to a conclusive answer, but we did thoroughly enjoy our meals. They make mean scrambles, with plenty of potato nuggets.


Amboy I

As Old kindly pointed out below, I am currently shacked up in rural Washington, alone with my dog, a few random deer, the sound of coyotes taunting me at night, and, from what I suspect, bigfoot lurking in the forest behind the house. My parents, who retired here from Cali 3-4 years ago, are visiting my sister in Colorado, so I generously offered to housesit and watch the dog while they are gone.
To get an idea of how rural Amboy is, you'll have to realize that lawnmower racing is a recognized sport among the locals; as are tree-cutting contests and hunting (sadly, gypsy hunting hasn't yet caught on here). What's more, if you don't drive a ginormous pickup truck in these parts, you're immediately labeled an "outlander," and therefor must be from Portland. Aww, country life!
As foreign as it may seem, life is quite comfortable up here, and things are rarely dull. Sure, hanging out on your porch with a lazy, overwheight dog may seem boring, but you must look below the surface of such commonplace activities. First of all, this dog, Wimpy, is a decendent of the Meravingians, who, legend has it, are of the direct familial line of Jesus Christ and Mary Magdelen. Wimpy is a character among characters. By day, a porch-warming, sleeping machine (save for an occassional "auto hump" or "gravel angel"); by night, a rip-roaring, howling, coyote chasing, nasty dog-giving, beast of a dog. His king of the hill status probably stems from the power he's garnered as grandmaster of the local grange, but his fierce barking and ability to climb walls helps.
While Wimpy has reign of "the hill," he is not the only character in town (not sure you can actually call it a town). There is Len, often called the Mayor of Amboy, who owns the local market. He's been known to take younger women into his meat locker and show them his goods. Eww. Another name known around town is Hippy Joe. While his nickname and ZZ Top beard may suggest he's a byproduct of the San Francisco '60s, he's far from your stereotypical hippy. He lives at and maintains Nick's bar, making sure the local drunks and bikers stay in line. I actually don't know much about him, but his massive beard and mystical presence, as well as his infamy around town, makes him quite a character.

Another character quickly rising up the ranks is Mike. Yes, my dad. With an impressive beard of his own (only rivaled by hippy Joe), a finely weathered pair of overalls, and a mouth like a drunken sailor, you can see him hobbling around town most mornings. His preferred hangout spot is Tim's coffee shop a.k.a Amboy Espresso. With Pork usually by his side, he also can be found with other locals, Gary and Susan Blackhawk. He has become quite the social animal, usually making his rounds at local establishments and harrassing patrons and proprietors alike. If there is a model of how to grow old, you need look no further than him. While he isn't a model of healthy living or proper social etiquette, I can find no better example of a person growing old with grace and content. I look forward to my drives from Portland to hang and contemplate the state of "things" with him. Our Ali G impressions, attempts to build stuff, and tweaking of Wimpy make for quality hangs. In fact, I quite like my time with my mom and Mike in the country.
While time certainly slows down, we get by with laughs and try to create our own adventures (bigfoot and UFO hunting, for example). Since Amboy is only an hour from Portland, and I am here frequently, I'll try to add occassional installments of "life in the country" to the blog.

A Day of Oldham

Had an interesting day...definitely the first time I've ever watched a film, then attended one of the actor's music concerts in the same theater. The location was the Mission Theater, part of the McMenamin's empire. The movie was Old Joy and the actor/musician was Will Oldham aka Palace Music aka Palace Brothers aka Bonnie "Prince" Billy aka a shit ton of other monikers.

Old Joy appealed to me for a couple of reasons...not only am I a huge fan of road movies, but I especially like ones that deal with the issues of failing friendships, aging, social awkwardness, and the stagnation of life/energy caused by increased "responsibility." There isn't much of a plot, but that's not really the point here. The music (courtesy of Yo La Tengo) perfectly accompanies the urban city & primeval rainforest settings. A favorite scene of mine is an extended visit to the Bagby Hotsprings (located near Estacada, Oregon along the western slopes of the Cascades), where Will Oldham's character utters this gem..."Sorrow is simply worn-out joy." Or something to that effect. Much of the first half of the film is shot on location in Portland, which tickled my more vainglorious side...it's nice to see that the hometown's appealing enough for the fickleness of filmdom, you know? A couple minor gripes...there were quite a few geographic inconsistencies during the Portland segment and the trip out to the mountains...too much warping around, driving "east" and passing landmarks 50 miles to the west of town, crossing west over the Burnside Bridge and ending up in front of the Baghdad theater on the east side of the Willamette. Easily avoidable and somewhat ruined the effect of "accurately" representing the city on celluloid. And for the love of god, it's illegal to pump our own gas in Oregon, so don't put your actors in jeopardy of getting molested by Johnny Law by doing just that.

The concert following the film (actually it was a few hours later in the day, easily passed at Powell's Books down the street) was quite satisfying. Human Bell opened for Bonnie "Prince" Billy...big ups to Baltimore (I spent a few years there in my youth) where both groups currently hail from. I have to admit that the band that played with Oldham seemed a bit extraneous...the sole reason I went to see this man was for the man himself. He has a voice that is tender yet razor-edged...a rusty blade caressing soft soft skin. Such intensity and depth of emotion, yet threatening to crumble into nothingness at each breath. And his lyrics are so fucking sad, it's unbelievable. Well, for the most part...he does seem to have branched out and perked up a bit since the era of his discography I've been exposed to (very limited, but present all the same thanks to my buddy Reid). Will Oldham is hard to watch in person...he constantly fidgets, picking up scraps of paper, putting his hands in his pockets, tapping bandmates on the shoulders, wiping his forehead with a hanky, cuffing his pantlegs, adjusting his microphone, standing on one leg like a seagull then crossing his legs and shivering like a preschooler holding his peepee in...his body was pure chaos, but his voice always seemed to be aimed directly and solidly at the microphone, a disconcerting juxtaposition of sensory inputs that never failed to keep my attention. It wasn't until a co-singer by the name of Donna came on very late in the show that he mellowed out and focused both his body and his voice onto the task at hand. Anyway, enough blahblahber, I'm fucking tired...it was a great show. He's actually played three nights in a row, all completely sold-out. I was fortuitous enough to purchase the very last ticket, a last-minute cancellation that looked like it had gone through the wash 36 times then given to a Saint Bernard for safekeeping. I'm surprised I got in the door with the scrappy rag...and happy I did just that. Thanks for a good time, Will.


...get your shit together and start writing again. I know a week alone in Amboy has gotta be heaven for you, but I'm sure Pork wouldn't approve of all the porn you've been recording on their TIVO.

You should write about that time we got shot at by Cellski on his motorcycle.

Or maybe about our first experience with Uzbekistani giants.

It's up to you; just pull it together, mayne.


