What to write about? Authentic. What makes something authentic? Like rock, lets say. Fuck, I don’t want to write about this. What happened? Let’s see. I forgot my book, that dense tome that I later tried to dissect. It was enough of a burden that I subliminally forgot to bring it to school. No luck, though. Sorry brain. The ego kicked in and I rode back home and got the dense book. It’s not heavy, just dense. Worth reading, if you’ve got the time, but if you don’t, watch out. If you have to, then you’re really in for it.
I carried the book back to school, though riding the geared bike on the return trip. I had a brief conversation with the cat while I was at home retrieving the book. No snacks, though. I came back to school and wrote about the book. Tried to anyway. The density of the book is, as yet, not totally penetrable by my meager intellect. This is why we practice, though.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Brue Spotting and Other Bay Area Tales (really just that one)
I'm in Los Angeles after an incredible few days in the Bay. I stayed on a sail boat in Sausalito and ventured across the Golden Gate a few times, but mostly hung out with my good friend Katrina.
One experience of note to a small number of the precious few readers of this blog. I found Brue. I went to Zeitgeist, where he was last rumored to work, and asked the large and friendly man checking IDs at the door. He informed me that Brue in fact did work there, and he might be out on the back patio. I didn't realize how many people fit back in that place. A couple hundred? Someone can correct me if they feel the need. I looked and looked, but no Brue. I asked a guy, but he said that Brue might have gone home. He asked another guy, and that guy said he done, but had to count money or something. I said tell "tell him it's Jefe from Portland." Finally Brue emerged from behind a curtain (a la Wizard of Oz) with a surprised look.
By the way, clean living has been treating him well.
I hung around for a while as Brue tried to get off work early. As I waited, I watched the large man at the bar reach into the back pocket of a man as he entered the bar. The doorman (never call them bouncers, thank you) yanked a 24 oz. Bud Ice from the man's pocket and pointed toward the door. After much quiet bickering, the man left. As all of this was happening, the legendary Tamale Lady wheeled her cart toward the door. Yes! I had not had a Tamale Lady tamale for many, many years. Needless to say, I was excited. As she entered the door, she leaned over to the large doorman and said that some guys just outside the door had called her "a fatass and things."
As she moved through the door, the doorman sprung into action, calling for back up and spitting out angry words toward the Bud Ice guy and his friends, "You wanna talk shit!" Literally spitting. Calling for backup, ready to kick ass, I was in awe of his style, class and aggressive pursuit of a solution to the conflict before it got out of hand.
I was going to order six tamales, to feed me for a couple of days, but those things are big. I mean big. I ordered three, for six bucks. Those things are fucking good.
Brue and I tried to meet up for lunch on Tuesday before I left, but time was not kind to us. Next time I'm down there, I'm hanging out with that guy for sure.
Now I'm in LA, waiting to catch a ride to the noontime Dodger game. The daytime high temperature is supposed to be 74 degrees. Aaaah, the good life.
One experience of note to a small number of the precious few readers of this blog. I found Brue. I went to Zeitgeist, where he was last rumored to work, and asked the large and friendly man checking IDs at the door. He informed me that Brue in fact did work there, and he might be out on the back patio. I didn't realize how many people fit back in that place. A couple hundred? Someone can correct me if they feel the need. I looked and looked, but no Brue. I asked a guy, but he said that Brue might have gone home. He asked another guy, and that guy said he done, but had to count money or something. I said tell "tell him it's Jefe from Portland." Finally Brue emerged from behind a curtain (a la Wizard of Oz) with a surprised look.
By the way, clean living has been treating him well.
I hung around for a while as Brue tried to get off work early. As I waited, I watched the large man at the bar reach into the back pocket of a man as he entered the bar. The doorman (never call them bouncers, thank you) yanked a 24 oz. Bud Ice from the man's pocket and pointed toward the door. After much quiet bickering, the man left. As all of this was happening, the legendary Tamale Lady wheeled her cart toward the door. Yes! I had not had a Tamale Lady tamale for many, many years. Needless to say, I was excited. As she entered the door, she leaned over to the large doorman and said that some guys just outside the door had called her "a fatass and things."
As she moved through the door, the doorman sprung into action, calling for back up and spitting out angry words toward the Bud Ice guy and his friends, "You wanna talk shit!" Literally spitting. Calling for backup, ready to kick ass, I was in awe of his style, class and aggressive pursuit of a solution to the conflict before it got out of hand.
