Swell Done!

Prix Fixe

2009-06-22T18:29:00.000-07:00

Tonight I'm going to prepare a meal using only ingredients from my backyard! This will be tricky, because I don't have a garden. In fact, I don't have a backyard at all. My house is immediately adjacent to a homeless shelter and I have bricked over the back windows in order to stop all of the peering. I just made that up, I actually do have a backyard. It just really sucks.

For starters, we'll be eating a salad of dandelion greens drizzled with fresh rainwater. Do you know that I went to a fancy restaurant once and they charged me $10 for a salad with dandelions? Apparently these weeds are not just for blowing the casual wishes of children. A rough estimate reveals that my lawn is worth thousands of dollars.

For the main, I'll be serving feral Rock Pigeon over a bed of rustic root vegetables. I will trap the pigeons as they land in my yard, after being lured and fattened by the neighbor's multitude of bird feeders. I once placed an angry looking plastic owl atop my garage to keep these pigeons out of my yard, but several of them have taken up residence in a nook just below it. I like to think that they find great comfort in the illusion of security. This is why I've purchased a second plastic owl to bait my trap. I don't know what to do about the root vegetables, but I'm sure something will come to me.

For dessert, we will have a rich, buttery brioche bread pudding topped with fresh strawberry compote, a recipe handed down to me from my French grandmere, Marguerite D'Étampes de Valençay. Her secret was to add raisins plumped in Grand Marnier and orange zest. Actually I'm just kidding, there won't be any dessert. That raisin thing is from Martha Stewart.

Pablo Bandito

2009-06-16T09:19:00.000-07:00

{When everything goes to hell and there are no longer any ice caps or polar bears, I want the squirrels on my side. Please also notice that although unfinished, the “i” in Bandito is a chili pepper. Found in Overlook Park in North Portland.}

Kentucky Derby Racehorse or Celebrity Baby?

2009-06-12T08:02:00.000-07:00

1. Atlanta Knew
2. Granacus
3. Fifi Trixibelle
4. Justice
5. War
6. Clementine
7. Alchamy
8. Skywalker
9. I Am the Game
10. Brawley King
11. Fobby Forbes
12. Larry Jr
13. Plugged Nickle
14. Paris Prince
15. Prince Michael
16. Heavenly Hiraani Tiger Lily
17. Vanlandingham
18. Nico Blue
19. Caveat
20. Zowie
21. Demons Begone
22. Rumbo
23. Elijah Bob Patricius Guggi Q. Hewson

Baby: 1, 3, 4, 6, 7, 10, 12, 15, 16, 18, 20, 23
Horse: 2, 5, 8, 9, 11, 13, 14, 17, 19, 21, 22

Which is Why I'm Leaving a Note Instead of Calling You

2009-06-09T11:17:00.000-07:00

{found on N. Interstate Avenue in Portland}

Middle Ground

2009-06-04T14:49:00.000-07:00

I rode the train to work today in that awkward old seat between religion and violence.

Seated on my left were two polite, moon-faced Christian boys, dressed in the urban youth-group uniform of arctic camouflage shorts and wrinkly on-message shirts. One t-shirt said “Got Jesus?,” which always makes me picture a little bearded man on a crucifix stuck to an upper lip. Jesus mustache. Isn’t that cute? The other kid was wearing a shirt that said “iPray,” written in eBay font. I don’t understand the message here, unless it’s just meant to be eye-catching. In which case: Mission Accomplished. That eBay font makes everything fun.

Standing to my right was a police officer whose holstered service handgun was hovering a foot from my face. I stared at it for the entirety of my ten minute ride, because my daily routine never puts me in this kind of proximity to a deadly weapon. The only loaded objects held by these hands are a couple of machaca tacos from Tito’s Burritos on 3rd and Alder. Those tacos haven’t killed anyone but they do make me feel pretty sleepy after about 2pm.

I imagined a hundred scenarios involving that gun. It accidentally shooting me. Shooting a window in the train. It somehow shooting the cop’s foot. The cop shooting beer cans atop a rickety wooden fence in a golden field behind a farmhouse. I also imagined myself reaching for his gun, the chaos that would follow. It’s strange to stare down a terrible option and realize with crystal clarity that if you exercised it, your life would be made instantly poorer. I don’t have any compulsion to grab this gun, but I do have the compulsion to wallow in those dreadful imaginary consequences.

Recent Desperations

2009-06-01T21:10:00.000-07:00

About a month ago lunchtime, in the sunny thicket of the Tupperware and tin foil crowd in Portland's Pioneer Square, there was a man looking for work. He was dressed nicely, maybe in a suit but at the very least a shirt, tie and pants with cuffs and pleats. He was holding a stack of resumes in one hand and glad handing with the other. Nothing unusual. Except that to his waist was tethered an enormous white balloon, swaying at the top of a 25 foot rope, that read, "Marketing Job Wanted." I don't know if anyone offered him a job, but about seven hundred people took his photograph with their cell phones.

Yesterday while I was waiting on the same square for a train home, there was another man looking for work. This man was dressed more casually, a clean t-shirt with jeans, comfortable shoes and a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. I saw him first from a distance, handing out small white cards that I assumed to be advertisements for diet pills, dance clubs or massage. But people were actually taking his cards. And smiling. And talking to him. And he was moving fast, handing me this card about thirty seconds later.