Random Nuggets

-I was fortunate enough to witness the Portland-based (100 years and running) Franz bakery demonstrate their hipness by creating and presenting the world's longest hotdog and bun combo. Peep game:

-'Stach for Cash, a fundraiser/contest for best mustache in categories such as sexiest (an oxymoron), bushiest, and creepiest, was a huge disappointment. Jeff, Kes, and I didn't really give it a chance, but just had to leave immediately after walking in and seeing everyone sporting fake mustaches. Come on...

-Back in April, I was reading through the music section in The Mercury, one of our great free weekly papers, and saw this upcoming show...The Passion of the Christ with the Sounds of Slayer. The local club, Sabala's, decided that the best way to celebrate the birth of Our Lord was to project Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ, turn the sound off, and blast the angelic Sunday worship sounds of Satan's own Slayer. That is so wrong, but so rad.

-Aside from the Daytime World Naked Bike Ride (which drew several thousand participants this year), the number one gayest event I haven't yet attended is Voodoo Doughnut's COCKFEST 2006. At this "contest" (I don't see how this is anything but a lose-lose situation), men get together and erectify their penis', then see who can stack the most doughnuts on their stick. No. But then again I do so cherish their apple fritters & soul-saving 22-hour business day, and well...the cock-n-balls is a masterful stroke (hah) of genius:



Sperm Murder

Currently in Oregon, there's a measure (43) on the ballot that, if passed, will legally require doctors to send out parental notification letters if a minor comes to them for an abortion. The seriously fucked up part is that if a father rapes his daughter, he'll get a nice little letter in the mail informing him of his daughter's abortion of their child...hmm, and this isn't a set up for further rape, physical abuse, or infanticide/murder? There is no clause for incest and rape exlusions if this measure passes.
Well, apparently in the state of Oregon, anyone can plop down $500 and get their own space in the voter's pamphlet to write whatever the hell they want in the Arguments in Favor or Opposition sections. This one was so great, I'm including it in it's entirety. It is an argument in "Favor."

At the moment of fertilization, cells begin to divide and multiply. Every cell contains our DNA--three billion pieces of genetic information. Every cell is sacred!
The 80 trillion cells in our body are dividing and multiplying all the time. And tragically, some cells die and are replaced. Why, God kills off several hundred billion of your red blood cells every day! But "Thou shalt not kill." Only God may kill your cells.
Every cell is sacred--sperm, egg, embryo, fetus, heart, hair, fingernail. Jesus said, "Even the hairs of your head are all numbered" (Matthew 10:30). Every cell is God's holy creation.
Although the Bible clearly indicates that the cells of the fetus have no soul separate from its mother (see previous argument), abortion nonetheless murders precious living cells.
According to Leviticus, a menstruating woman is unclean. She has wasted an unborn egg that could become a human life. The law should require parental notification of impending unborn uncleanliness.
Every act of masturbation kills up to 500 million unborn lives. Every sperm is sacred! Just like abortion, masturbation murders soulless cells. There should be parental notification prior to masturbation.
According to the Bible, beard shaving (Leviticus 19:27) is every bit as immoral as homosexuality! Just like abortion scrapes away life in the uterus, shaving violently scrapes away and murders millions of living skin cells. Barbershops should be required to give parental notification before committing shaving sin.
Did you know that slaughtering a sacred appendix causes it to feel pain?
The Bible says that children who fail to honor their parents should be stoned to death (Exodus 21:17). Implementing biblical law as Oregon public policy could effectively eliminate teenage abortion, appendectomy, shaving and sperm-murder.
Every cell is sacred. Every cell--from soulless fetus to fingernail--is a precious life that must not be killed.

Big Block Hippies

So last night I'm standing in line at the Aladdin Theater after just purchasing a last minute scalped ticket to see the tenth and final Night of the Murder Ballad...suddenly I hear my name being called, "OOOldie!" I turn, and there's Jeff standing up through a sun roof, stopped at a red light with some co-workers. The light turns green and I run after them, chasing them through the intersection doing some Riverdance kick moves and just basically looking like an asshole. And Jeff doesn't stop, despite the risk of my soul being captured by God as I dodged oncoming traffic...I found out later the guyser was on his way to go ghost-hunting at some cemeteries in Beaverton (Wow, cool...look at that ghost getting a manicure and beating her immigrant workers).
The murder ballads were great, performed by Stumptown notables like Dirty Martini, Heroes & Villains, Lil' Sue, and a bunch of others I'm not hip enough to remember...some great Nick Cage songs ("Where the Wild Roses Grow" among others), some nice originals, a few touching old timey tunes, and some lively covers of pop death dirges like "Jaynie's Got a Gun" along with two from the Blue Oyster Cult and the Violent Femmes that I can't recall the names of. Unfortunately it lasted close to four hours, and I felt myself nodding off despite the chorus of carnage on-state...
To fend off the feeling of getting old, I called up Jeff and we waxed our eyebrows, plucked our backhair, applied Rogaine, pulled on our lime-green Spandex and did some Xtreme BMXing.
Kidding...though I secretly wish I wasn't.
Instead we decided to bump some belligerent Bay Area gangsta rap Jeff bought earlier in the day, and drive by the Hawthorne Theater where some reggae concert was taking place...I screamed "Big Block, bitches!" and screeched off...then parked half a block down the street and we went inside to give a listen. The singer was a black-version of my stepdad with balding dreadlocks. It was a pretty sweet vision. The stink was overwhelming though, and I had a grand mal seizure just reminiscing about Arcata (Jeff and I went to school there, at Humboldt), so we bounced for a gin & tonic at Mulligan's a few blocks away. The bar had no character, but two things saved the experience...the first was a back room with the names of all the counties in Ireland carved into the plaster walls, the second being the three songs that played while we were briefly there were some Outkast, Goodie Mob, and Mos Def. Their old stuff. None too shabby.
Hungry, we stopped off at No Fish, Go Fish but were immediately shooed away by a gang of nekkid folks inside...we didn't want to cause a scene (can you imagine getting into a fight with a bunch of flaccidly floozy forty year olds?...I can't either) so we headed home for some leftover pizza I had from a previous night's trip with Kes to Blind Onion where she and I had filled out our ballots for the upcoming election (Oregon is a mail-in only state...there are no polling booths).
On the way back to the flophouse, I decided to take a detour under the freeway to this massive storage complex I had been eyeballing for over a year as a potential foty (that's 40oz., nugget) spot. It was like a miniature city, and we drove around until hitting a dead end dirt path...I put the car in reverse and looked in the rearview and HOLY FUCKING SHIT. There were goddamn LIBYANS behind us in a VW bus, homeboy standing through the sun roof with a fucking rocket launcher. Then I saw Doc get his chest liquefied with an AK-47, and we went apeshit trying to save him, but man, he was ghost.
So we went home and watched a library rental foreign film about a dad and his son taking a road trip from Paris to Mecca. Jeff fell asleep within 20 minutes, as always.
I cursed the terrorists, and wept for Doc.
Like my man Guru says, "Word is born, he was a good man."

Like herpes flare-ups...

...weeee're baaaack.

