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.

Evidelshei.

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.

Whahwhan.

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.