I was going to order six tamales, to feed me for a couple of days, but those things are big. I mean big. I ordered three, for six bucks. Those things are fucking good.
Brue and I tried to meet up for lunch on Tuesday before I left, but time was not kind to us. Next time I'm down there, I'm hanging out with that guy for sure.
Now I'm in LA, waiting to catch a ride to the noontime Dodger game. The daytime high temperature is supposed to be 74 degrees. Aaaah, the good life.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Portland Courier Kills Blackberry. Lake Oswego Residents Outraged.
Earlier today a Blackberry cell phone was killed as it was backed over by a very, very, small delivery vehicle. Some witnesses described the vehicle as "petit."
The incident occurred as said vehicle was backing out of a parking space at an undisclosed tony Pilkington Road boutique. The Blackberry was in use by Lake Oswego resident Dick Richman, who later died at the scene.
It is unclear what caused the driver to attack the Blackberry, though some speculated that the owner of the phone, Mr. Richman, may have been the actual target. A luxury SUV, thought to be owned by either the Blackberry or Mr. Dick Richman, was also damaged in the melee.
Said one Lake Oswego resident, "We have a nice community here. THEY MUST BE STOPPED."
The incident occurred as said vehicle was backing out of a parking space at an undisclosed tony Pilkington Road boutique. The Blackberry was in use by Lake Oswego resident Dick Richman, who later died at the scene.
It is unclear what caused the driver to attack the Blackberry, though some speculated that the owner of the phone, Mr. Richman, may have been the actual target. A luxury SUV, thought to be owned by either the Blackberry or Mr. Dick Richman, was also damaged in the melee.
Said one Lake Oswego resident, "We have a nice community here. THEY MUST BE STOPPED."
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Cascara Tea
"They told me not to give this tea to pregnant ladies." That's what the guy said about the tea that I had just decided tasted like shit. Actually not like shit, but kind of like the stuff that you get when you pour water into an ashtray and strain out the peices--with a hint of old, dirty wood.
While I was deciding that I didn't like Cascara tea (the new shit at Stumptown), and trying to decide whether I was right at this time or I was right early this morning when I had a sip of said tea and liked it, I was taking a sip, rubbernecking, grimacing and then taking another sip, rubbernecking, wincing, and then trying to decide what to think, or whether people were staring at me. I realized that this tea has lots of caffeine. By this time--now--my writing has caught op with my barain. We're on real time, my firend, and things are getting strante.; The guy at the counter and I have just discussed the intensity of highly caffenited tea. this one in prticjlyu. I don't wanna be a bartender," he says of having to screen the poeple that order this stuff. "It's a total bring-down," he says of this new and sinister dirnk. This fucking music needs to change. Is it skipping? I don't know. I need to get back to this paper that I'm trying to write, but it's just not going to happen until the music stops or very late at night. Whic will come first? It's not a cracked out coffeee caffenine high really. It's pretty clean, though the intyensity is really something you've got to experience to believe. Imust go now.
While I was deciding that I didn't like Cascara tea (the new shit at Stumptown), and trying to decide whether I was right at this time or I was right early this morning when I had a sip of said tea and liked it, I was taking a sip, rubbernecking, grimacing and then taking another sip, rubbernecking, wincing, and then trying to decide what to think, or whether people were staring at me. I realized that this tea has lots of caffeine. By this time--now--my writing has caught op with my barain. We're on real time, my firend, and things are getting strante.; The guy at the counter and I have just discussed the intensity of highly caffenited tea. this one in prticjlyu. I don't wanna be a bartender," he says of having to screen the poeple that order this stuff. "It's a total bring-down," he says of this new and sinister dirnk. This fucking music needs to change. Is it skipping? I don't know. I need to get back to this paper that I'm trying to write, but it's just not going to happen until the music stops or very late at night. Whic will come first? It's not a cracked out coffeee caffenine high really. It's pretty clean, though the intyensity is really something you've got to experience to believe. Imust go now.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
The Ought-Nine Blowout (Jefe Style)
New Years Eve, right. So I thought that I was supposed to do something monumental. It's a problem that I have. Thirtieth birthday I couldn't decide where I wanted to be. It almost ended a long-term relationship. "Do you want to have a party in Chico or Portland! Just tell me! Fuck!"