Excuses are in order.
Jeff was in Europe for the past 2 months and didn't feel that he had to contribute to the blog during his absense...his rationale? "'Cause I like to party."
Great, bud.
Me, myself...well, I purchased a demonic little despot named Frisco. She's a terror of a tiger. Nothing like rescuing a kitten from emminent murder (got her from the Humane Society) and being rewarded with hands that look like maggot-filled meatloaf, absolutely no sleep ("Hey human slave, wake the fuck up, it's 3am, I'm hungry, feed me, you biiotch."), and shit-scented apartment air. I've never been much attached to material goods, but that was always easy when I never really had good shit. However, I recently bought a new couch, and the thing already looks like a raggedy chew toy. Thanks, Frisco. Fortunately, I love the hell out of the little critter, and we've been spending most of our free time with her, teaching her how to kill things and...well, enjoying her preciousness.
Anyway, these two factors have lead us to attempt a change in format for our Portland chronicles...we'll now be attempting to write more frequent, less lengthy entries.
Wish us luck, homebwoyns.


Food For Thought

I know, I know...a lame replacement for a real blog entry, but I just really had to share these with our readers. Yes, I'm talking to all three of you.

Thanks to Larry for these two precious gems.

"Why, of course the people don't want war. Why should some poor slob on a farm want to risk his life in a war when the best he can get out of it is to come back to his farm in one piece. Naturally the common people don't want war, neither in Russia, nor in England, nor in America, nor, for that matter, in Germany. That is understood. But after all, it is the leaders of the country who determine the policy and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy, or a fascist dictatorship, or a parliament, or a communist dictatorship. Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same in any country."
-Herman Goering, Hitler's Air Marshal

"There is no way in which a country can satisfy the craving for absolute security-but it can bankrupt itself, morally and economically, in attempting to reach that illusionary goal through arms alone...Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired, signifies in the final sense a theft from those who are hungry and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed. This world in arms is not spending money alone. It is spending the sweat of its laborers, the genius of its scientists, the hopes of its children."
-D.D. Eisenhower

Kinda makes you get a bit nostalgic for a president who could actually grasp the workings of the English language.

Unlike this dipshit (who, I'm sure, is planning the quickest route to a shower after being bribed with extra pretzels by his handlers to hug an African American woman):
Hmmm, a few short quotes of his come to mind:
"I think the intelligent I get is darn good intelligence." July 14, 2003.
"There is no doubt in my mind that this country cannot achieve any objective we put our mind to." April 20, 2004.
"Security is the essential roadblock to achieving the road map to peace." July 25, 2003.
"I want to thank the astronauts who are with us--the, uh, the courageous, uh, spacial entrepreneurs." January 14, 2004.
Apparently, dumbfuckery simply drips from his face hole.

Borat comes to the a U. S. and A. Yees, I like...

Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan

This is like a wet dream for Jeff and I. This guy is our hero.



Please, you come and see the show. It is nice!


Pillow fightin' with turtle power

Old and I have been planning this for a while: get some pot, rent Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TMNT), get stoned, and watch one of the greatest movies of our generation. It was a grand plan. Things stalled, though, when we both came to terms with the fact that we were no longer cool and did not know anybody who would sell us a sack. Lucky for me, I eventually stumbled across some friends who smoke like it's going out of style, and they aided me in acquiring some of the sticky green. Phase one, complete.

On to phase two: get the movie. This was the easy part. I was able to confiscate the DVD from work, leaving my underprivileged kids with an even scarcer collection of movies to watch. I know it sounds bad, but imagine the alternative: no TMNT, no stroll down memory lane, no excuse to smoke a joint. Come on, it was an easy decision. As it turns out, though, I did not need the DVD. A couple weeks after I "borrowed" the movie from work, Old informed me that TMNT was to play at a theater on PSU's campus. Well now, wasn't this beginning to look like a fateful event. What's more, we were able to proceed with our plan and I didn't have to watch a "stolen" DVD.

OK, phase three. I eventually had a friend give me some pot from a sack that he bought. We didn't need much, as it had been quite some time since Old and I last smoked, and it wouldn't take much to get us high. Actually, it had been two years for me, so I knew that a few hits would be ample. As none of us had the right paraphernalia to smoke it with, we decided to get some zigs zags. Aww yes, an old fashioned joint; a doobie; a spliff. I went to my local Freddie Meyers and made the purchase. I took the papers to Old's, and we proceeded to each roll a joint (one for now, one for another special event in the future). Now, I'm quite embarrassed to admit this, but I forgot how to roll a proper joint. As we sat around a table, papers in hand, I realized Old was in the same predicament. Great, what a bunch of losers. Not only was our plan a tad immature and juvenile, but we lacked the necessary sills to carry it out. Well, we did our best anyhow. Old's was a little skimpy, but at least it was evenly distributed. Mine, on the other hand, was real skinny on the ends and fat in the middle. It looked like a freakin' potato. Oh well, we did our best, and we could now move on to the next phase.

Movie time, sort of. Our plans changed a little when the annual PDX pillow fight was scheduled the same night as TMNT. As it turns out, the two events would not conflict, rather we'd just have to see the movie after the pillow fight. Yes folks, I'm talking about a real, honest-to-goodness pillow fight. Every year in Pioneer Courthouse Square (think Union Square in SF), hundreds of people gather on a predetermined night and beat each other silly with pillows. The great thing about it is not all in the square (i.e. tourists, business men on lunch breaks, etc.) are aware of the planned chaos (oxymoron?). So, when the pillows break out at the specified time, a lot of unsuspecting folks are caught off guard. With pillows swinging, feathers flying, and yells echoing off the downtown skysrapers, the orgy lasted for about 15 minutes. It was madness. After our pillows busted, and we no longer had the energy to continue, we decided it was time to move on to the last phases of our plan.

We headed off to the movie theater, winding our way through the downtown streets. We were on a mission. Movie time was in about 20 minutes and we still had to smoke. First, though, we had to find a secret spot to do the deed. See, we're both pansies and were scared to smoke in public. So, when we found a six-story parking garage across the street from the theater, we knew we found the right location. When we got to the top floor, Old broke out his case of Altoids, where the magic spliff was concealed. We proceeded to smoke ourselves silly. Sadly, we couldn't even finish the joint. This didn't matter, though, because the giggles already kicked in and we were well ready to watch Raphael, Splinter, Casey Jones, and gang take down Shredder and his evil network of street thugs.

Final phase: ninjas in a half-shell. Old and I barely made it down the six flights of stairs. It seemed like an eternity. Clearly, smoking on the top floor of a parking garage was a poor choice. We both forgot about the laziness that would quickly kick in. No matter, seeing our beloved sewer-dwelling ninjas provided the necessary motivation to keep walking. When we got to the theater, I realized just how high I was. I could barely buy my ticket without breaking out into an hysterical convulsion. The ticket vender had to know what was going on. And if the sight of Oldie and I salivating over Reeses Pieces and Snickers displayed under the glass casing was not enough for her, I don't know what would be.