"Will you visit my website and email it to one hundred and fifty of your friends?" he asked.

"I don't know Dave, what are your qualifications?"

"Oh I can do lots of things. I really just need work" he said.

I didn't agree to send it to one hundred and fifty of my friends, but I can say that his website is a pretty good read. I can also say that in the five minutes I waited for the train, he handed out about fifty of these cards to total strangers. I don't know if anyone will ever hire him, but I do like those odds.

Man versus Machine:Treadmill at the Gym Edition

2009-05-29T12:00:00.000-07:00

Look at my shoes, Treadmill at the gym. They’re one hundred percent pure jackrabbit, kissed by Hermes and treaded with the fresh rubber of unused Formula One tires. They feel like marshmallows against my feet and their venting is so advanced that my toes will be cold when your graph passes peak cardio. These shoes are one of a kind. I made them myself in my garage, working late at night, hunched over a plywood workbench bathed in the fluorescent haze of the kind of cluttered space that feels empty without Conway Twitty playing softly on a little black radio in the corner. Several nights a week for last three years, I squinted into a jeweler’s loupe to craft the intricate genius of these kicks. Obviously they are perfectly in sync with my biomechanics. Do you know why? Because my biomechanics made them. You on the other hand were fabricated in a cold, lifeless factory in Greensboro, pieced together by other machines and workers paid too little to love you. You are filled with wires and beeping. I am filled with resolve and determination. We’ve barely started but I don’t even notice that we’ve started at all, because I can run all day in my shoes.

Going to Incline Level 5

Do you know your biggest mistake, Precor Treadmill? It’s giving me personal cable television with a headphone jack. No force in the universe is so powerful, so adept at advancing time as midday cable programming. Minutes become seconds, seconds become whatever half-seconds are called and half-seconds cease to exist when I’m watching last year’s CSI with Animal Cops on the flip flop. You can change speed and incline all afternoon but I can change channels. The only pain I feel is for the wayward teenager that Dr. Phil is scolding now about getting drunk on hand sanitizer. This really happens. Speaking of hand sanitizer, I am sweating all over you.

Going to Speed 7

Listen to me Precor Treadmill: This is a marathon to me, not some kind of backyard beanbag toss. I can keep this up for days but I doubt your motor would survive. I will give you this – your spongy deck is an immaculate conception. You take the punishing blows of my feet like the firm mattress of a Palm Springs hotel I once stayed at and remember fondly. We stayed up all night in that retro cool room, jumping in time on the bed to Club Nouveau which was a popular band in 1986. Do you remember Club Nouveau? Of course you don’t. Your blueprints hadn’t even been drawn then. You’re also a machine with no concept of present or past popular culture, which I find tragic.

Going to Speed 10

You keep throwing up hurdles but you fail to recognize that I’m a hurdler. This sprint doesn’t frighten me because I know that it’ll be over in 53 blinks of a green LED graph bar, when you’ll flash the words “Cool Down,” which may as well read “I Am Defeat.” I mean that you would say “defeat” instead of “defeated,” because how can you know the difference between a noun and a transitive verb? No one programmed you to know that. All you can do is make me run at various speeds for 30 minutes, but even I told you to start doing that in the first place. I can decide at any time that it should be 20 minutes instead, maybe use those extra ten minutes to pick things up and put them down again in front of a mirror.

Cool Down

You are pathetic. See you Thursday.

Carbohydrant

2009-05-27T22:04:00.000-07:00

It's highly unlikely but not impossible that this fire hydrant was pried open by a gang of sweltering neighborhood kids desperate for liquid relief, who were instead showered with a Memorial Day's bounty of hamburger buns. Just in time for barbecue season.

(Taken at N Interstate Avenue and Humboldt Street. More photos of found food here.)

Summer of No Love

2009-05-21T13:59:00.000-07:00

One side of a phone conversation, overheard while waiting in the shoe match line in Nordstrom Rack, downtown Portland:

WOMAN
You should totally come visit me this summer, it's amazing here.

PERSON IN SAN DIEGO
(inaudible)

WOMAN
No it's really nice weather in the summer. You can do everything, biking and surfing and all that. Well not surfing like in San Diego, but with a dry suit.

WOMAN
What? No, I love it here.

WOMAN
Well yeah, there are hippies. I'm not going to tell you there aren't hippies here, but really there's like, hippies everywhere, so I don't know how you can avoid them.

WOMAN
No, they're not really those kinds of hippies. The ones here are more like the kind of hippies that recycle and stuff.

WOMAN
Yeah, and a few dirty ones too.

(long silence)

WOMAN
Well, I still think you should come visit me.

Here is What Happened on the Day I Decided to Sit by the Highway and Wave at Passing Cars

2009-05-20T21:12:00.000-07:00

It took a while for people to start noticing me. In the morning during rush hour, I was indistinguishable from the roadside clutter that paints the landscape of the morning commute. Eyes forward. Hands on the wheel. No one notices a guy who’s using a personal holiday to sit in an aluminum lawn chair and wave at passing cars. And if no one notices, no one waves back. Until about 9:30.

The first person to wave back looked like a woman, though it was hard to be sure because she was moving pretty fast (I don’t know why I mention her gender, it’s not really important). I could, however, see that she didn’t smile when she waved. In fact she may have frowned more, or been the sort of person with unhappiness permanently etched in the corners of a mouth that seem to fall forever towards the floor.