"Um...uh..."
The 40th was an equally lame day, except no one was around for most of the day, so I paced through my house for about four hours before going to the corner to get the same iced Americano that I get every day (weather permitting).
You get the picture. I end up acting like a retarded chicken with my head cut off. (Can anybody spot the humor in that sentence which is also the thing at the top of my blog? Never mind.) And so it would be on the New Year's Eve of 2009. I apologize if I didn't come to your party or show or whatever gala event you planned and were thoughtful enough to invite me to. It just didn't sound interesting.
Pat and Jennifer should be the least offended. I actually started riding to their house at about 10:45. The back roads of the Sunnyside District were more than pleasant until it was time to cross Hawthorne at about 50th. I swerved around a chubby girl who was lumbering toward a frat boy, her eyes wide with adoration but the two orbs stared at each other like the skull that they resided in had been crowned with a two-by-four. He had on a tropical party attire of some kind, possibly a lei. I moved quickly and discreetly as the girl and boy staggered toward each other. The woman was totally smitten with this Joey. However, her body language and pale, sweaty skin suggested that, if all went well, she would be vomiting all over the back seat of the young man's car very soon.
I deftly continued, in my own ninja-like way, through the mob of drunken douche bags as they wallowed and howled on the street corners and out into the street, slobbering loud and sentimental gibberish under the Sewickly's sign, like a pack of confused elephant seals on Valium.
I made it back into neighborhoods and down to the serenity of SE Lincoln and headed east, confident that I would not be bothered until Division. The cool rain felt refreshing as I rode past a smattering of people out on their front porches or walking up the street. But the odd car that drove by had a bit of a swerve to it, or an aggressiveness that comes from thinking that no one can see you. I realized then that all of the clowns that I'd evaded on Hawthorne were, at this very moment, in their cars and hitting the back roads, in search of the first house party of the night. Then I thought, how much do I really care about any of these fuckers?
Then I went home.
Happy New Year.
"Um...uh..."
The 40th was an equally lame day, except no one was around for most of the day, so I paced through my house for about four hours before going to the corner to get the same iced Americano that I get every day (weather permitting).
You get the picture. I end up acting like a retarded chicken with my head cut off. (Can anybody spot the humor in that sentence which is also the thing at the top of my blog? Never mind.) And so it would be on the New Year's Eve of 2009. I apologize if I didn't come to your party or show or whatever gala event you planned and were thoughtful enough to invite me to. It just didn't sound interesting.
Pat and Jennifer should be the least offended. I actually started riding to their house at about 10:45. The back roads of the Sunnyside District were more than pleasant until it was time to cross Hawthorne at about 50th. I swerved around a chubby girl who was lumbering toward a frat boy, her eyes wide with adoration but the two orbs stared at each other like the skull that they resided in had been crowned with a two-by-four. He had on a tropical party attire of some kind, possibly a lei. I moved quickly and discreetly as the girl and boy staggered toward each other. The woman was totally smitten with this Joey. However, her body language and pale, sweaty skin suggested that, if all went well, she would be vomiting all over the back seat of the young man's car very soon.
I deftly continued, in my own ninja-like way, through the mob of drunken douche bags as they wallowed and howled on the street corners and out into the street, slobbering loud and sentimental gibberish under the Sewickly's sign, like a pack of confused elephant seals on Valium.
I made it back into neighborhoods and down to the serenity of SE Lincoln and headed east, confident that I would not be bothered until Division. The cool rain felt refreshing as I rode past a smattering of people out on their front porches or walking up the street. But the odd car that drove by had a bit of a swerve to it, or an aggressiveness that comes from thinking that no one can see you. I realized then that all of the clowns that I'd evaded on Hawthorne were, at this very moment, in their cars and hitting the back roads, in search of the first house party of the night. Then I thought, how much do I really care about any of these fuckers?
Then I went home.
Happy New Year.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Fear and Loathing in Eugene/Jefe's Library Trifecta
Sitting in a cafe inside the Eugene Library, reading "Bowl of Cherries" by Millard Kaufman. It's good so far. The writing makes it seem like the story exists in some kind of cartoon world, which I like.
Downtown Eugene, however, is not like that strange and comically vibrant fantasy world. The overcast sky merely adds to the dreary, dirty atmosphere. Lots of dirtbags, too.