We finally made our way to our seats. As catch phrases like "cowabunga" and "totally, dude" reverberated through the theater, and familiar faces, like April and Casey Jones, graced the screen, Oldie and I knew our plan could not be topped. It was brilliant and well worth the hassle we went through. The pillow fight seemed like ages ago, and just added to the adventure that became of the night.

When Raphael, Michaelangelo, Donatello, and Leonardo, along with the help of Casey Jones and April, found and saved Splinter, the movie proved to be just as epic as we fondly remembered. As the final seen approached, and Splinter (who is a mutant rat/martial arts expert) defeats Shredder on a Manhattan rooftop, Old and I could only anticipate when we'd be able to watch the sequel (you know, the one with Vanilla Ice).

The movie was the pinnacle of the evening, and most of what happened after is a blur. I do know we went to a pub and were able to buy pizza and beers for $1.00 each, but cannot remember how we got home. I didn't black out, or anything like that, it was just overshadowed by the greatness that is Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

Peace to Beebop and Rocksteady.


Morons Heart the Puerco.

Okay, so let me preface this blog by proclaiming my drunkeness...it's been over a month since I last pollinated this blog of ours, and Jeff's been a tad annoying with his guilt trips (he's been known for those since way back in Junior High). So yes, it's the Fourth of July, the great day of Independence, and we just got home from a grand adventure out on the town filled with harrassment, fireworks, and the obligatory boozer of the 40 oz. variety. Olde English to be exact. The night started off with my brother Dan and I cruising down to the local 7-11 (a tragic day, according to Ali G...if you don't know, go rent season one of the same name) to meet up with Lucky Green. Along the way, we were struck with the feeling that we were in a warzone...I'm talking explosions echoing off of the skyscrapers, lights punctuating the skyline, fires raging rampantly and randomly. The locals were out of control with their personal illegal arsenals of fireworks, giving a whole new meaning to the nickname "Little Beirut", a term first christened upon Portland by George Bush the Senior, the Daddy Asshole in, I'm sure, a long line of puckered brown cavernous shit pits. Well, Jeff was running a bit late, and upon his arrival we purchased our chilled malted liquors and set out at a brisk pace for our predetermined meeting grounds to watch the city's fireworks display and catch a cool buzzard. Like I was saying, we were running late, and about half way to our destination we realized the show had started early, and we were missing it. Before we had taken another step, though, we found ourselves in the midst of a Spagetti Western-worthy showdown between three young men wielding Roman Candles in each hand, striving to burn great big gaping holes in one another's eye sockets. Dodging about, we began to initiate our own personal firestorm, shooting off large bottle rockets that I had sequestered in my old van all the way from Georgia a few years ago, throwing firecrackers into senior housing complex courtyards, and causing general mayhem in the form of a hissing wick and a loud bang or twelve. Hustling on to the Steel Bridge, the Northwest's version of the Pipe Bridge in Petaluma, we caught the tail end of the city-sanctioned pyro's wet dream...Go Freedom, we patriots love our fireworks...Jihad. Bomb. Bush. Hmmm...just thought I'd publish that to justify that particular administration's wiretapping and logging of my personal phone calls and emails.

Jeff wants me to mention that on a previous night, almost a year ago, we had been walking to the Steel Bridge, and decided to take a short cut through the overgrown brush of a nearby abandoned building's back lot. We were about half way through the grassy patch, when we suddenly saw movement all around us...upon closer examination, we realized that there were dozens of homeless folks surrounding the broken glass-strewn pathway...having crazy sleeping bag sex. Seriously going at it, hardcore sweaty style, all in unison like some sinister musical piece in Fantasia, positions galore...it was a treat. I wanted to hang out and masterbate, but Jeff kinda freaked out and goaded us along.

Segways aside, tonight we had passed through the bum sex path unscathed, I launched a rocket at some dudes train hopping (and they loved it), and we found ourselves guzzling our O-E on the pedestrian foot path underneath the Steely Bridger. One of our favorite parts about this particular bridge is that if you stick around for at least an hour, you're guarenteed to have at least one train come by, screeching on the tracks not but eight feet from the walkway spanning the polluted waters of the Willamette. This particular train was especially long, and before we knew it, our eardrums were bleeding brain butter from the prolonged sharp squeel of the steel wheels on the steel rails at the sharp turn in the tracks to enter the bridge close by to where we happened to be standing. To drown out this ungodly, but strangley addicting and comforting, sound, we plugged our ears and began to sing-hum loudly, all at the same tone and pitch. The sound that we emitted matched perfectly with the screech of the freight liner, and even prompted Danny Boy to break out into an imprompto dance jig. I know it's completly uninteresting reading this particular event's details, but we'll remember it as one of the sublime moments of our lives, where man and machine met each other mouth to ear piece and became one piercingly obnoxious organism. I'm sure those critter humans crawling across the bridge had similar thoughts, for a few let out a high-pitched breath of their own, and many cheered, justifing our public intoxication with their very public approval. We kicked it for a bit more, and blew up the spot after sucking down the remainders of our bottlers (minus a small portion of the bitter brew for a bitter death...RIP Joe, you were a good guy, and you'll be in my thoughts) by lighting off the remainder of our bottle rockets out over the water. Somehow, along the way, I managed to piss all over my slacks while attempting to urinate through the grate bordering the bridge...these are the things you lose control over as one travels further upon the path of the ancients. What can I say, I'm old, and could probably use a set of Depends once in awhile to prevent accidents such as these.


