the idle hands of jefe

Brue Spotting and Other Bay Area Tales (really just that one)

2009-07-01T09:45:00.000-07:00

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.

Portland Courier Kills Blackberry. Lake Oswego Residents Outraged.

2009-03-05T20:47:00.000-08:00

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."

Cascara Tea

2009-01-28T20:27:00.000-08:00

"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.

The Ought-Nine Blowout (Jefe Style)

2009-01-04T16:32:00.000-08:00

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.

Fear and Loathing in Eugene/Jefe's Library Trifecta

2008-11-19T23:23:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-18T22:14:00.000-08:00

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?

2008-10-23T23:23:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-01T13:49:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-06-01T00:44:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-03-27T22:08:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-19T23:32:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-04T22:17:00.000-08:00

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?

2008-03-03T21:13:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-17T22:44:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-04T21:32:00.000-08:00

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.

A Yuletide Classic

2007-12-22T09:50:00.000-08:00

Originally published last year on my myspace blog, so you probably didn't read it yet.

Observations made at the Lloyd Center Mall, 12/16/06
Current mood: savage
Category: Fashion, Style, Shopping

Some observations from the Lloyd Center Mall:

1. It is okay to take your kids into the bathroom with you. However, I did not know that that rule has been expanded to include taking your children into the stall while you sit down for an extended dump session, as exhibited by the guy in the last stall of the bathrooms by the Mail Box and his daughter in the rather cute pink, fuzzy jumper sitting on the tile floor of said bathroom stall. I did not know that you could do this. The rearing of children seems a lot less complicated and a lot more convenient.

2. I did not know that plus-sized women were so fond of the colors red, black and purple. Nor did I know that they wore so much trashy lingerie. Is this a new development in plus-sized fashions? Do full-figured ladies give it up more or is this the new leisure wear for the house-bound?

3. There were no women (of any size) in the plus-size store.

4. You can buy a set of Metallica shot glasses and a "crunk" goblet at the same store. You can also get a pimp stick with a die-cast metal dragon's head on the handle at that store. Would you like a Slipknot or Guns 'n' Roses Christmas ornament for your tree? Do people who have Christmas trees want Slipknot Christmas ornaments? Do people who want Slipknot Christmas ornaments bother to have Christmas trees? Maybe I'm stereotyping here.

5. There are three pages of new Mac Dre images that they can put on a t-shirt, hat or Converse All-Star for you at the t-shirt kiosk. Almost as many as Tupac has.

This is merely an observation. If you have anything to add to this brief anthropological excercise, feel free.

I, Car-mo

2007-12-06T22:50:00.001-08:00

I'm sure that everyone is dying to hear about my life as a driver. It's sad, really, seeing all of you ride around town on bikes, while stuck in a car. Of course, riding in the style and comfort of a Ford Aerostar has its merits. The van is kinda like my bike, it's old and dirty, but it gets the job done. It has a CD player, though, and NPR, so at least there's that. You have to turn it on by grounding the wire to the battery. Charm? Style? Call it what you will, but I got car sounds.

On the bright side, I have the newest, fanciest Nextel in town. Yours is not as fancy as mine. It just isn't.

Some driving favorites:

McCoy Tyner "Expansions." Start your day off with this CD and you'll be okay. This guy was Coltrane's piano player in his prime. "I got two sealed copies of Expansions/ I'm Like Tom Wu, with yachts and mansions."

Funkadelic "Maggot Brain." The title track is the greatest/saddest guitar jam EVER. I don't have enough room to really get into how many ways this record kicks your ass. "I have tasted the maggots in the mind of the universe, but I was not offended. For I knew that I had to rise above it all--or drown in my own shit." Words to live by in traffic.

Ornette Coleman "Science Fiction." Out there "free jazz" from the master. The entire session comes on this re-issue. More melodic and cool than, say, Miles' wild '70s stuff that tries too hard. Ornette was getting weirder than shit, but still wore a suit. Y'know? This is the musical conversation that jazzbos speak of. Beats talk radio any (and every)day.

