Everybody's Out On the Run Tonight

So many mornings I wake up and think, Where am I? and, How did I get here? Then memories start tumbling back, and I think, O shit, what if actions have consequences?

I suppose it was noon by the time we rounded everybody up. The night before Megan's Dad's Band had played at Little Murphy's, and after beer and Jameson and a rousing chorus of John Denver we retired to Megan's house for a spot of Pabst and lighter fluid.

This is all to say, some of us were mildly hungover at the start of our journey North. Nevertheless I'd call the mood in the car cautiously optimistic, even after lunch at the worst diner in America, even after it turned cold and started raining. Cautious optimism, crescendoing to euphoria as we arrived upon that fabled form of human social organization predicated upon the despoliation of the countryside, the catalyst of colonization and the foundation of war and the vehicle of every form of political tyranny; the Great Absurdity, unprecedented in 4 billion years of Earth; the place where nobody calls you "fag" and anybody else doesn't believe in God and you're not afraid to openly admit your politics and you spent a whole day without seeing a pickup truck and everybody is beautiful and nobody even cares; the City, man, Portland, fuck, is this still even Oregon? God, I just want to run up to everybody and kiss them.

Started at Powel's, get it out of the way, you know you will spend nine hours there if you are not careful -- they dragged me out as I was reading (I think) Henri Bergson. Supped at Montage, and I had a delicious veggie gumbo which in the end was wrapped up in tinfoil in shape of a mouse, How cute, and which I think is still somewhere in Gabe's car. And Rachel greeted us with hugs and beers, and Michael with his own refreshments, and, after a stop at a friend's for tequila and homemade Bourbon (or not really homemade but they'd added orange peel and cloves and cinnamon and cetera, and my was it tasty); then to the bar.

Did it start to go downhill when I started drinking whiskey? Was it earlier? Either way before the night was out I made at least one girl cry.

The bar we were at was a fine place, you know me, and I think thus you know what it looked like and who else was there. A large black man sat beside us with an even larger teddy bear sitting beside him ("Where's my bear?" "Your beer's right here." "No, not my beer, my bear!"), claimed to have been in Delta Force and offered to sell me cocaine made of Tylenol. I bought him a beer for his bear, informed him that I, not Miles Davis, was in fact the King of Cool, and gave him the slip.

Because now it was a dance party in a downstairs hippie hole with the band only covering James Brown songs. The whitest city in America? Perhaps, but it was fun anyway, or, it looked like it would be fun, but I was too confused to dance, and then there was fighting, tears, confessions; I would tell you the whole story but the participants comprise 30% of the readers of this nonsensical blog; please pretend to be surprised that I was the asshole.

Maybe eventually we left and were suddenly playing pool (which I'm terrible at) and ping pong (which I'm even worse at) and, intoxicated in so many ways I felt it necessary to go wandering into the cold night. I was lost, and eventually Rachel found me; she gave me her sweater to wear and when we got back the Boys made fun of me for wearing it; I cannot claim I understood. Lexie and Gabe had gone by then, and we found them eventually, and I imagine they were annoyed at being abandoned in a strange and hostile place (or maybe it was just hostile cause I was stoned).

Morning, Hawthorne Street. Breakfast was delicious except for the eggs. I miss Breakfast Meat: they gave me vegetarian sausage and You don't exactly find that in Roseburg and I was happy. I took a picture of my plate; I will show you it when I get home. Then record stores, vintage clothing, book stores; I didn't buy anything the whole trip and now I am regretful.

Hugs and goodbyes: Then, the longest drive ever, and we were back in ol' Rosey. I went to bed, slept woke; slept again, woke up at 9:45 confused and late for work, and shaking with fear; I haven't yet paid rent this month and blew maybe $200 on debauchery and pleasure; what the hell am I going to do?

And then I looked at my bank account, and I discovered: In the night, while I was sleeping, old Uncle Sam sneaked into my account, poked his cold hands around all the little overdraft fees, and left $500 under the pillow.

Now it's time to return to my job and daily routine. So learn a lesson from all of this, kids:

It's okay to go mad and waste money and never think about the future; if things ever reach crisis point, the US government will step in and save you!