But anyway, it was nice that she bothered to wave back.

More people started waving the closer it got to noon. Then the honking started with the occasional “woo woo!” and a terrible looking Toyota Corolla full of school-ditching kids who all gave me the finger in unison. There were no moonings to speak of but there was a little bit of headlight flashing and more than a couple long haul truckers who really let me have it with the big horn. One of those cottonpickers was really standing on the pedal in the hammer lane when he blew out his eighteenth tire. BOOM! SMOKE! That scaly piece of rubber sat there on the tar in front of me for the rest of the day, splayed out in the sun like a lost alligator. I thought about running out to pick it up, Frogger style, but that’s not what this day was about.

I waved big sweeping waves for hours. I alternated arms and speeds to keep things fresh. There was a nice long streak of wave-backs around three o’clock that ended when I waved at Jeff Perkins and he waved back. I knew his name was Jeff Perkins because he told me so, after he pulled off the side of the road to get out and say hello.

“Whatcha doing out here on the highway?” Jeff Perkins asked. I told him I was taking a day off to wave at motorists, like community service.

“Like community service,” he repeated with unnecessary gravitas. I could tell he was disappointed that there was only one chair here.

“Too bad there’s only one chair or I would sit with you. Hey, did you know I can do one hundred push ups?” Of course I didn’t know that.

And I don’t think a State Trooper would have ever noticed me sitting in an aluminum lawn chair, using a personal holiday to wave at passing motorists, if there hadn’t been a pale, six-foot-five bald man in a bright orange tank top doing push ups on the hot concrete next to me.

“You guys can’t be out here on the public right of way,” State Trooper yelled, trying to sound scary loud above the rush of traffic passing inches behind him.

“Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty,” Jeff Perkins said.

“He’s going to one hundred,” I said.

Of course he wouldn’t make it to one hundred, because this State Trooper said something State Troopery like, “It’s my way now get off the highway!” and even though I could have pleaded my case with him a little more, I just decided to do what he asked. First I shook Jeff Perkins’ gravel-pocked hand and told him he still looked pretty strong at sixty push ups.

“Thanks for waving at me,” he said. He seemed pretty upset that the State Trooper was chasing me away with so many hours left in the day. His bald head started to turn splotchy flush with anger and he said he might walk over to the State Trooper, who was back in his car and talking into his radio, to give him a piece of his mind. Jeff Perkins was clenching and unclenching his fists, shifting from foot to foot when I leaned forward, put my hands on his shoulders and smiled.

That’s not what this day is about, Jeff Perkins.

The State Trooper honked.

We turned and waved at him.

The Most Recent Days of Rocco Bossy

2009-05-20T20:19:00.000-07:00

Yesterday

Rocco Bossy sits down next to Thomas at a small booth in the back of the restaurant where they both work. It’s their lunch break, even though it’s technically dinner. Rocco doesn’t really like Thomas, so he just says something about Burning Man.

-There’s this thing called Burning Man.
-Everyone knows what Burning Man is.
-I don’t think that’s true.
-It is. And everyone also knows that last year, The Man was accidentally burned early.
-Early Man.
-That’s right.

Thomas goes to Burning Man every year, but Rocco’s never gone. He’s kind of repulsed by it.

-Does everyone there call him “The Man?”
-Yes, most people do.
-So does that make it an anti-establishment thing? Burning “the man?”
-No, it’s just a nickname.
-They should consider a different nickname. I’m pretty sure “The Man” is taken.
-It’s contextual.
-So's everything.
-You should come with me next year. I can ask Flame Lizard if you can join our community.
-No thanks.
-We’re going to have a great concept next year.
-No thanks.
-You don’t know what you’re missing.
-No thanks.

The Day Before Yesterday

There’s a guy in Rocco’s living room who looks familiar. He’s probably a friend of Rocco’s roommate Steve. He’s holding a yellow flyer when Rocco walks into the room.

-There’s a place downtown that’s giving three dollar haircuts to people over 70. Regular price is six dollars.
-I would pay six dollars for a haircut.

Rocco really would, because he usually pays ten. This guy has a coupon though that changes the regular price from six dollars to five dollars.

-I have a coupon though that changes the regular price from six dollars to five dollars.
-I would rather pay the six dollars than use a coupon for a haircut. Six dollars isn’t much money.
-I’m going to use the coupon.
-I’ll be embarrassed for you.
-I need to cut the coupon out, though.
-I’m sure you can just show the flyer to the barber.
-Do you guys have some scissors?

And Three Days Ago

Rocco is at Carla’s place, they’re on the sofa, legs intertwined, enjoying some cable. Rocco’s got Carla’s compact mirror and he’s looking at his teeth.

-How about this flossing?
-You mean flossing teeth?
-Yeah. It’s great.
-Let’s call for pizza.

This thing with Carla could end at any moment, it feels tenuous, not dangerous, temporary, not difficult. They’re in bed after pizza when Rocco delivers the bad news.

-I’m working a double tomorrow.
-Again?
-This is a real problam.
-Did you just say “problam?”
-So what, that’s how I pronounce it. Problam.
-Since when?
-Since forevoo.