ZZ Top "Tres Hombres." There was life before "Eliminator," you know. It was a good life, too, as this record will attest. "Waitin' For The Bus/Jesus Just Left Chicago" is as good as it gets for the end of the day. If you time it right, the tightly syncopated groove helps you crawl through traffic on the freeway or downtown. If you do it right, you'll get on the bridge right when the restrained swagger of "Waitin' For the Bus" exhales and the heartbeat rhythm section pumps out "Jesus Just Left Chicago" to take you home. Once again, I could go on...

The Dirtbombs "Dangerous Magical Noise." Scratchy, raw garage soul from Motown (the city, not the label). Mick Collins and company played a crucial role in a hot job to Hillsboro yesterday. I'm new, so if someone's going to have to get stuck on the freeway, it might as well be me. I didn't give a shit, I had the Dirtbombs.

The minutemen "What Makes A Man Start Fires?" This one may give way to "Double Nickels On The Dime," but doesn't it always? Like "Science Fiction," it's like a musical conversation, but with a lyrical conversation over it. This is just my favorite shit ever. It never goes out of style because it was never in style. Maybe Mike Watt got lots of his ideas from all the time he spent driving his van on all of those tours?

If I seem smarter, then that is why.

My first day of training was spent in a tiny car with a guy whose first question to me was "Do you mind if I smoke?"

The second thing that he said to me was "If you get tired of Jimmy Buffett, let me know."

We then drove around for the next five-and-a-half hours like this. At 1:30 in the afternoon, he put on the radio. "Afternoon Zoo"-type shit. The cloud of smoke lasted all day.

Day two was similar, except we listened to Korn and Marilyn Manson. And I drove a little.

Day three I was on my own, in the dirty white van. It was alright until the end, when I got lost in Jantzen Beach and ended up going back to the 'Couv on accident. before locating a houseboat off of Marine Drive. Much heartache and soul-searching. Got the radio to work, but no CDs. Channel surfed for a lot of the day.

Things heard on the radio:

"We can't hear your costume."

"Let's do some giggles."

Some Observations from the Country Music Awards

2007-11-07T21:16:00.000-08:00

Is it just me, or does that dude from Brooks and Dunn look like Annette Benning with a goatee?

Jorrorfest '07: The Freakmaker

2007-10-24T16:11:00.000-07:00

Just in time for Halloween I found myself on a horror movie kick, which I have cleverly dubbed Jefe's Jorrorfest (I just now thought of that). Not surprisingly, I feel the need to talk about it. Which is why it is perfect for this or any other blog--you don't care and I assume that you do.
In the spirit of the event, I have instructed The Captain (pictured, at right) to peer menacingly into my window, like he's doing right now--only with a greater sense of foreboding, through October 31.
I won't get into the first two films that I've watched during Jefe's Jorrorfest, except to say that The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is a brilliant, disturbing and sometimes hilarious horror masterpiece, and that Halloween somehow seems like a cliché nowadays, if only because it has inspired so many others. I could go on at great length about each, but I've got another lesser known "classic" to discuss.

For the third installment of the Jorrorfest I decided to take a chance on 1974's The Freakmaker (a.k.a. The Mutations, and later, Dr. of Evil). My initial attraction to The Freakmaker was the 1970s B-movie kitsch factor. When I discovered that director Jack Cardiff was inspired by Tod Browning's 1932 classic, Freaks, and cast real sideshow “freaks” as the films sideshow freaks, I was sold.
Oddly enough, I unwittingly chose to view back-to-back Donald Pleasance films! This might be a stretch, but the man is like the Vincent Price of the 1970s. The intensity of Dr. Sam Loomis in Halloween, the cold, calculating evil of Professor Nolter set the bar for character actors of the genre. Much like Price, he adds credibility where there should be none.
About the movie itself. Don't let the first half of the movie fool you. It sucks--bad. It is a whirlwind of polyester plaid leisure suits, mock turtlenecks and dialogue that is as snappy as cheese-flavored wood. I turned it off and was about to send it back. Luckily I decided to give it another shot and found found it strangely endearing.

