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.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
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.
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