Ebay: Questions For Seller

2008-01-09T16:41:00.000-08:00

This item is amazing and will probably change your life! It definitely changed mine, and given recent world events, you're going to really be glad you own this item! The decision to sell this item was very difficult for me, but I just can't afford to keep it anymore. My loss is your gain!!! I guarantee this item to be in A+++++ condition but buyer agrees to accept it "as is." There is one small scratch on the front of the item, but it's barely noticeable, especially in my small apartment's poor lighting. At the end of the auction, I will ship this item anywhere in the continental U.S. for a nominal fee or overseas for a little more. Please email me with any questions about this AWESOME item and the answers to all questions will be posted below. Thanks for looking and happy bidding!

Q: Hi, I might be interested in bidding on this item but you don't actually say what it is. What is this item?
A: This item is amazing! Happy Ebaying!

Q: My question was more about what physical form this item takes. Thanks.
A: This is a physical item and it is amazing! You won't be disappointed. Happy bidding!

Q: Hi I just saw this and I'm also confused about what you're selling here. Could you please provide more details?
A: Sure! This amazing item is unique in the world. I've owned it for almost ten years! Wow, when I say that, it seems hard to believe that time has already gone by. I will say though, things were pretty great before my accident. Well, good luck and thanks for looking!

Q: Hello, is this item a female robot?
A: No, I'm not currently selling any robots.

Q: Hi, I emailed a couple times earlier. I just noticed that all of the bidders for your item have user names that are very similar to yours. In fact, all of them are "steve##" with different numbers at the end. Are you bidding on your own item?
A: Wow, I'm glad someone else noticed that - I thought I was going crazy! Seriously though, there are a lot of Steves in the world. Thanks for your question!

Q: This item is amazing! Is there any chance that I could pay you DOUBLE the amount of the highest bid when the auction closes?
A: I agree that this item is amazing and worth at least what you're offering, but that's against Ebay rules and unfair to all of the bidders, sorry. Good luck!

Q: I think you emailed that last question to yourself. I'm seriously considering reporting you to Ebay staff.
A: What was your question?

Q: Do you have any pictures of the item to prove that it exists?
A: Yes! I have hundreds of pictures but unfortunately, I don't currently own a computer so I can't email them or add them to the listing. Thanks for looking!

Q: That doesn't make any sense. You're using a computer to answer these questions.
A: No, you're the asshole, buddy!

Q: You don't actually have an item to sell, do you?
A: Yes I do. It's a female robot.

Q: No it isn't. You answered an earlier question by saying that you weren't selling any robots.
A: No it isn't. You answered an earlier question by saying meh meh meh blah blah bleh hey look at me, I'm an asshole and I have terrible hair.

Q: I've just notified Ebay staff of your fraudulent listing. Happy Ebaying.
A: Ok, fine, you want the truth? The truth is that I don't actually have an item to sell. I'm destitute, lonely and I require expensive medication to keep me from doing unpredictable, dangerous things. Things that can cause harm to others. Sometimes to people I've never met. Do you understand what I'm saying?

Q: Are you threatening me?
A: Yes. And your family.

Bidding for item #413210780 has ended. Steve65 is the winning bidder.

Twins In Utero Episode Three: Season Finale

2007-12-28T19:19:00.000-08:00

Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch Changes

2006-11-06T08:59:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting on a dog bed in a corner of Amy's empty apartment, stealing WiFi from a neighbor to tell you this: We are leaving Portland tomorrow morning for a year of overseas travel. Those of you in Portland and nearby, I will miss you terribly and think of you constantly. Those of you not in Portland, you will probably not notice much of a difference, except that this web site will not be updated much. It will be back, but in the meantime, there is a new web page called Reason to Wander.

This is how we'll communicate stories from our trip, in lieu of email diaries and overnight voicemail messages. It's rough now, but it'll get better. Send your address if you want a shot at postcards. Send Marlboros and blue jeans if you want us to barter you a funny hat. Good luck with everything, we'll see you soon.

She Crossed Her Fingers And Walked Right Through Me

2006-10-15T08:52:00.000-07:00

We're floating dreamily in that creaky, weathered hammock from the Army Navy surplus store when she looks at me and says, “I want to have your baby.” I laugh uncomfortably and pretend to have a burning itch on my face so I can relax my smile a little. I linger on it too long and she knows she's making me nervous. She always knows how to make me nervous, even though we barely know each other, barely remember the names of each other’s siblings, best friends and childhood pets. Staring, grinning, she lets me squirm for a full minute more before she continues, “I want to have your fatbaby.”

“You want to have a child with me and make it heavy?” I ask.

“No. I want to get fat with you,” she says. “You and I are going to get fat together and then we’ll both have fatbabies on us, jiggly little people around our waists. Twenty pounds should be enough,” and she pokes me a little too hard in the ribs. “What are you going to name yours?”

“I don’t want a fatbaby,” I say. “I’m not financially stable enough and my school district sucks. Some ten year old got stabbed last week at Ockley Green and I don’t know about you, but that’s not the kind of world I want my fatbaby living in.”

“I’m naming mine Riley,” she says flatly.

“Ok, then mine will be called Lyle.”