Basically what you have are two plots that are unnaturally fused together like half-plant half-man experiments of the evil Dr. Nolter (Pleasance), whose plan is to make a plant-human hybrid. As it is with plants and humans, and the two parts of this movie, both are fine by themselves.
The trouble starts when Dr. Nolter, who teaches at an esteemed English university, enlists the help of the grotesque giant Mr. Lynch (Tom Baker), the feared leader of a traveling circus sideshow on the outskirts of town. Lynch nabs unwitting college students who are coincidentally enrolled in one of the professor’s classes. The absent-minded professor then fails to recognize them, even as they lie naked (obligatory gratuitous breasts) on an operating table in his secret laboratory.
Mr. Lynch and the rest of the freaks are members of a traveling circus sideshow that is kind of a freak-owned co-op (ring a bell?) that acts as both a holding cell for Dr. Nolter’s unwitting victims and as a clearing house for his horribly failed experiments.

From there it just gets weird, not so much because of brilliant plot twists, although the story’s gaping holes will keep you guessing. Of interest is the seemingly candid acting of sideshow people, who give you the only characters in The Freakmaker who elicit any sympathy. The rest of the characters are pretty much douches. Aside from that, it’s all rabbit-eating plants, re-animating laser beams, pseudo-scientific mumbo-jumbo, cannibalistic human Venus flytraps, freak-on-prostitute action (they use the “L” word), and deadly, knife-throwing-freak-and-vicious-dog-on-freak revenge killing. German sexpot Hedi (Julie Ege) sums The Freakmaker with horrifying accuracy as she cries out “Ziss is like a bad trip or zomesing!”

A bad trip indeed.

Eight Ball Continues To Crush Souls

2007-10-22T19:08:00.000-07:00

It wasn’t enough for the Eight Ball to throw a tantrum last Thursday, making life hell for tenants, messengers and (most of all) security as every elevator in the joint seized. No, the business end of Pioneer Place Mall needed a thorough scrub--on the same day as a well known corporate tax deadline. This was no spit-shine, mind you, so the water fell and fell.
So, in effect, at 8am it was raining on the sidewalk--and only on the sidewalk--at 888 SW Fifth Street, as I struggled with a full and almost unliftable Manhattan Portage messenger bag (yes, it's the big one, asshole). (Dude, let me tell you--my bag was FULL. Not like “hey, dispatch, I can’t move until I hand off some of these packages.” No, my friend, it was heavy like “Joel, drive the car up here because I can’t lift my bag off of the ground” heavy. Even Beefa would cringe. That being said, that's how you make the cash, fuckers. It was like carrying a pot of fucking GOLD. When you see Jefe rocking those sparkly false fronts, you'll know why.) Needless to say, if I would have tried to get that thing on my back, vertebrae would have been crushed, and this was no time for work-related sacrifice.
The deluge went on throughout the day. Metaphors aside, I have never had a rain cloud hover over my head, a la Charlie Brown. But this was even more frustrating. Chuck eventually accepts the permanence of his proverbial dark cloud only once. Each time I left the Triple Eight, the weight was lifted and I prayed that this would be the last time that I would have to darken the Eight Ball’s door. Yet each time that I rolled up the sidewalk, each time fate dragged me back up Taylor, the tainted water rained down on me, taunting me, taking another piece of my soul.
Eventually, the calls stopped coming and I could relax, knowing that I was done with the construction-scarred intersection of SW Fifth and Taylor.
Suddenly, a voice came over the radio, "Jefe, can you do the mail?"

The Eight Ball Had Had Enough

2007-10-10T21:51:00.000-07:00

I was finally at peace with the dreadfully time-consuming and demeaning task of travelling through the bowels of the Eight Ball to Bullivant Houser. It helped that yesterday I delivered lunches to the actually front desk of "the Bull," and felt like I'd bested the system at 888 SW Fifth once, so after gaining clearance in the lobby, I strolled back to the loading dock through the "servant's entrance" and into the sweet odor of the giganto-dumpster adjacent to the freight elevator.
Lo and behold, the thing was there, waiting for me with open doors. Yes, this must be my lucky day. I pressed three and was on my--wait. I pressed the number three button, but the orange light would not stay on. I looked at the control panel on the other side to see if the light was burned out. Nope.
I stepped out and summoned help on the intercom. The voice that suddenly erupted from the speaker spat out a panicked muddle of words, one of which was "malfunction."

