I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one

I was sitting in the acme the other night alone and this guy who was way more drunk than i was sits down on the next stool and starts talking to me. Here’s what we talked about:

Guy: That’s a small notebook.

Yours truly: It IS a small notebook.

Guy: You got a cigarette?

(hand him a Winston light)

Guy: My great-grandfather died re-shingling a roof at ninety-three. He fell off.

Yours Truly: damn….

Guy: He was smoking a Winston when he fell off.

Yours Truly: Fuck. That’s tough.

Guy: Yeah and when I was five my grandfather took me aside and told me I was going to be the man of the house pretty soon. Then he threw himself in front of a mack truck.

Yours Truly: What’s a mack truck? Like a big-wheeler?

Guy: Yeah.

Yours Truly: Damn. How are you going to top that?

Guy: Top it?

Yours Truly: How are you going to top that? Die fighting a grizzly bear with a whiskey bottle or something?

Guy: I’ll don’t know. What are you writing about?

Yours Truly: Your fucking grandfather!

I’m in desperate need of a hair cut so I’ve been staying in a lot more lately. My big plan was to not write another blog until I finished the Portland trip, but seeing as how it’s been a month and I’ve still only written about the first day I’ve decided to throw it up in sections.

Portand Part One

Portland was Bennett showing up at my house smiling wide in a rented white convertible. Bennett is mad li po 2005. An alcoholic angel with one left arm, all cool, on the window (wrist hanging off outside of car) and Winston dangling out of his mouth. I hop in with a battered backpack and we’re off to pick up Dylan in south berkeley. Then it’s me leaning against the car, not flipping a coin over and over again with a toothpick in my mouth, but that kind of vibe as Bennett runs in to grab Dylan. Dylan is a handsome genius. A furry chested Galileo. We all jump in the ride and eye each other conspiratorially for a second before deciding that just this once – it’s OKAY to drink beer in the car. We’re off and the sun shines down on a white blur of content speeding north over the Richmond bridge. Dylan plays bartender in the back seat bringing forth drinks on command while we pass through the invisible line in marin that separates the bay and wine country. Watch as the digital temp gauge rises eight degrees just like clockwork. We stop off in cotati to show off our cherry ride to dangerous dave wiseman and pick up some maps. Somewhere past willits paper cups are laughable and pabst blue cans sit in cup holders where they belong when Bennett’s at the wheel. I’ve never seen the man without a drink and I’ve never seen him drunk and there’s no one I’d rather have at the wheel and he was never without wheel or drink the whole adventure and I think that’s the way his gods play it. Neither you nor your god is that awesome so don’t try drunk driving kids. He’s the exception to the rule and the type of soul the bloody drivers ed videos don’t tell you about. So try not to focus on THAT aspect of this trip too much as there’s going to be a lot of it. Pulling off the vein in Arcata we grab a friend of Bennett’s and hit downtown for some action. Mexican food ensues. The people I’m with insist on ordering Mexican food with the thickest Spanish accent they can muster as you often see annoying people do. “yes I’d like a TOOOOSTAAAAADAAAA and also can I grab a FAHEEEEETAAAA”. I launch into a comedy bit about some Mexicans walking into a mcdonalds and with thick Spanish accents and ordering food. Each word is spoken in perfect Spanish up to the (picture a very bad American hillbilly accent here) HAMBUUUURRRRGER. I am sure that’s how my friends sound. Fucking gringos. Meanwhile the convertible is blasting Mexican rock music the whole time. We get it. You’re NOT racist. You’re one of the good guys. Give me a fucking break. Off to downtown for some drinks! Cowboys and hippies diffuse a surprisingly excessive amount of bars in this pot smoking college paradise. We spread some of that city money around in the local watering holes. I work up the courage to go in for a hi with a woman who has been eye-fucking me for twenty minutes and am thwarted when the woman orders buffalo wings. Bennett and I spend a few minutes trying to work out what kind of weird issues i have and why buffalo wings were the catalyst. Dylan falls in love with local scenester Justine. We all split up and I wander around the square and try to soak up some local culture. Last time I was in Arcata was about ten years ago. A friend and I were hitchhiking up to Canada. I remember there being topless hippy girls selling burritos in the square. No such luck this time, but of course, topless girls aren’t really the novelty they were when I was eighteen. At some point Bennett screams to a stop in front of me with Dylan and Bennett’s friend in tow. I convince some chick standing on the sidewalk nearby to come with us and we both hop in. Dylan starts screaming ‘I love Justine! I LOVE HER! We have to go find her!” So we tear around the block looking for Justine. We get all the way around the block and sidewalk girl gets her wits together, realizes her bad judgment, and hops out of the car. Justine (who I don’t know if Dylan actually ever TALKED to) is M.I.A. so we head back to Bennett’s friend’s house where I promptly pass out.

Ahhhh summer mornings in the uncharted pacific northwest. Bennett is making breakfast for everyone with a pabst in his hand. It’s like ten a.m. I reintroduce myself to Bennett’s friend and her roommate and we all eat and chat for a bit. Dylan is still heartbroken.

Here’s my deal with the trip, I think. I am hoping to get far enough away from my life that I can look back on it with some kind of third person perspective. Take stock. Make a list. Cross out the bad things – highlight the good. When things are piling too high on top sometimes you’ve got to sidestep and get the hell out before it all falls down.

We pile in the car and head north.

After a minor fist fight Bennett agrees to take I5 the rest of the way to Portland. He had his heart set on driving along the coast, but we agree to go that route on the way back. Just before cresent city we spot an Indian casino and run inside, hands full of cash, giddy as schoolgirls. $120 lighter and three bloody marys smarter we’re off again. I can tell this is going to be a long day. Speedy we are not. Between beer runs, gambling, roadside urination and a desperate need on Bennett’s part to drive through EVERY little town on the map, just so he can say he’s been there, we are not going to get to Portland at any decent hour.


More soon.