beautiful, funny, sad & true

In case you didn’t know, I grew up in Yakima, Washington. It’s a very isolated town in the middle of Washington. People who live there may tell you that “well, it’s a good place to raise kids” or whatever, but I was a kid growing up there, and I feel like it was a difficult place, particularly compared to the city in which I was born.

It’s long been one of the drug hubs of the entire nation, and that’s especially astounding when you consider that fact per capita. I used to have a little Honda CRX when I lived there, and I’d always leave the doors unlocked, because otherwise the windows would get smashed out by drug addicts looking for things to steal. It used to get rummaged through almost every single night. In fact, I was thrilled on the rare occasions when I’d go outside in the morning and NOT find the glove compartment open, the seats pushed forward, the carpet pulled up, the little storage hatch open, and the hatchback popped open. Very often, I’d find that all of those things had been done. Seriously; Yakima’s a shit-hole (and I don’t normally throw terms like that around, either), and I hated living there.

A friend of mine saw this a couple of days ago, in McSweeney’s, and e-mailed it to me. I had to laugh. I wasn’t at all surprised to learn that Yakima is now the meth capital of Central Washington. It’s been called “Crackima” for ages, since the 80’s, when crack was the Thing to Do. Even the mayor’s son got busted for using and selling it, back in the day.

Can I just say how much life has improved since I moved to Portland? It really feels like I’ve lived two entirely separate lives, even though Portland is (I’ve HEARD) the meth capital of the whole Pacific Northwest. I will always appreciate where I am now, and how much I enjoy life now, because I spent so many years wondering why life was even worth living.

Books saved my life; “The Little Prince” came along just when I needed it. Movies saved my life; “My Dinner With Andre” and “Mindwalk” came along just when I needed them. My piano saved my life. My guitar saved my life.

Glad to be outta there, Yakima. Good riddance.

I usually don’t take the time to write letters such as this (mostly because I’m infinitely large and have no opposable thumbs), but one of my lackeys recently forwarded your message to me, and it sounded like you could use a comforting word or two from me. I admit that I like you, and your posterior. A lot. But not that much. And hey, I’ll be the first to admit that I likes me the buggery just as much as the next universe does, but let’s be realistic here. I just don’t have time to give that level of attention to each individual one of my citizens. Not to mention the fact that a star–let alone a galaxy, let ALONE an entire universe such as myself–is vastly bigger than a single human anus, so suffice it to say that even if I did want to do that to you, I’d be simultaneously doing it to every other being and planet and star inside me. And to myself too, if you think about it. Which really isn’t my thing.

So rest assured that you’re off the hook, at least as far as buggery and I are concerned. I can’t speak for all those other universes or ‘string theories’ or whatever. You may wish to take up any further concerns you may have with them.

How much do I love spam?

Apparently I love it very much, because I’m posting this message. This week I’ve gotten two e-mails with subject lines that stood out from all the rest.

“Add inches to your johnson effortlessly!”

and

“Fatten up your trousersnake.”

‘Fatten up your trousersnake?’ Who would say a thing like that? This kind of thing seems to be purely an e-mail phenomenon. I’m trying to imagine a scenario involving a door-to-door salesman using that as his pitch, or a paperboy back in the 1920’s holding a newspaper aloft and shouting, “EX-tree, EX-tree! Read all about it! Add inches to your johnson effortlessly!”

And of course, the word ‘johnson’ always reminds me of the nihilists in the movie The Big Lebowski. They’re the ones who interrupt Our Hero’s bubble bath, ask him repeatedly, “Vere’s the money, Lebowski?” drop a marmot into the tub and say, “Ve vill cut off your JOHNSON.”

What a strange morning. I’ve only been up for twenty minutes, and I’m already thinking about johnsons. I wish I wasn’t, so I’m going to eat, have coffee, and put on some music. I can’t decide what I’m in the mood to listen to. . .Revolting Cocks? Whitesnake? Tool? Big Black? Helmet? Mr. Big?

So many choices. . .

ha ha

I wouldn’t call it beautiful, but it’s certainly funny, a little sad, and true.

I came across this story yesterday about a guy who heard a woman screaming for help in the apartment upstairs. So he grabs his sword, runs upstairs and bursts into the apartment, only to find a guy sitting alone watching a porno. The police arrive, take him to jail, take his sword, and charge him with a bunch of pretty heavy-duty charges.

I think they should all be dismissed.

As far as I’m concerned, it’s all about intent. He went up there to save a damsel in distress. If it had been a rape, Our Hero would probably be getting knighted right now, instead of becoming a character in an obscure (but still very witty and insightful!) blog halfway across the country.

A toast. . .to James Van Iveren.

He did the right thing–albeit in an unusual way–in a moment when most people would have stuck their heads in the sand. Let’s hope all the charges get dropped.

I’ve been trying to compose an entry to describe what this weekend was like, and I have to admit that I’m at a bit of a loss. Instead, I offer you the short version of the story.

Saturday I volunteered to work some overtime, and after that I took a drive up the Columbia Gorge to take pictures, which you’ve seen. On Sunday, Kelly and her roommate moved, and I helped. Her car battery (actually it turned out to be the alternator) died, so her car wouldn’t start and we (with quite a bit of help from her dad, gorblessim) had to figure all that out. Then we went to the Pied Cow and shared an AMAZING brownie boat. (Brownies, vanilla ice cream, and raspberry sauce. Nuff said!) Monday, we continued with the moving, and then we had to make a trip to Kaiser Permanente, which ended up taking two and a half hours (yes, we’re both okay).

And as a hopefully funny aside, here’s what happened later that night and the morning after.

Around 2:00 a.m., Kelly woke herself (and me) up with a coughing fit that consisted of a dry, hacking cough every 10-30 seconds for the next 45 minutes. I kept expecting it to end, but it never did. At some point, the sleep deprivation was setting in on me, and I asked if she needed a glass of water? Some cough syrup? Maybe a pair of socks or a cork? Ha ha. She opted for the water and cough syrup, and actually went right to sleep after the cough syrup. She remembers none of this, by the way. Phew! :)

In the morning, we had to get up extra early since I had to drive her to work (cause of her car battery) and get myself back to MY work by 8:00. At 6:30, I brushed her shoulder and serenaded her with an a capella version of the Ben Folds Five song, “Satan Is My Master.” When this elicited no response, I said, “Okay, but don’t MAKE me try to wake you up by speaking in an Australian accent.” No movement. Insert Australian accent here:
“I hea-ah thet woild kaingaroes have stawted fayd’n Fahstah’s bee-ah to th’ thai-nee bai-bee jao-eys. FAHSTAH’S. Royght in th’ JAOEYS. Bleydin’ trejeday! Beytah get ahp ‘n’ tayke cayeh th’ sit-choo-ai-tion.”

Still nothing. Nobody appreciates this stuff less than Kelly does. :) I laugh and resume my normal voice. “Aw c’MON. . .this is great comedy, and you’re missing it!” Exhales. Rolls over.

Incidentally, I always thought that “by the time I’m twenty five, I’ll be married and have a house and kids and all that. And I SURE won’t do all those ridiculous accents anymore.” Well, eleven years later, the accents are still going strong, and all that other stuff is still quite a ways off. And that’s fine with me.

* * * * * * * * * *

P.S. – As promised, here’s the ‘trans-LAI-tion’ for all you ‘am-EER-icans out there:
“I hear that wild kangaroos have started feeding Foster’s beer to their tiny baby joeys. FOSTER’S. Right in their JOEYS. Bleedin’ tragedy! Better get up and take care of the situation.”