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!

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.

A Taste of the Real America?

I was driving in Hillsboro today and listening to a Christian radio station. The batteries that fuel the ipod's speakers had prematurely bitten the dust, and it was either that or sports talk radio.
In small doses, and from a strictly anthropological point of view I listen to these things. Yesterday it was sports talk, stuck in traffic waiting for the World Series game to start. These guys were interviewing Darius Rucker (for those of you who live in a cave, that's Hootie from Hootie and the Blowfish). The hosts were seriously in LOVE with that guy. Apparently he sang in a commercial at the beginning of the Daytona 500. They told him, in no uncertain terms, that it was the best commercial EVER. And they repeated it more than once. They requested that he perform said jingle for them, and had announced on the air that it would happen. Hootie fled the studio moments later.
Alas, here I was again, on a late afternoon hit-and-run out in Washington County. This time to pick up some custom embroidering for the good folks at ColTab. Whatever. So, back to the Christian Radio. By Christian, I mean Ralph Reed, Focus on the Family, James Dobson. THAT Christianity. I heard a new term. Phillisophical creationist? Is that what it was? Some claptrap like that. Anyway, someone was teaching gayness to kindergartners. You should not trust your child's doctor alone with your children unless you've investigated the depth of their Christian faith ("she's your daughter and she's only 15! She's still a child!"--these people have some wild and terrible imaginations) and that they've got the evolutionists on the run. The wierdest thing that I heard was a stand-alone news item that reported that large numbers of Blacks (not African-Americans, mind you) had begun voting early in either North or South Carolina (sorry). Thirty-one percent of early voters were black, but only 21 percent of the total voters were black. Wha...?

A Coffee Cat Memoir

On Saturday, (May 25, sorry for the delay) I stumbled out my door and into the West Side Invite Third Annual Coffee Cat. I almost entered it, but the proximity of the Belmont Stumptown and my refusal to rush a quality iced Americano prevented me from competing. A Coffee Cruise, yes. Racing, no. I'll get jacked on caffeine, but I won't be rushed in the process. Alas, I digress.

Checkpoint coordinator Kimberlyn, Lance E. Pants and I got coffee from a surprised yet helpful Stumpstaff, gaffled a table and some chairs, readied the stamp and inkpad and we were set.

We got the word from from Tod Danger that the race had begun. Then, we waited. Just as Kim asked "when do you think they'll start showing up," Sharkie came rolling up Belmont, cup outstretched.

I frantically filled his cup as one cup became a wash of more wadded up cups, arms, dollar bills, yelling, complaining, water (sissies!), cream, pouring coffee onto sidewalk, more complaining about being chastised for cheating (referred to as "really wanting to win" later [ha!]) and then the jumbled mass was gone, leaving a pool of coffee and a stack of dollar bills and frazzled checkpoint attendants in their wake. In about three seconds they were gone.
Later, some stragglers rolled up, unaware of the serious nature of the event, and drank their coffee like civilized folk, even noting the tastiness and French-pressedness of their coffee.

From there, it was down to the finish line, the prestigious downtown Stumptown to see who the winner was. Of course, it was no surprise to discover that two-time Coffee Cat champ Sharkie had retained his early lead and the title while setting the tone for what would be an impressive weekend for the wily veteran.

Butt Hash?

Yes, "butt hash." I figured that the metalheads quietly packing bowls around the fire pit were making it up. Claire, Tod, Emily and Casey I chatted about a holistic approach to pet care and the met'lers no longer knew where the red lighter had come from. In an instant, everyone at the backyard soiree in North Portland was enrapt with by the mysteries and possibilities of butt hash. Was it real? Someone heard that it started in Florida. One guy, who claimed to have heard about if from another guy, explained with some confidence that one pooped into a jar and simply covered the opening with a balloon. Once the dookie had fermented enough to fill the balloon with the resulting gas, the gas was ingested, and you'd successfully gotten high on fecal matter. Still, no one could say with any definitive proof whether butt hash was a real thing.