The hammock stops rocking, so I reach out for a chute from the bamboo that’s been slowly devouring the back of my yard for the last year. I reach across her to grab that chute and she bites my arm without hesitation. I’ve already learned not to react when she does this, because it makes her bite harder and longer, even though I like the way she giggles when she eventually lets go. I grab the chute and it breaks off in my hand, sending me abruptly back onto my side of the hammock. She laughs and says, “Do you think fatbabies are covered by healthcare?”

“Not at first,” I say. “They’re not going to cover the birth, so we’re going to have to buy our own milkshakes and tacos.”

“What about when they get sick?” she asks.

“That’s the beauty of the system," I say. "They’ll give us anything we need once we’re sick, so you can forget about preventative care.”

“Well I still want to get Shirley her Diptets,” she pouts in a mock Southern accent. “Just to be safe.”

I reach across her once more and hook another bamboo chute between my fingers, guiding it into my palm. She bites my arm again and I whimper a little, blaming it on the razor edge of the bamboo leaves. She laughs because she knows better and she spares me the deeper bite, this irresistible little Attila. I pull and let go the bamboo and we're suddenly tangled together and swinging again, imagining ourselves the cause of the wind sighing steadily in the fir tree that towers above our hazy, breathless anticipation.

At The End of August

2006-09-13T15:06:00.000-07:00

I told my boss I was leaving my job, I was quitting. Maybe it was actually a “resignation,” which is the better term for leaving under dubious or special circumstances. My circumstances aren’t really dubious, but they are special. Special awesome.

When she and I bought that shiny-laminated geopolitical map of the world and hung it on the wall at the foot of her bed, the trip was still fantasy. Buying a map isn't commitment. Sticking pushpins in the places you’d like to visit isn’t a commitment. Winding elastic string between the pins to show a twelve-month itinerary isn’t a commitment. Quitting your job and getting rabies shots, that’s a commitment. Recently, the pain of inoculation searing my left arm was a sort of monument to the paranoia of Western Medicine.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” she says to me. We are bathed in the midnight yellow phosphors of the street lamps outside.

“My arm has polio. And the encephalitis.”

“I got those shots too but I’m sleeping, babe.”

“Well then, I guess you’re not a coward.”

The thing they didn’t tell me about the rabies shots is that they don’t actually do anything to prevent rabies. Only good decision-making can do that. Did you know this? You get three shots before you leave the country and then, when you are bitten by rabid, untethered bazaar monkeys, you need only get two shots from dirty third world needles, rather than five. Me, I’m not getting any more shots. A slow descent into the madness of rabid paralysis will greatly improve the selling power of my memoirs.

Months before that, however, I’m trying to cope with four months of retirement. I am a tottering 75 year-old who is inventing cute little jobs for himself. Between planning for the trip, which begins officially in January, I handwrite correspondence and then walk it to the post office, where I make pleasant midday conversation with other retirees. I ride my bike, on the sidewalk, to Goodwill, Walgreen’s and Rite Aid for some frugal shopping. I stand on my front lawn with my hands on my hips to deter littering middle school students between 3:00 and 4:00 pm. My car has never been cleaner, my lawn never shorter, and my clothes never more pressed, all to mask the anxiety and temper the excitement of this next thing.

It’s also early afternoon on a Wednesday, which means I’ve just finished watching the movie “Cocoon” on cable television. It’s a charming 1985 movie about old retirees in Florida who encounter a group of friendly scuba diving aliens with the ability to heal the sick and grant immortality. Steve Guttenberg is also involved. The old retirees are energized by bathing in the aliens’ magic swimming pool and begin learn valuable things about themselves; they openly acknowledge their fears of death, they make peace with regrets for things left undone and they remember that they’re pretty good at fun things, like driving fast, bowling and sex in the shower. Some of them learn simply to appreciate what they have left in life and some of them decide to take the biggest risk imaginable – they decide to drop everything and leave earth with the aliens. They're the real heroes here. But what about Steve Guttenberg, you say? Unfortunately he doesn’t learn anything, but he does manage to “do it” with one of the lady aliens. Guttenberg! Will he ever learn? Anyway: Recommended.

Doomed Relationships: Good-Bye, Enjoy

2006-08-09T15:49:00.000-07:00

{Found on the corner of N Greeley and Ainsworth in Portland. This one makes me wonder why I'm fated to discover so many artifacts relating to this specific aspect of the human condition. My new favorite of the Doomed Relationship variety, it's more raw and urgent than any other note I've found. It's also the saddest, for the physical violence it implies, and the most hopeful, for the implications of escape and independence.}

Something Else About Garbage

2006-08-08T08:31:00.000-07:00

The temperature was approaching one hundred degrees when that crazy hobo stumbled in front of my house and threw his jacket on the ground. He was swearing about a Japanese Invasion when he stopped, put his hands on his knees and bent over to catch his pickled breath. He’s not made many good decisions in his life, but he made one that day. He stood up straight and shouted, “fuck you Tokeeeeeeyooooo!” to no one in particular, just before letting his puffy, filthy, sweat soaked ski jacket to fall to the scorched earth of my front yard. I’m not sure where he went after that but I'm certain he was more comfortable without his ski jacket.