"They'll be forced to allow me to through the Bullivant lobby," I thought as I walked back to the lobby and the guard desk. But no, building personnel would be forced to do many things that afternoon, but letting set foot inside the Bullivant lobby would not be one of them.
An alarm buzzed away as people had began collecting in the lobby, staring at the elevator bay as all of the elevator doors stood agape and white-shirted security guards rushed in and out of a heretofore top secret room. It was as though the curtains had been pulled, exposing the Wizard of Oz, only to reveal Hal from 2001, silently, coldly sitting there, refusing to acknowledge its deeds while a bunch of scared kids in their police suits scurried like startled roaches as the alarms from the elevators and the eyes of the grown-ups in their suits turned the whole thing into a scatological nightmare.

One of the guards discreetly mentioned that the freight elevator was working again. Most of the suits standing in the lobby didn't even know that there was a freight elevator in their beloved building. So of I went, back to the dark and putrid bowels of the tower, where the rehabilitated freight elevator awaited. I didn't think that anyone had followed me, but after I tried pressing the call button several times I looked up to see a mob of businesspeople anxiously marching into the loading dock, led by a large-yet-cherubic security guard.

With any luck, the young man's competence would get us safely to our destination. I made sure that I was first to hop into the compartment, the mass of humanity flowing in around me. Yet the episode was yet another in which acting on assumptions cost me dearly. The car began to bounce (yes, bounce) up and down like it was some kind of ride at Disneyland (not a carnival ride, however, so panic did not ensue). The door opened and we all reluctantly got out so that the security man-child and the newly arrived building maintenance guy mentally and physically battled the mighty beast and its throes of seizure, unleashed by the building's revolting cenral nervous system.

We eventually set sail with about 15 people and went straight to Tonkon Torp, passing the third floor mail room and the single envelope that was apparently worth all of this trouble en route to the 16th floor. It was logical, but it sure as hell didn't jibe with my needs. But we were finally making some progress and the whole thing was still quite amusing, so I kept my mouth shut.
As I left the big car, the brave pilot stood alone in the temperamental metal box. Through the cacophony that was blaring out of his radio, he'd heard that the elevators were all now working again. Just the same, I took the stairs on the way down. They let out on Fourth Street, so I walked around the corner to retrieve my bike. As I walked by the loading dock, an older--perhaps semi-retired--security guard smoked a cigarette. The scatological goings-on of the afternoon were not enough to keep him from his break, or ellicit any concern whatsoever. I asked him if what I'd heard was true, that the elevators were, in fact, working again. He just shook his head, laughed and took another drag.

Postscript:

As luck would have it, my next job was a 1000 Broadway back to the Eight Ball. I pulled my stuff and took the advice of the old security guard back at 888, and kicked it at 1000 B'way for long enough to put a dent in the crossword. The "big plan" had me meeting up with D to switch out some packages. I pretended like I was doing him a favor, as I was able to pawn off one drop and two picks at the Eight Ball for two Northeasts. After what seemed like an eternity, he emerged from the purgatory at Fifth and Taylor. His voice quivered like that of a man whose soul was no longer complete as he muttered over the radio, "Please...don't send me back in there."
And we never saw D again.

The Hiatus Is Over

2007-09-25T17:16:00.000-07:00

I'm back, sort of. I must apologize, as I've been busy and had writer's block for the past few weeks. So rather than bore you with half-assed, sub-standard posts, I just decided to let them rot on the vine, unfit for your consumption. If I knew how to overcome such mental obstacles, then you'd be enjoying an entertaining piece of literary hubris. Sadly, you are not.
Could it be the pressure of providing some kind of meaningful content? Possibly. Or could it be that my trip to California, Disco and Mady's wedding and jury duty were truly overwhelming. Maybe all of those things in succession are just too much to sort through. Or, maybe I'm trying to cull something out of those events that somebody would want to hear about. It could be the fear of having my reportage of a commonly experienced event scrutinized by my peers. Or maybe it's my roommates propensity to discuss trivial matters when she hears the typing noise. There's got to be someone to blame for all this.

Thus, the responsibility lies squarely at the feet of Ryan Kelly. "Damn, Jefe, the weather? No one wants to talk about the weather, least of all bike messengers," Ryan laments. Hurtful, just hurtful. As part of the healing process after such a harsh critical outburst, however, I shall retort. The protagonist of the story, being an unemployed bike messenger, spends his day pathetically looking at his homepage and waiting for the weather to change, thus illustrating--however poorly--his refusal to take action on his own behalf, as he opts to wait for some outside force (i.e. his computer and it's perceived control over the weather) to improve his standing in the universe. So sorry about the phrase "grey drizzle," but it was essential to the story. I open up to you people and look what happens. Hurtful.