The Hunger set in, so we wandered aimlessly around searching for substanance, road kill, dead babies, whatever could be ground up in our gullet and passed out our holepit. Burgerville...closed, and the Greshamite (i.e. sludge bucket, i.e. grease sack, i.e. fatty) wouldn't let us in to nibble some fries. Denny's...naw, too many pesos. Oh, what's that? Is that a traffic cone? Am I drunk? A great combination. Oh, is that the drive through at Burger King? Sidling on up into line (you know I was drunk, 'cause "the King" meat tastes like a man's ahnoos, and Borat and I don't eat that shit) we decided to try the whole walk-through the drive-through thing...hey, it used to work in the P-town of our youth. We squeezed into line between a truck full of goddamn "You don't know?" lawnmower haircut girl's pants saucer sized sunglasses emo tears hipsters, and some cool mutherfucker in a little honda hatchback. The hipsters were futilely attempting to order food, but we were going fucking nuts...Green and Dan were barking, hopping up and down on the pressure plate and trying to get in a fight with the hipsters who were giving us frigid too cool for school looks...I'm sure me screaming into the traffic cone "I'd like two brown trouts, some man-flesh gorditos, and a pair of fish tacos with cream sauce!" had something to do with their irriation, 'specially 'cause the guy taking their order thought they were the source of the harrassment initially and kept asking them to stop messing around or he wouldn't take their order. The driver of the gang of tinsel-toed pansies pokes his head out the window and tries to initiate a verbal confrontation with me..."He's getting angry with me so why don't you just go away." Figga please..."I want biggie fries with my Virjeen enchiladas, you trouter browner," I'm sure I said to him, caught up in the ridiculousness of the moment, and unable to interact on any reasonable level. "Get fucked you Merganzer Pup." At this point, the King employee caught on that there were forces of evil at work in his little world, and began screaming into his microphone, emitting "You better shut up if you want to order anything here." Response: "We want some Brown Trout Slurpee's and extra biggie sauce drink tray goblin ketchup packets with McFlurry Western Bacon Cheeseburger Macciato Double Pump with Whip Grande Venti......please." Machine squawk: "All right that's it, you guys can't order here." So what do we do? We walk behind the rad guy in the Hatchback who was initially behind us, choking with laughter, him and us both. This new guy pulls up to the order box, and starts to tell the King's servant what he wants, but the peasant thinks the guy is us, and tells him "I told you to get the hell out of here!" The Honda guy is good-hearted, turns to us, and says "I don't even care about eating now, you guys get props," and waits patiently in line behind the hipster truck to try and find food elsewhere. Feeling kinda bad that we robbed this guy of a feces-infected ground anal burger, we decided to put on a bit more of a comedy routine for him by harrassing the fuck out of the initial truck of failed rockstars who were now waiting at the window for their food. Upon the night worker seeing our gaggle group, me with cone in hand, walking towards the truck, he begins to flail his arms out the store window "Get out of here or I'm calling the cops!!!" Now I'm not a big fan of cops, but this guy was a bit too uptight, even for a man's ahnoos, so I walked between the truck and the window and started taunting the guy, doing little jigs, yelling obscure combos of food orders at both the 'ipsters and the night manager, finishing off with a chant of BROWN TROUT, BROWN TROUT, BROWN TROUT..."That's it, Chuck call 911, get the cops over here to arrest these guys...nice one buddy, you just messed with the wrong people!" Immediately, and I'm sure completely coincidentally, we hear a little piggy snort over a bullhorn loudspeaker "HEY MORONS, YOU WANNA COME WITH ME FOR THE NIGHT!?! WHY DON'T YOU PUT DOWN THAT TRAFFIC CONE AND STOP ACTING LIKE A BUNCH OF IDIOTS." "Thanks officer, we're done now, just feeling a bit patriotic with the whole Independence Day thing. Go Freedom." The cop goes on his way, and I order up one more fish taco with cream sauce before we release the traffic cone and head on over to Safeway for a midnight snack. One can only hope that in the confusion and chaos, some awesome employee at Burger King took advantage of the lack of supervision and slipped the contents of a sailor's scumbag onto a hipster's burger. Even better, I hope the hipster realized the error of flavor too late, and began to cry, causing the whole truckload to burst into a song of deep and utter sadness at their being sooooo so misunderstood.



Giraffe hunting

It's been a while since Oldie and I have gone backpacking. In high school, it was a twice-monthly trip to Point Reyes, where he, his brother, and I would use school funding and drivers to get us to a trail where, once there, we would ditch the rest of the group and venture off with our cigars and other smoking paraphernalia to an isolated camp site away from our "chaperones." We would spend hours on the trail, shooting the shit and making a diet of beef jerkey. Since high school, though, we've only managed to get a few car camping trips in. These were usually reunion trips, where all the fellas would get together and sit around a campfire with an extensive assortment of beers and liquor and, of course, a boom-box blaring all the old-school Frisco rap songs. To say the least, the latter trips were never confused with serious, outdoor excursions into the back-country.
So, for the first time since high school, Old and I decided to go backpacking. The original plan was to hike around Mt. Hood with his brother (Dan the Polar Bear), father (Don), and a friend of his dad's (Ron). However, as the trip neared, plans changed a little, and Old's sister, Courtney, and Ron's daughter, Jacqueline were added to the list of safari goers.
Also, our destination was no longer Mt. Hood; we would instead be hiking along the Columbia Gorge through a series of canyons and waterfalls

While the scenery was nice, and most the company was enjoyable, the trip turned out much different than we had envisioned. What was initially planned as a foray into the Pacific Northwest wilderness, turned into a trek along Interstate 84, through rock slide fields and poison oak laden trails leading to campgrounds with car and RV access.The constant hum of the nearby (when we weren't actually walking on it) freeway, and the presence of RVers and car campers, took the luster out of well-intended trip. As we lost our enthusiasm for the excursion early on, we began to create our own stimuli and imagined wilderness. Equipped with our doo doo pistols, we sought to find wild giraffes and merganzer pups.

Now, merganzer pups you may not have heard of, but giraffes are, so we thought, well known for roaming the hills of the Columbia Gorge. Their loud mating cries were heard many a time, coincidentally every time a train would roll by. In fact, it could have been the trains that scared them away, thus keeping them away from our capture. But, while the giraffes remained elusive, the merganzer pups did not. We spotted them a couple of times floating on the Columbia river. I thought they were ducks, but Old kindly explained the difference to me. Apparently they are a wild breed of Cat-Bird. It became obvious what they were when they let loose their merganzer quacks.

At the end of our first day, after spotting a few merganzer pups and hearing the enk-calling Pika, we arrived at a campground full of RVs. No, not your typical back-country backpacking experience, but it was going to have to do. To help the process of making do, Ron kindly pulled out a six pack of beer from his ginormous pack, as well as margarita mix. While we all criticized his unorthodox packing style, we had no trouble sharing his alcohol. After eating dinner, we all decided to hit the sack. Because it was so nice, we decided to leave the tent at home. Unfortunately, it wasn't the weather that would necessitate a tent, rather it was the grizzly raccoons that lurked in the bushes. Just as I fell asleep by convincing myself that the freeway hum was really the Pacific ocean, I was woken by a rabid, 35 pound, small dog-sized raccoon running across my sleeping pad. As I let out a cry of fear, Old frightened quickly, too, and let out a yell of his own. Naturally, this woke everybody in the camp, and those in nearby campsites as well. As the flashlights and pocket knives were brandished, we realized that no, I wasn't being attacked by a bear or abducted by aliens, but rather a raccoon had decided to raid the box of cookies that Ron brought with his beer and liquor. I just happened to be sleeping in his path, and the damn thing was too lazy to walk around my sleeping bag.

The next day, we continued our trek along the concrete wilderness that is Interstate 84. We still had our sights set on finding a giraffe, but when we realized how slim our chances were, we decided to point out as many brown trout as we could. What's amazing about brown trout, is that they take on many different forms. They can be little floaties in the river, or some other unidentifiable creatures traversing the wilderness. While on our 12 mile hike to the second camp ground, we found a creek with a dead brown trout floating in it. As it was obviously a sign from the brown trout gods, we decided to unstrap our doo doo pistols and turn the creek into a swimming hole. As it turned out, the brown trout was more than a sign. It had mystical powers that turned all who immersed themselves in the water into Bruce Banner. Yes, the deeper one dove under water, the more they looked like the Incredible Hulk. Dan's polar bear bulk, mixed with the green murkiness of the water and Old's brilliant sound effects, aided in the transformation, but the powers of the brown trout still were undeniable.