The area around most public libraries in town and cities of any size attract that kind of element. When I arrived I was badly in search of a restroom. I quickly made my way through desperate hippies, weird, dirty and deteriorating old folks and other dubious types. When asked, the librarian pointed me to "the door by the stairs" and as I approached it I instinctively wondered if the bathrooms would resemble those of the Los Angeles County Library. If you should require the "servicios" at that esteemed institution, the place where Bukowski discovered the writings of John Fante, you'll discover that the stalls only have half-doors, like those country-house doors. That are in half. You know.
If you have to interrupt the crazy guy who's taking a bird bath in the sink why this is, be my guest.
Anyway, rest easy the next time you require the facilities at the Eugene Library. I can't vouch for the ladies' room, but the men's room stalls have a luxurious whole door in front of the single stall, if you need to hide from the creepiness.
Why am I talking about this? Well, like I said, I'm hanging out in the Eugene Library because some lawyers want me to wait until 5pm to file some crap. Litigation is in progress as we speak. If someone doesn't agree to someone else's demands, I file the papers. Kind of like a ransom situation. Maybe I just wanted to tell you about Buk and Fante.
You should know, however, that the Eugene Library is new, looks cool, and has lots of stuff. However, the cafe makes rat-shit Americanos.
Editor's note: The lawyers didn't call back until 4:45, at which time they instructed me to wait with a guy at the city office until they called. I had been there for about two-and-a-half hours at that point. At 4:57pm they called again. They had settled. I didn't file the papers. I drove home in time to turn in my shit at the Belmont Library.
Counting the hour spent at the PCC Sylvania Library, I spent time in three libraries in one day. A hat trick!
Downtown Eugene, however, is not like that strange and comically vibrant fantasy world. The overcast sky merely adds to the dreary, dirty atmosphere. Lots of dirtbags, too.
The area around most public libraries in town and cities of any size attract that kind of element. When I arrived I was badly in search of a restroom. I quickly made my way through desperate hippies, weird, dirty and deteriorating old folks and other dubious types. When asked, the librarian pointed me to "the door by the stairs" and as I approached it I instinctively wondered if the bathrooms would resemble those of the Los Angeles County Library. If you should require the "servicios" at that esteemed institution, the place where Bukowski discovered the writings of John Fante, you'll discover that the stalls only have half-doors, like those country-house doors. That are in half. You know.
If you have to interrupt the crazy guy who's taking a bird bath in the sink why this is, be my guest.
Anyway, rest easy the next time you require the facilities at the Eugene Library. I can't vouch for the ladies' room, but the men's room stalls have a luxurious whole door in front of the single stall, if you need to hide from the creepiness.
Why am I talking about this? Well, like I said, I'm hanging out in the Eugene Library because some lawyers want me to wait until 5pm to file some crap. Litigation is in progress as we speak. If someone doesn't agree to someone else's demands, I file the papers. Kind of like a ransom situation. Maybe I just wanted to tell you about Buk and Fante.
You should know, however, that the Eugene Library is new, looks cool, and has lots of stuff. However, the cafe makes rat-shit Americanos.
Editor's note: The lawyers didn't call back until 4:45, at which time they instructed me to wait with a guy at the city office until they called. I had been there for about two-and-a-half hours at that point. At 4:57pm they called again. They had settled. I didn't file the papers. I drove home in time to turn in my shit at the Belmont Library.
Counting the hour spent at the PCC Sylvania Library, I spent time in three libraries in one day. A hat trick!
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Six-toed Cat On My Car
I went out to Trillium Family Services on Powell, first thing today. I don't know why I'm mentioning that. You don't go out that far. Anyway, a white six-toed cat with black spots sat by the car. After I scratched his head a little, he jumped up onto the roof of the car and licked all of the condensation off of it.
Then he slid down the windshield on his ass and began to lick the water off of the hood and the bumper as well. I poured him some water in the overturned lid of my coffee cup. Some of it pooled up on the blacktop. He didn't drink any of the water in the lid, only the water that beaded up on the parking lot.
Then he slid down the windshield on his ass and began to lick the water off of the hood and the bumper as well. I poured him some water in the overturned lid of my coffee cup. Some of it pooled up on the blacktop. He didn't drink any of the water in the lid, only the water that beaded up on the parking lot.
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