Also, the proposed relocation of a certain pigeon population (referred to in Sept. 13 post) has yet to materialize. This doesn't make it off limits here, but I'm not sure if it is a devious plot, an interesting (maybe even controversial) process or total bullshit. But here's the lowdown:

Apparently, one of the more humane options available to those wishing to deal with a bothersome pigeon "infestation" is to trap the entire flock and relocate it. I raised a sceptical eyebrow as my anonymous source explained what sounded like no more than a hair-brained scheme hatched late at night in a local tavern. It seems that a flock of pigeons is indigenous to a specific nesting area. I guess this explains some of the behaviors and practices of homing pigeons.
After having lived in one place for several generations, pigeons are understandably reluctant to leave their home. Thus, the entire flock must be repatriated to a different location that is far enough away from their original home that they can't find their way back, much like the Cherokee relocation to Oklahoma, commonly known as the Trail of Tears.
Or, as my friend offered with a shrug, "Maybe they just kill 'em."

2007-09-13T21:25:00.000-07:00

On an early September day the Yahoo weather report says that the temperature is supposed to be 75 degrees farenheit. The sun shines in all of its glory on their site. The grey drizzle that floats down on me as I make my mid/late-morning trip to Stumptown would say otherwise. It's currently holding at 60 degrees with a projected low of 58 degrees. The day, and my personal feelings about the day, take a turn for the worst as I elect to take my triple iced Americano hot. Not only is this a truly uncivilized way to transition from late morning to early afternoon, but its implications weigh heavily on my psyche as I realize that a summer of laze and leisure might be at an end.

Just yesterday I was watching the sun try its best to pierce the thick, brown layer of smoke from wildfires too numerous to bother keeping track of. Each part of the state I was in had a little fire that it could be proud of. Who says the seasons aren't distinct in California?

I had excercised what was left of my grand plan to spend large chunks of the summer out of town, and spent a week visiting relatives in California.
So in a gloomy Portland summer, I'd managed a week of California sun, abeit with a brown hue.

My return to reality was decieving. I'd stepped off of the plane into a beautiful, late summer evening in Portland. It was 75 degrees and the sun was just beginning to set. The MAX and a bus had gotten me home in about 30 minutes and for $2.05 (suck it, airport cabbies!!) I stopped by Stumptown for the ol' triple iced and was back at home. It felt good to sleep in my own bed.

The next morning, my eyes opened to an unexpected, yet familiar sensation. The birds were not chirping as the morning sunbeams welcomed me back from the land of sleep. No, it was cold and grey, and the birds felt no reason to sing. I was forced to forsake my flip-flops in lieu of shoes, socks and a hoodie. I didn't even bring my sunglasses. Before I left, I noticed that my beloved tomato plants had turned to a light green color, with some of the leaves becoming yellow and brown as they had begun their inevitable decline as one of the minor, yet sure, signs that fall was here. This sent me into a slow, melancholy kind of panic.

Wait. I can't be thinking like that, because those a-holes that do the weather on my computer said that it is supposed to be seventy-fucking-five degrees out and VERY sunny. There were no clouds on the thing for the day. I could understand if it was merely some jackass at Yahoo (they can take their trademarked "!" and shove it up their copyrighted asses). But they've contracted that stuff out to the Weather Channel. Another reputable source debunked.

After about an hour and a half sipping warm esspresso, some crossword, soduku, eavesdropping on some self-proclaimed artists and a conversation about the potential abduction and forced relocation of a certain avian population, I headed back. A look at my computer revealed that it was, in fact, only one degree warmer than it had been when I left my house. Also, the sun was NOT beaming down on me and melting away the cold, cloudy haze that hung over my morning. As the day progressed, my paper-shuffling was interupted by glances at my homepage, which still maintained that the day's high would be 75 degrees--and sunny. Very sunny. "It might even be 78 degrees tomorrow, there buddy!" it seemed to say to me.
"And just as sunny and beautiful as today! We're Yahoo (!) and The Weather Channel and we say so!"