When we went to bed that night, Old and I began to hallucinate. As the sun went down, and the trees made silhouettes against the darkening sky in the background, we started seeing things in the trees. It had nothing to do with our muscle-fatigued delirium or the Vodka Ron poured us (I'm serious, he packed enough stuff for three weeks) It was obvious the brown trout's powers were still showing it's powers. Through the trees, and beyond the campground, we were positive we saw a Chinese village along the Yang Tze river. It was amazing.

On our next day, we completely abandoned any hopes of a normal backpacking trip. Giraffes, merganzer pups, freeways, and mystical brown trouts were, yes, out of the ordinary. So, too, were the space doo doo pistols, enk-yelling Pikas, and grizzly raccoons. But, as we dined in a restaurant twice and took a ride in a BMW, day three made our wild-backcountry-excursion less than wild and backcountry. Not only did we eat lunch and dinner at restaurant, but we drank booze, smoked cloves, and watched Old's dad unintentionally prank call the 411 operator multiple times.

Our trip was definitely an adventure. We each carried 40 pounds on our backs and hiked 8 to 12 miles a day, so it technically was a backpacking trip. But the small corner store that Ron carried on his back, as well as the giraffe hunts, omnipresence of the brown trout, fine-dining, and raccoon attacks, made this trip more than just a backcountry excursion. It was part backpacking, part car camping, and part imaginative safari. While our blistered feet can attest to the fact that we went backpacking, the reality is we walked around the hills by the freeway a little, slept outside, and let our minds wander a bit.


And it happened...

I've been dreading this day since my 22nd birthday. I knew it would come, but never did I imagine so quickly. Age is a sensitive issue for me, and aging is a scary thought. Perhaps it's a manifestation of my fear of death. Perhaps it's an unwillingness to accept my immaturity. Whatever the case, aging is something I've tried to avoid, ignore, and prevent at all costs, sometimes going as far as lying about how old I am. I've been trying to get away with being 22 for 3 years now. Well, deep down, I knew that one day I wasn't going to be 22, or even 25, and that I'd actually have to (pretend to) be an adult at some point in my life. What I didn't foresee was how it would come to its eventuality. This is the story of how it happened.

Last night I went to a party. I even drank a little. I actually drank more than a little. Ok, I had a lot. "But Jeff, it seems you're always drinking. What does this have to do with you growing up?" Good question. Follow along, it'll become clear in a moment. First of all, I didn't drink a 40 oz. Nope, no St. Ides, no Old English. Not big news, as drinking 40s has become rare (even if Oldie and I are trying to bring them back into style). But, it is symbolic, however. The point is, I didn't drink the cheapest beer that I could buy en masse. Secondly, I didn't binge drink. No shotgunning, no chugging, no beer bongs...none of that. What I did do, though, was sip my alcoholic beverage. To go further, I even savored my drinks. I let the taste linger in my mouth; I tried to enjoy it. Lastly, I did this with other adults (who apparently don't share my intense age-avoiding tendencies). And when I say adults, I don't just mean peers. I'm talking about people who ranged in age from their 20s to their late 30s. Not your ordinary just-out-of-college crowd. Normally I wouldn't be caught dead with such a group, for associating with such people might reveal my secret: I am, indeed, an adult.

Now if it hasn't become clear, I'll make it simple. I'll let you know how I crossed over from a young, immature 20 something, to a mature and sophisticated geezer. I drank wine, and I did it at a wine party. Ok, there, I said it. I went to a wine-tasting party. I even bought my own wine to bring to this life-altering affair.

Here is how the party was organized. Everyone was to bring two bottles of the same wine. One bottle would be opened and used in the taste testing. After all wines were tasted, partygoers would then vote on their most preferred varietal (ugh, I said varietal). The winner would then be the proud recipient of all the unopened bottles, free to take them home and drown themselves in liquid sophistication and pretense.

To be honest, it's a great idea for a party. If it were beer we were tasting, or even whiskey, I would have never thought twice about participating. For some reason, though, wine-tasting proposed a whole new boundary for me to cross. In fact, it was the cause of much anxiety from the day I got the invite. It could very well be that I got myself all worked up over nothing, and that drinking wine is not really a big deal. But the stereotype surrounding wine drinkers was just too much for me to ignore. I nearly gave myself an ulcer when I went to Freddie Meyers to buy my wine. I know nothing about wine and I had to ask the wine steward what to buy. I ended up buying a wine from Sonoma County, just to represent Cali in good taste.

When I arrived at the party, it was if I was staring death right in the face. I was in the process of crossing a mystical plane into adulthood, a place where hip and cool were foreign concepts. I was losing an edge and conceding my youth. I saw my life unravel into a downward spiral of paying bills, reading boring books and drinking fine wines, all the while wondering what happened to my hairline (wait, I already do that). When somebody turned to me, just after tasting a wine, and stated "this wine's fermenting process was flawed...you can tell by the metallic taste," I knew that things would never be the same.

Waking up this morning, I do feel different. Looking back, it was all so surreal. Do I feel that much older? Actually no, not really. I do feel like I've been corrupted, though. I feel like I've been unfairly subjected to a whole new world where the subtle difference between a hint of cedar and a hint of oak makes or breaks a wine; a world where a wine's quality can be determined by the slick residue it leaves on a glass while swishing it around, taking in its aroma. It is true, I may be getting older. But I see this as no reason to abandon my 40s and pick up a wine glass, all in the name of sophistication. Fuck that. I may order a wine from time to time, yes, but I'd rather judge the quality of a beer by it's creamy froth (think Guinness) and the buzz it produces.


I Hate Working

I've been unfaithful to you all lately, and have created another blog elsewhere to get my rocks off temporarily. The first half a dozen posts consist of emails that I sent to my family and buds while traveling in Mexico for several months with my wife a few years back. These represent my love of the lazy life, for I hate working, and think of traveling every single hour of every single day I'm in the office.


I may add to this other blog (by the way, that is a stupid name for an online journal/web log...blog...is it even remotely possible to not come off as a total fucking tool for saying/typing/reading that word) occasionally, possibly ranting about my current workplace, complaining about my lack of ambition for success and riches, or just posting pictures of my penis I took with my cell phone 'cause I have nothing better to do with my "time" at work (which I don't get adequately compensated for anyway).
I wish I liked my job...but in the end, this work thing is for the birds.

Cell Phone Souffle

Can someone please tell me if this works.
I'd try it myself, but I dislike both the taste and smell of eggs.


Imagine what these things are doing to our brains. Scrambled neurons anyone?
Give me a call on my cell, and we'll chat about it for two hours.


Farting in your sleep

It's 12:21 AM, and while reading Old's latest blog entry (below), I hear Eileen (my landlord and housemate), deep in her sleep, bust out the loudest fart I've heard in three weeks. It echoed through her closed door and into the dining room, where I sit typing. What's more, I heard this fart over the sound of her snoring. Just to emphasize how loud this was, one should know that it was her snoring that woke me up and dragged me to the computer, as I couldn't sleep.
Maybe the fart woke her up, as the snoring has now stopped. Perhaps this is my chance to go back to sleep.