I stepped off the bus home from work, hours later, and rounded the corner of my block at the hottest part of the day. I cooed at my house. Hello beautifu—and the jacket leapt out rudely in the manner of a graphic billboard advertising something rude, like human butts. “HERE ARE SOME HUMAN BUTTS. JUST LOOK AT THESE BUTTS.” I squinted at the lumpy mass of 80s-cool ski jacket, certain it was a shadow, because your mind tells lies when reality hiccups. A friend once told a story about living through the San Francisco earthquake of 1989, when at 5:04 pm local time on October 17, the San Andreas Fault shook sixty three people to death. He was in his bedroom when the city trembled around him and he was convinced that his older brother was somehow shaking the roof, just to fuck with him. He shouted, “Ted! Quit it! You’re really freaking me out!” as a freeway on the other side of town was collapsing. Me, I live alone, so I whispered, “that’s a shadow” when I saw the jacket, because I definitely didn’t leave a brightly colored dead animal on my front lawn that morning.

Moments later I saw it was a jacket and then I was standing over it, the odors of a thousand miles washing over me. I pinched a very small, unstained corner and lifted the jacket with my outstretched arm. I said “WOO” in a way that would signal to prying neighbors that this thing, this ripe hoboskin, was definitely not mine. I was disgusted. Shocked. Worried about dropping property values, worried about disease. Did this jacket have the bird flu? I was parading it towards the garbage can, visualizing opening the lid, when I noticed that the pockets of this jacket were bulging. And one of those pockets was unzipped.

Now I’m not going to say that I love interesting garbage, but I will say that I heart it. I heart interesting garbage. And that’s why, just steps from making the good decision to drop this jacket into Thursday’s garbage, I instead turned it upside down and shook it like Ted shook the Oakland Bay Bridge. Following is an ordered list of what fell out:

Deodorant
Small bag of snack mix
Four rubber bands
Bottle cap
An entire European porn magazine, ripped into several thousand small pieces

On cue, a strong northeastern breeze swept my driveway to scatter ripped up hobo porn across my property, confetti from a Porntown Founder’s Day ticker tape parade. I dropped the jacket and grabbed frantically at the printed sex that was skittering in the general direction of a nearby elementary school. I got a handful of threesome in the first grab and was shuffling after a blowjob when I heard my girlfriend’s voice in my head. I can’t believe you touched some ripped up hobo porn with your bare hands. This garbage obsession is going to get you killed. You’re going to see a doctor tomorrow. A specialist. I shivered, and the chill of imagined herpes relaxed my forearm muscles enough to drop the porn. I ran inside for some serious hand washing.

This whole episode ended rather quietly, after fashioning a crude litter poker from tape and a broomstick and picking up every last piece of that porn. I also deposited it, along with the jacket, in my curbside garbage bin. Good decisions. I haven’t seen a specialist yet, but I did see something else when I took my kitchen garbage out to the can last night. Do you know what it was? It was the second bulging pocket, the one that’s still zipped up. I bet it’s full of treasure. It’s definitely full of treasure. Cotton balls, some hay, a tiny plaque that says “Bless This Mess,” a chicken bone, Polaroid of an estranged daughter. Magnificent. Risk reward. I could wear gloves.

I have some rubber gloves.

Hang on a second.

Doomed Relationships: Torn

2006-07-06T11:59:00.000-07:00

{Only the first page, found ripped in half in Portland's Old Town/Chinatown area.}

Twins In Utero Episode Two: Siss Boom Blah

2006-06-20T10:43:00.000-07:00

Eddie and Ramone Will Freak Your Shit Out

2006-06-18T16:56:00.000-07:00

Have you seen these two? Eddie and Ramone are jive walkers and they will freak your shit out! Do you know about jive walking, have you seen it? Someone listens to music in headphones, walks on a crowded street or in a shopping mall, and dances like they're alone in the dark or maybe stranded alone on a super high-tech island that was built for hosting illegal dance parties in international waters. They jive walk like they invented dancing itself and no one can judge their abilities because how can you judge the very people who created all forms of movement to music? You'll die trying, I promise you. Better people have tried to judge these jive walkers and the same thing always happens. Shame.

Eddie and Ramone are no different, they cannot be judged. They are gorgeous. They have matching pants with many useless zippers, black pants and red tank tops. Muscles, oh god yes. Very tan skin. Both of them are gifts to us, gifts from the god Apollo, helping us understand how miserable and sad we are. We are zombies to them! And together, a duo, they are more powerful than any other single jive walker will ever be. Did I mention that they are virtually identical in appearance? The only way you can tell them apart is by noticing that Eddie always wears aviator-style sunglasses. Please friend, don't mess with Eddie's sunglasses. He'll bite you! I'm not kidding.

Eddie and Ramone can see perfectly up to a half mile away, they always know when it's about to rain and they're explosive when they jive walk. They have matching music devices that I think are MP3 players. I haven't really ever been close enough to see. They synchronize these matching music devices at the beginning of each jive walking session, so they're always on the same beat. They prefer to jive walk to "The Grunt" by the JBs and sometimes to "Honky Tonk Popcorn" by Bill Dogget because they have very similar funky drum breaks. It might sound boring, but trust me, it's easier if they use the same song again and again. This one time, Ramone started to jive walk to "The Grunt" when he was supposed to start to "Honky Tonk Popcorn" and Eddie went fucking crazy, bit Ramone's shoulder - I'm serious! I don't care what anyone on the sidewalk said that day, you don't bite your jive walking partner's shoulder. That's messed up. You will agree with me, however, that it does demonstrate a certain level of passion and commitment, even to the casual observer.