I continued to look for them to change their tune, but those weathermen, or whatever they are, wherever they are, stood by their claim. And, as the September sun began to set on the West Hills, I dilligently did my part, waitinig for the sun to redeem itself and burn the clouds away.

Editor's note: It did not. Also, the Yahoo!/Weather Channel claimed that things would be different tomorrow and there would be sun and warmth. And, much to my disappointment, they let me down again. Oh, well, they can't be wrong forever.

bad vibes

2007-08-27T22:15:00.000-07:00

Early on, I knew it was going to be a weird day. I sat in front of Stumptown on a cold, windblown morning that felt more like early November than late August, steeling myself for a hard day of delivering stuff by bike. It was early still, when I took the first sip of the essential triple-iced americano. Even though the air was crisp and the sky was overcast, I ordered my caffeine on the rocks, anticipating the arrival of the summer sun. It was an uneasy wait, made harder to bear by grey-skinned street urchins milling about.

The presence of these sleestack-like raggamuffins gave the cold wind and grey sky an ominous quality. It also made me think of something that Anne said at the flower cart late last week. She'd claimed that all of the psychics were leaving town because they could sense that something terrible was about to happen. At the very least, something was creating some very bad vibes.
At the time I thought nothing of it, but now I reallized that her fear was becoming an acute reality. A chill rattled my spine as a group of the walking corpses shuffled by. Their heads oscilated back and forth, one cyclopitic evil eye surveying the landscape, looking for something that only they could detect. They could smell it like the musty smell of a flophouse mattress or a dirty Raiders coat.
It was not the first or the fifteenth day of the month, but somehow they knew that it would be a good day to be downtown.

2007-08-01T22:24:00.000-07:00

It was during the downtime between my calisthenics regimen and the mid-morning shower when the phone rang. It was approaching 10am, and NPR was taking its toll on my fragile psyche. Even though the outside world was doing quite poorly, I picked up the phone and looked at the incoming number. How was I to know that a simple phone call would turn into a full blown attack on my dedication to leisure.

The number didn't look like that of the collections agents or their machines that frequently hound me. It was just a 503 number. A friend? Not likely. My old friends are most likely at work at that time. My new friends, those who have chosen to ride out the summer months on the dole as I have, are just waking up. Still others, like myself, are locked in a desperate battle against the clock. Iced Americanos don't make themselves, and the woman that gets her double iced latte (with soy, please) at about, oh, say 11:13am? She doesn't know that I exist, so the onus of our relationship has fallen upon my shoulders.

She'll come around, just you....wait. What the fuck was I talking about? The phone call. Thank God I'd just finished my morning work-out and gotten the blood back into my brain again. I answered the phone.
"Hey, this is so-and-so from unemployment something-or-other and we've found a position that we think you're qualified to fill."
There must be some mistake. My work experience has been painstakingly tooled to repel potential employers like a healthy shot of bear mace straight to the mug. How could this be happening?
This is one of the unpleasant aspect of being unemployed. At a certain point you stop worrying, learn how to live within your meager means and begin to enjoy your free time. So when someone calls you and informs you that they've done you a favor by finding some kind of gainful employment, you may not be as enthusiastic as the squares would like. But you've got to play ball with these employment accountants or facilitators or whatever they say they are when you're trying to not listen.

So, the guy says some more specific ramblings about the requirements and qualifications of the position that at least one of us is interested in. At this point, I'm fully puckered, with "yes" and "you bet" and "that sounds great," flying out of my mouth like I mean them. The feeling was not unlike that which one gets when tucking a golf shirt into a pair of Dockers.

So when it came time to tell me what my future employment could possibly be, things got a little strange. "Well, it says editor-T.O.C.," the guy said.
"Uh, what's that," I replied, adding that I'd had editorial experience and I'd never heard of that job title.
"Let's see," now we were on common ground, "editor, table of contents."
Was this some kind of joke? It wasn't, and, well, how hard could that be?
Things were looking up, I thought. Maybe it was time to re-enter the workforce?
It was then that things took a turn for the worst.

"It's in Lake Oswego, is that a problem?"
Before I knew how to react I heard a cheesy and insincerely enthusiastic voice say, "Not a problem."