Later on, the talk turned to Eastern religious thought and whether, if you were reincarnated as a shit-eating nutrea, would you continue to eat the poop, or not, and which option would lead to enlightenment?
Also, if Tod wins the lottery, he is going to build a house in front of the new house at the Bluffs and put a moat around it with alligators that have been genetically altered to resist the chemicals that would be needed to prevent the spread of mosquitos larvae in the moat. Also, the alligators would eat nothing but hippies.
Then it went back to butt hash.

Tread Lightly in Lake O.

I was in Lake Oswego today. Dean sent me there in search of the answers to the many questions that my strange feet and their various deformities present to fitting me to a bike. (John at Lakeside Bicycles is the man if you want your wretched feet to fit on your bike properly. For real.)
Anyway, if you've been to Lake Oswego this may seem as odd to you as it did to me. When I was walking back to the car I stepped in dog shit. The poop was right next to a weird piece of chicken that was hardening and sweating away in the parking lot.

The Modern-Day Lynch Mob Comes Home to Roost

I listen to NPR a lot now as I deliver shit around the town. And mostly it just makes me mad. Recently, America forced Barack Obama, a mixed-race presidential candidate, to denounce words by his long-time pastor and life-long African-American Jeremiah Wright. Weeks earlier Obama had to double-denounce Louis Farrakhan, just in case you thought that the senator might enlist the support of such a beloved and unifying figure with whom his campaign had previously not had anything to do with. To his credit, Obama did not disassociate himself from Wright, and I'm sure you've heard him explain why. At any rate, most of Wright's words were taken out of context, and in some cases were just plain painfully right. Of course, a black man saying that the United States had it coming will not be tolerated by the white power structure or it's lap dog, the skittish white majority ('member what happened to that Malcolm X guy that said that thing about "the chickens come home to roost"?). As more things come out about Wright's words, the pundits ask "was it enough?"
This has to be the most hypocritical bullshit ever, and if you thought that America was "getting over the race issue," think again. Because, as usually happens in these times of hope for a new day, America shows just how racist it still is. I was starting to think otherwise, but I was wrong.

Say what you want about Obama and Wright, the real nuts are on the other side of the aisle--they just happen to be smiling white old men.

Old white man John McCain sought, received and accepted the endorsement of one John C. Hagee, a televangelist minister from San Antonio, Texas (read: a proud preacher's son from middle-America). Hagee's positions/beliefs include: Advocating a preemptive strike on Iran, which will serve as the catalyst for the Armagedon, the Rapture, the Second Coming, etc. Somehow this helps the Jews everywhere; God destroyed New Orleans with Hurricane Katrina. Yep, it was the queers--NOT global warming. They were going to have a parade of some sort, and as you know, God doesn't like it when gay people walk around all at once. I would say something about trailer parks, but that's a tornado thing. Other Hagee weirdness has him calling the Catholic church a whore (well...), blaming the Jews indirectly for their fate during the Holocaust, all "Islamists" want to kill you, and a host of other biases, blasphemes and flase prophesies. In his books he's predicted the end times, and when they don't happen, he just writes more books with the End Times ending differently and sells thousands more.

Alas, I digress. My point is, that while we're scared of Jeremiah Wright's political influence, we should be worrying about John Hagee, yet no one is horrified. Not even NPR (except Bill Moyers Journal--podcast it, dude. URL is below). Not to worry, though. He's not black, he's just crazy. Clarence Thomas' "modern-day lynch mob" is back.



Seriously, you should check this podcast out. Bill Moyers Journal, episode is "Christians United for Israel." Yikes. I highly recommend that you listen to this. It will scare the shit out of you.
http://phobos.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?i=23660896&id=161038776)

Cupholders

Recently I've learned that cupholders are perhaps the most important component in a courier vehicle. Don't believe me? I never thought that a cupholder would be of much consequence, either, but here we are. While power windows and locks are mighty fine things to have, as are windows and folding arm-rests are splendiferous items that are just not seen in the world of delivery vehicles, none of it matters without a cupholder.