I've seen them perform dozens of times and sometimes I follow them for miles, wishing they would notice me. But how could they? I am a zombie to them, just like you. They only notice each other, these two, and they will live and die within seconds of each other for every remaining moment.

Their moves are incredible.

They've been described in the papers as a cross between pop music's Tom Jones and television's Fred "Rerun" Berry, God rest his soul, but I don't see the Tom Jones, personally. I would have said Easy Rock, the famous breakdancer, based solely on the strength of Ramone's headspins and Eddie's atomic hollowback. I promise you will spit out your beverage when you see them and I still haven't told you the most remarkable thing about Eddie and Ramone.

Eddie and Ramone are monkeys.

You heard me. Eddie and Ramone are actually three year old howler monkeys. You should see them with their headphones on and those little red tank tops! You'll lose your mind, man.

When I see them though, I like to think about the man who trained them, Dr. Eddie Phelps. I marvel at the dedication and vision this human Eddie has and how much he's given to me, to all of us on streets and in shopping malls. Whenever and wherever I see his monkeys jive walking, Eddie Phelps is always close by. He's usually in white pants, a Hawaiian shirt and aviator-style sunglasses. I haven't ever approached him though, I'm far too shy and he's far too serious. I know, you'd think that a man who spent three years raising and training two howler monkeys to synchronize-jive-walk in an urban environment would be fun to talk to and maybe even dance with. But you'd be wrong. Dr. Eddie Phelps doesn't ever dance.

Not any more.

Daniel Went Down to The Waterfront to Pick Up Some Navy Sailors, Even Though He’s Not Gay

2006-06-07T21:49:00.000-07:00

He’s not even bi-curious, but he is a joiner and everyone was talking about the sailors so, you know. He couldn’t help himself.

“There’s like a million of them, all pressed and clean, with big bulging muscles and they’re just here for a few days,” this woman in his office had told him. “They walk right off the Navy boats and BAM! They’re everywhere. They dock here for the Rose Festival.” Daniel was new in town but he knew what she was talking about. The Rose Festival was a very popular thing with parades, rickety fun-rides, some kind of Local Princess contest, and lots and lots of rain. Sometimes it rained really hard, so hard that it overwhelmed the city’s sewer system and caused raw sewage to overflow into the river. That’s the river that the sailors float in on.

“And women go down there to look at them or something?”

“They do more than look at them, if you know what I mean,” and then she blushed, so he did know what she meant. He only worked in the mailroom but that didn’t mean he couldn’t understand when someone was insinuating the availability of free, easy sex. Granted, he didn’t really think through the whole not-gay thing, but still. Easy sex.

The next day was Friday, the first day of the sailor invasion, and Daniel came to work prepared. Ten minutes before his lunch break, he put on his most patriotic accessory - a Davy Crockett coonskin cap he bought at the Alamo - and started practicing his pickup lines. At exactly noon, he walked outside and made a line for the first nineteen year-old he saw in poofy pants. That kid turned out to be a hippie trying to get some hacky sack going, so Daniel walked a little further and found an actual sailor sitting on a street bench. He was reading Maxim Magazine.

“Hey guy, come here often?”

“Not really,” the sailor mumbled without looking away from Jessica Alba’s chachabingos. This was going to be tricky.

Daniel crossed the street and walked into a corner grocery with a few sailors milling around inside. He strolled around nonchalantly until one of them stopped near him, a short pimply kid with a tattoo of the Georgia state flag on his forearm.

“Sailor, you look like you cou-“

“Hey, do ya’ll got any Yoo-hoo chocolate drinks?”

And before Daniel could respond, another sailor rounded the corner and launched a pack of frosted Donettes at the kid from Georgia. The package broke open and tiny donuts were everywhere, dusting the raccoon tail of Daniel’s hat with a fine coat of powdered sugar. The kid from Georgia was in full pursuit of his attacker and Daniel decided to head back outside. He walked three blocks and found two older, dark haired sailors waiting to cross the street. They looked like they might be officers.

“Hey fellas, looking for a good time?”

“Yeah, where are all the goddamn women in this town?” one of them said while the other laughed and punched him in the shoulder. Daniel laughed too and wondered if maybe they were together. The light turned green and as they started to walk away, Daniel could hear them saying something about his coonskin cap. Progress.

Sneezing, Itchy Eyes, Headaches and Invisible Bugs Crawling All Over Your Arms

2006-06-05T06:50:00.000-07:00

On Portland's MAX train:

GIRL 1
Ahhhh! My allergies are so fucking bad this year!

GIRL 2
I'm so lucky I'm not allergic to anything.

GIRL 1
Ugh. I hate you.

GIRL 2
Actually, no. Heroin. I'm allergic to heroin.

GIRL 1
How did you find that out?

GIRL 2
Remember Shawn?

GIRL 1
You did heroin with Shawn?

GIRL 2
He shot me up when I was asleep and I went to the hospital.

GIRL1
That's wrong! I'm glad he's dead.

Things Got Complicated When Phil Attended That Group Session For People With Anxiety

2006-05-31T08:00:00.000-07:00

Three weeks earlier, on the telephone with his HMO's "triage counselor," Phil Copeland tried to make an appointment to see a psychologist. Or a psychiatrist. Whichever one can write the prescriptions. Prescriptions for Less Crazy.