Bloodletting is all the rage.

Apologies are in order. I recently purchased a new computer, but as of yet haven't hooked up to the internet yet. The reason for this isn't sheer laziness, but the fact that I don't know how to get my computer connected to the internet outside of the free AOL discs that plague our mailboxes. I have to let you in on a dirty little trick of mine...I have been using the internet for close to eight years now without paying a dime for my service with American Online. You see, I load up those "Free 30 Day Trial" CDs, then call up to cancel a day or two before the trial period expires to avoid the monthly charge..."Why are you wishing to cancel you AOL membership, Sir?" "My wife is in the hospital...I lost my job...I was recently in an accident...I'm the victim up identity theft and someone cleared my bank account out...I was recently abducted by Secret Service agents who pulled out my fingernails and now I can't type...etc." Anyway, without fail, the phone representative gives me an additional two free months to get back on my feet financially. Sometimes they cancel my account when I call up, but then I just pop in one of the dozen or so extra trial discs stored in my computer desk and get another month free. They never caught on that I was sticking their company for hundreds, if not thousands of dollars in free internet access. I'm not sure whether it's my conscience finally catching up to me (not likely, 'cause AOL can go fuck themselves in the face for making billions off of their shitty service and mucking up the environment with all of their junkmail), or the fact that my last computer died a sad death due to all the spyware and trash that AOL installed on my computer each time I downloaded a new disc. To make a long story short, due to never having paid for the internet, and not wanting to use AOL ever again now that I have a brand-new bank account-breaking computer, I don't know how to sign up for any other type of access to the internet...and the blog has been neglected as a result, for which I am deeply sorry. Like anyone but Green and I actually read this crap. So I find myself sitting here in the Library, stinky and unshaven, encased in my writer's bathrobe.

Little tidbits:
-Last weekend after an exciting scoreless seven innings of Beavers baseball (fuck the Padres farm team housed here in Ptown...we went to watch the opposing Fresno Grizzlies, the Giants minor league team...oh, and FUCK THE DODGERS while we're on the subject), Jeff, Kes and I were heading back to NE Portland on the MAX (Stumptown's version of the Yay's BART) when I found myself blowing my nose. Just to be funny, I made a pained screeching honk sound mid-blow that came out a lot louder than I had planned. The whole car stared at me for the next 20 minutes holding in giggles, while Jeff and Kes laughed their asses off...I know, it's not funny in the slightest, but Jeff insisted that I write about it for some reason.
-A few weeks ago, Jeff and I were enjoying a crisply-carbonated beer beverage bubbler at Beulahland, the local hangout for alchoholic fiends and trivia buffs. We both happened to be repping our Frisco hats, when this skater comes up to us and starts throwing up signs. This dude was like 3 foot 4, looked like he had had a few too many cases of beer. Neither of us recognized any of the signs he was tossing up, when it hit us...this dude was deaf and wasn't trying to initiate a fight of any kind. Busting out a pen and sliding over a napkin, we initiated a brief conversation about the Bay Area and S.F...he missed it "Big Time" (I still have the napkin...I collect random useless shit like that all the time) and hailed from the Mission District. I think we were best friends for those five minutes. He then abruptly got frustrated with our lack of deaf language skills, threw up some more signs, and bounced, dragging his skateboard out with him.
-I was in Kaiser Permanente the other day for a physical (really it's just an excuse to get my nuts jostled by my elders once in a while), and while in line, the guy in front of me says "I'm here for the bloodletting." I don't think I even have to comment on that.
-I recently watched a film called Half Japanese, a "documentary" about the indie band of the same name. For the life of me I can't tell if this is a mockumentary or a serious documentation of the prepping of this midwestern band for the next Beatlemania. Somebody please go rent it and let me know what the hell is going on here. A challenging film, fo' sho'...it's truly good to not know whether or not you're being fucked with sometimes.
-I had been putting in office supply requests at work for black ink pens several weeks in a row, with no results. Finally I went directly to my supervisor, a complete limpdick who goes home "sick" each afternoon or hangs out looking at porn or playing mine sweeper all day because he isn't qualified to do much else. I asked him why I haven't recieved my pens, to which he replied "Due to cost issues, I'm denying your request for black ink pens." I instantly desired to put my thumb through his Adam's Apple, but instead calmly asked "When did black ink begin to cost more than blue or red ink?" He dodged the question by stating that the he can't tell if my requests for reimbursements (forms we have to fill out for out-of-pocket expenses we incure on a near daily basis, because he won't pre-approve any funds for our client's needs, i.e. state ID cards, work clothes, etc.) are originals or copies if I write them out with black ink. Okay, I left the issue alone...on my way out, he had me sign and copy some paperwork that he had filled out...in black ink. I need a new job. These people are fucking nuts...I'll write more about my work another time, though.
-Did you know the War on Terror is costing this country $5.9 billion dollars a month. This means that the average monthly cost to each U.S. citizen is $989. I want my money back, you shits. I recently read that the homeless populations on the West coast are rising dramatically, and yet the state of Oregon can't grant new Section 8 housing until the year 2011, due to reduced Federal funding. Taking care of our own, or destroying one of the most ancient and civilized cultures in the Middle East...seemed like a no-brainer, even for a no-brainer like Dubya.
-I appeased my inner-nerd today by visiting multiple local comic shops participating in the national Free Comic Book Day...shook hands with a Storm Trooper, got winked at by a woman dressed up like Trinity from the Matrix (don't worry Kes, I didn't wink back, as I'm saving mine for you), laughed at the sheer dorkiness factor of my fellow cheapskates, and picked up a slew of free comic books to geek out at home with.

The sun is shining, it's the weekend, and as Ice Cube would say, "Today I didn't even have to use my AK/I got to say it was a good day."