I recently had the white van taken in for servicing, and was handed the keys to a silver monstrosity with no windows in the back, no power windows, manual locks and no radio. Whatever, the thing rolls so I didn't care.
The next morning I slipped the loaner into the loading zone across the street from the Stump and got my Americano (seasonally hot, mind you). "Make it iced," I said. The baristas looked at me first with disbelief and then confusion. "No cup holder," I said. Most of these people are not licensed to drive, so the confusion lingered. Their interest soon waned, however, and they unexpectedly went back to work.

Back in the van, the day had taken a nasty turn. A delivery driver needs to be able to do at least three things at once. Say dispatch is trying to give you directions. You need to have your Thomas Guide out and open (splayed out on the steering wheel is your only real choice), because as dispatch is telling you where to go, you need to find the connecting roads that he forgot to mention or you didn't hear about (depending on who you ask). One hand holds the radio up to your ear to better discipher the mumbling as the other hand is turning the pages. Then there's the driving. Where does the coffee go? Where?!?

So there I was, driving into town, heater cranked, sucking the Americano out of a straw as I drove into town. No cupholder, no hot Americano. After that, nothing else matters.

Is Anyone Still Paying Attention? Where They Ever?

If you still bother to check this thing, then I owe you heartfelt thanks for your patience. You should really get out more. Go see "No Country For Old Men." Totally deserved the statues. If you can't, you could see "There Will Be Blood," but only if you've seen "No Country." "No Country" is stylistically a Coen bros movie, but it transcends their distinctive camera work and sheds the kooky characters of previous films and manages to give Cormac McCarthy's story it's proper due. What was I saying?
A segway...Yes--like the Coen brothers, hopefully I, too, can put produce something worthy of your attention, and that of the members of the academy... But where to start? So much has happened, and yet so much has stayed the same. Ah, the cliches. Always there when you need them. Waiting, really, for that awkward situation when you don't know what to say, or when you have too much to say and don't know where to start, or don't want to start. Or you don't know if you want to exert the time and energy into telling people something that really doesn't matter to them and they'll probably misconstrue and/or use against you in the future. These are only some of the reasons why "not much, you?" and the old chestnut "You know, just pluggin' along" have stayed in the mix for so long. Gah.
Well, that's all that I'll say for now, because, well, see above. I'll try to put some of my semi-amusing (but mostly not) escapades up here with more regularity.

Oh, yeah. You probably won't wanna go, but I'm going to do a century ride in the homeland on April 27. Anyone interested can get ahold of me through the proper channels. It's a fun ride through beautiful country. Dude, you should totally go.

Mike Stevens--You Are Missed

What is there to say? A lot, really, but for now, I'll keep it short and bittersweet. I didn't know Mike Stevens all that well. We exchanged pleasantries, 'sups and things in passing. As messengers, many of bonds that we forge are in passing, unless we drink at the same bars or work at the same company (which Mike and I did not). Somehow we know that the bond of friendship exists, though. It's unspoken, but it is a very real thing. That's how it was with Mike. You could tell in the way he asked how things were going with you. It was real, and the few words were always sincere and caring.
I always thought it was cool how he kind of got right up in your grill and inquired about your well-being in such an intense way. Like you needed to tell him. It was important for him to know that you were doing okay. One of a kind.


I'll miss you brother.

Life and Death in the Suburbs

On Thursday I found myself in one of the more exclusive suburbs. Beaverton or somewhere out that way. Up on a big hill. Overlooking everything, perfect and plain. You could eat your lunch off of the street.
As it usually goes with these residence drops, no one was home to sign for whatever crap I was delivering. In fact, I did not see any sign of any human beings anywhere. The silence was eerie. I knocked again. Nothing. I looked in the little window at the top of the door and all that I could see was a small cross hanging on a white wall. It was the only decoration that I could see through the little window.
I got the okay to leave the package on the doorstep. As I leaned over to set the envelope on the doormat I stepped on something. Whatever. Then I noticed a small, furry thing laying on the doormat. It was furry, the size of a small thumb, and it had a tail. I suddenly realized that the thing under my foot was once like the thing on the doormat, though after being stepped on and rained on, it had become just a damp wad of bone and flesh and tail. The only signs of life in that neighborhood were two dead mice.