"I have an open appointment in three weeks that's a group session or an appointment in four weeks that's a solo session," she said.

"These are desperate times," he said.

"We'll see you in three weeks, Mr. Copeland" and she ended the call.

"That was terrible decision-making," he said to an empty room.

Three weeks later, the group session for people with anxiety was a total disaster. How could it not be? Ten of the twelve patients immediately admitted to experiencing intense anxiety in groups of ten or more people. They were terrified little animals, alternately fidgety, defensive and calculating the approximate damage that they'd suffer after leaping from the room's one operable window. It was only the first floor, but those were very scratchy looking bushes.

During the session, each of them was supposed to tell a story illustrating how their anxiety affected daily life. One woman, Sharon, told the other participants that she hadn't been on a date in three years because she always cancelled them at the last minute. Hers was a fear of meeting new people, a fear of intimacy and ultimately, a fear of rejection. She had no trouble making dates, she was very attractive, but she couldn't ever bring herself to sit face to face with a strange new man and ask him about hope and hobbies. She glanced Phil's way as she was finishing her story and he nodded thoughtfully at her, wrinkled his forehead to say yes Sharon, I understand your pain and wrote "Ask Sharon out, several times" in his notebook.

A thin, nervous man named Steve explained that he wakes up in the middle of the night, panicked, screaming and swinging his arms wildly, punching at any unfortunate body or furniture within his reach. He once lacerated his hand on a night-stand, he's put his fist through the wall twice in as many weeks and he gave his last girlfriend a black eye. She refused to sleep over anymore, creating a distance between them that would never be shortened.

Another man named Harry refused to share any story or anecdote, saying only "Pass - I'll pass" and then again "Ok thank you, I'll pass" after the long uncomfortable silence and stares that followed. He stood up, put on his sunglasses and walked out of the room a few moments later. None of them expected to ever see him again though all of them wanted to call shotgun in his horrible little LeBaron.

Harry's egress was followed by an exhausted librarian named Michelle, who told the group that she'd become suddenly and inexplicably terrified of the Dewey Decimal system after her mother died. She'd been misfiling books for months, her poor job performance compounding her anxiety and, ironically, making it impossible for her to find several self-help books that she desperately wanted to read.

Several more people told stories about how they were tense and anxious over simple, everyday decisions that are usually taken for granted. Answer the telephone or not answer the telephone. Tip the barista or don't tip the barista. White shirt or blue shirt. Chicken or tofu, rice or noodles. Even though these things weren't the cause of their anxiety, they teetered them near the edge of helplessness every day, guaranteeing that they'd never again sleepwalk through the banalities of this modern life.

And then it was Phil's turn.

In his head, he told them about his trip to the dry cleaner last Friday. He stood there at the counter in front of Cheryl, the same rosey-cheeked woman that took and returned his clothes every week. She asked him, as she always did, if he still wanted light starch for his shirts. He opened his mouth to speak but all that came out of it was a hissing sound from the back of his throat that sounded exactly like the suction device that dentists use. Phil suddenly had no idea if he wanted light starch for his shirts.

This question, so benign, had short circuited his mind and left him paralyzed, no longer present with Cheryl or the two people in line behind him. He was told later by one of the paramedics that he stood in front of the counter, awake and perfectly still, for nearly twenty minutes. No one knew what to do with him, he didn't respond to talking, yelling, light slaps to the face. A small crowd gathered after the ambulance arrived and Phil didn't notice them until well after he'd regained his composure and said "Yes, I think light starch as usual" to a Cheryl that was now terrified, on the verge of tears. He left the dry cleaner, still dazed and clutching his soiled clothing, resolved to get help.

In his head, this is the story Phil told to the group session for people with anxiety and he smiled inside as everyone burst into thunderous applause. Steve gave him a high five. Harry drove by on the street outside, pumping his fist and honking his horn. Michelle gave him a thumbs up as she mouthed the words "Thank you, Phil" and Sharon, she fainted into his tan, muscular arms.

In his head, Phil turned a corner that day, unaware that in reality he was actually sitting frozen and vacant in front of eleven mortified strangers with anxiety disorders. They were invisible to him in a room that that was so silent, you could clearly hear the slow tick of the clock on the wall and a faint hissing noise that would sound familiar to several of them, though none could quite figure out why.

Making Peace With Contemporary Art: A Conversation With The Jasper Johns Painting, Flag

2006-05-25T17:01:00.000-07:00

ME
Hey.

JASPER JOHNS' FLAG
Hello.

ME
So what's the deal, you're an American flag?

JASPER JOHNS' FLAG
Yes.

ME
But not the abstract representation of something in the form of a flag?

JASPER JOHNS' FLAG
No. I'm made of paint, newspaper and plywood.

ME
Ah, so the newspaper must be articles about war or corruption, something important.

JASPER JOHNS' FLAG
No, it's mostly classified ads and the Living section.

ME
And the plywood?

JASPER JOHNS' FLAG
It was free.

ME
I'm really struggling with this.

JASPER JOHNS' FLAG
I sold for twenty million dollars in 1998.

ME
That seems unnecessary.

JASPER JOHNS' FLAG
I'm inclined to agree, actually.

ME
Well ok then.