Poor blog

The blog has suffered greatly over the last few weeks. If you judged our lives solely on the activity of our writings, Old and I would be quite the sorry twenty-somethings. To be sure, we've not quit having fun, we've just been lazy. Actually, that's not totally accurate. Maybe it's Old's excuse, but I was in California for a couple weeks and felt compelled to write in another blog to document my time there.
From what I've heard from Oldie, he's been to a couple new restaurants (one, a middle-eastern place that I'd like to try), he bought a new computer, seen some new movies, and had his dad up for a weekend. Oh, I forgot. He, too, went to California. You can ask him how he managed to get the time off for a whole week. So that explains it...Old and I both went to California, although at separate times, and have not yet managed to "ponder life" while back in Portland. Hopefully this gets the ball rolling.
So, as an update, things are fine and dandy in Portland. Cali treated me well, but it's nice to be back in Portland. Weird, I never thought I'd say that. The truth is, though, I don't think my liver could have handled any more time in the Bay Area. Anyway, I'm back at work and trying not to hate it. The weather is great, so Portland isn't as depressing as it was before I went home.
As for adventures of the "Old and Jeff" nature, nothing really stands out. We did manage (nearly) to get into a fight with Rusty at the Rose and Thistle. I didn't know Rusty before that night, but the bartender pleaded with us not to "beat up Rusty, because she didn't want the cook to get fired," so I'm assuming Russ was his name. I'm not sure I remember what Rusty getting his ass kicked had to do with her cook, but her pleading worked.
We also had a grand ol' time at Tom's Sports Bar. I dragged Old there so I could watch the Nuggets in the playoffs. It was a greasy bar that reminded us of Petaluma. The game was fine, but the karaoke in the background was very disturbing. Especially disturbing was the grunting of the MC (Vincent the Oriental Redneck) into the mic. Anyway, Old couldn't handle it, so he left, leaving me with Nicole and Ashley to entertain in Portland. The three of us had a good hang, though, so it wasn't too bad.
Ok, that's that for the moment.


Rollin' to the Derby

If it seems like all Jeff does lately is drink and tell drunken stories, you’re probably right. He’s a drunken drunkard. (For the evidence, hit up his alcoholic adventures-to-be while visiting childhood friends in the Yay this week at: http://10days10nights.blogspot.com/) I swear I’ll get him help for his problem just as soon as it stops being so damn entertaining.

Well…I must admit, I too, dabble in the carbonated guzzling of a nice smooth 40oz. every now and then. What, however, is the drinking of a foty without the obligatory accompaniment of old school hip hop from the early 90’s to get your head noddin’. Cracking the fridge we found two chilled bottles of liquid bread eyeballing us, tempting our taste buds…wait, let me back up a minute, or 4320.8 to be exact. These two beauties, icy sweat beading on their glistening surfaces, had been sitting in my refrigerator for a little over 3 days. The original plan being that we were going to score some herbage and brew, get stoned and drunk, and watch the greatest film to come out of our era. Just in case you have a horrible fucking taste in movies, I’m referring to Goonies. Needless to say, the plan was dashed by our lack of pot connections, and the two forties I had purchased for the event continued to sit lonely and unused on the top shelf, partially encased in their damp brown paper bags.

Fast forward to the past present: We cracked them shits…Old English Brand “800”…anybody have a clue what the “800” refers to? My theory is that it refers to the number of hours the guys and I spent playing Goldeneye back in high school while gurping OldE. One shot, one kill, pistols in the Basement. Reid and I were goddamn assassins, always neck and neck in the bloody outcomes. Brian couldn’t have been a worse shot if he had his fingers melted off with acid. But, I digress…

The soundtrack, in order of execution…Jeff popped in the Slam soundtrack, I fired back with Nas’ Illmatic, and we ended the murky malted fluids transfusion with a tribute to Old Dirty Bastard: Return to the 36 Chambers: The Dirty Version. We proceeded to pour the remainders out for those who departed the world before their time, then jumped in the car (don’t worry Mom, Kes drove), shouting out lyrics to Wu Tang’s 36 Chambers. I was still trying to finish the last verse of Protect Ya Neck, when Kes kicked us out at the MAX station (Stumptown’s light rail train) on N. Interstate.

Hanging out waiting for the train to come, assorted extra beers slowly warming in our little hidden nooks and crannies, we noticed a confrontation brewing. A group of teenage girls were getting into the makings of a brawl, screaming curses, acting hard, etc…Feeling nice and perved we were ready for a show. Unfortunately, some fat fuck dressed all in black started yelling at the girls to break it up, getting in the middle of the group to calm things down. Well, let me tell you, I wasn’t about to have a potentially exciting scene diffused so quickly, so I told homeboy to fuck off and leave the kids alone. Walrus ass face turns, and asks, do I have a problem? Umm…yes do-gooder, leave them the fuck alone. “Do you know who I am?” No, and I don’t give a fuck. “I’m with Homeland Security.” Let me see your badge. “I don’t have to. Do you really want to push it, pal?” You’re full of shit, let me see your badge. Let me see your gun. “Don’t worry, I have a .40 caliber pistol under my jacket.” At this point, I didn’t really want to temp fate any further, and A) get shot by some psycho small-dick who thinks he’s Homeland Security, or B) wind up bleeding and unconscious in Guantanamo Bay getting my asshole probed my CIA agents. So I switched gears and mellowed out, bombarding him with questions about his job…turns out he gets to carry around an automatic machine gun and search grain ships from Israel, he gets paid less than I do, and he’s never found any weapons of mass destruction. Just thought I’d ask him if he’s seen the ones Bush was talking about, since they never did turn up in Iraq. Jeff and I thanked him for making us feel safe and secure, reminded him not to forget to stock up on duct tape, then boarded the train heading to North Portland. Some nosy girl kept badgering us to tell her what the guard and I had been talking about. For the remainder of the trip we busied ourselves with analyzing and picking apart this one sad lonely child-molester who grew up friendless and abused in a small town house and now finds solace in reading terrible novels, dressing the part of the Hipster, and wishing he had joined Homeland Security when it was the cool thing to do.

The Doors opened and we had arrived…the time was upon us, and Roller Derby was calling. The Rose City Rollers are now in their second season, and are sparking a revival of the brutal female sport. This is our latest obsession. We enter the coliseum and are greeted by the thunderous roar of bloodthirsty savages drunkenly screaming for pain and panties, two things in attendant abundance. If you’ve ever seen Mad Max: Return to the Terrordome, you know how this mob gets down. We quickly ducked into the bathroom to break the seal, beginning the two-minute cycle that comes with every 40oz. consumed. Jeff and I downed our secreted brews, then found seats in the danger zone, which is basically the area of concrete floor immediately surrounding the track, labeled so because of female gladiators that are bound to come crashing into this section at any point of the match…There are four teams, two participating in each match up, with about 15 women on each side. Each team has a mascot. Jeff’s favorite is Axl Rosa, the cross dressing male mascot for the Guns n’ Rollers. He grosses almost everyone out. He reminds us of our friend Reid for some reason. The other teams are as follows: the Break Neck Betties, the High Rollers, and the Heartless Heathers. These are some of the toughest looking women I have ever seen…we’re talking skull fracture and broken bones cuteness. I won’t get into the details of how the game is played out, but I will say it is fucking awesome. Kicking, elbowing, tripping, and spitting are all illegal moves that are practiced at a near constant rate. Dave Chappelle is the referee, and the Score Whore presents the score to the spectators while dressed as a whore, obviously. Pabst Blue Ribbon is the main sponsor, though it’s 6 bucks per plastic cup of piss, to which I say get faded beforehand. Well, not much more to report…lost a bet to Jeff and had to buy us a round of the worst hot dogs I’ve ever ingested, ran into an old friend of Kes’ from Humboldt, and watched Jeff make out with Axl Rosa in the bleachers. (Sorry Green, I couldn’t resist.)

The match over, our buzz quickly died away, as did the story…