Oregon Tavern Age: Vodka, Cream and Crown

NSP Meditations, Oregon Tavern Age

I was killing time in an OTA joint because a car dealership proved exceptionally incompetent in servicing my car.

It was a hot day and I sat outside at a picnic table next to graveled alley. Rush was playing on the speakers at a near deafening level.

Rush sucked. My beer sucked. I no longer recall what brand it was. The city sucked. All the world’s a stage and the world sucked, too. It was a Tuesday afternoon and Tuesday sucked as well.

A dented and sagging black sedan pulled up next to me. Two OTA men up front. Two OTA women in back. The passenger door swung open. He couldn’t get out of the car because he was so fat and feeble. The two women got out and came around to assist the man. They were drunk. He was drunk. The driver was probably drunk. He was dropping them off at the joint to get drunk. He would join them later and get drunk with them.

What a relief! Finally, something didn’t suck! After the professional incompetence at the car dealership, here I was in the presence of professional competence when it came to OTA depravity. It felt damn good.

I just hoped to heaven or hell they wouldn’t start talking about Trump or Biden or the hoax of Covid and ruin my sudden good mood.

The three people gimped toward me. They were refugees in an American war of some kind. They made it to a picnic table. They collapsed into the seats. An OTA bartender came out. They all knew each other. The man ordered a beer, one woman ordered a beer, and the other woman ordered a vodka, cream and Crown (Royal). It easily ranked as one of the weirder drink orders I’d ever overheard in OTA country.

The bartender left to fill the orders. The three began talking.

It was coming, some Trump-inspired bullshit…I just knew it…it always does in OTA country these days.

I listened…and…they…started talking about how fucked up they were the night before and here they were drinking the next day and getting fucked up all over again. They yukked it up over that.

It was sweet, sweet depraved music to my ears.

Corona Virus Thoughts #25

Corona Virus Thoughts, NSP Meditations ,

I can barely muster the energy to write on the subject of the virus. Why? Because it is so draining and frankly uninteresting to write about the astonishing stupidity and selfishness of Americans and many of their elected leaders.

Still, here I am thinking about writing something about it, something obviously pointless because no one connected to the various conspiracies and falsehoods surrounding corona virus and vaccinations ever changes their mind unless they make a sobbing confession from their deathbed that then tours the social media platforms and enriches the Tech Titans.

The single most important thing that didn’t happen or hasn’t happened so far is that more famous and powerful people did not die from the virus. Plain as that. Of course I am contradicting myself from earlier writings where I bemoaned the fact that in order for Americans to take something serious, like addiction, mental health or gun violence, celebrities have to lead the way.

They could have really led the way with the virus if they had died, and I’m not talking about small market conservative hate radio jocks. I mean the big enchiladas.

Where to begin if I am going to write about American stupidity? I think I will start small, right here in Oregon, with a simple decently-written letter to the editor of a newspaper, where the writer said he was still waiting for more information about the safety of the vaccines. He claimed there were lots of other people like him. Once the information arrived, they would most likely get the vaccine.

This writer reminded me of those voters in the last Presidential election who remained undecided up until the last second before they voted. They were in the news a lot, talking with TV news and pollster personalities about their reasons for indecision.

They just KNEW something the rest of us did not. They were more measured and deliberative with their opinions. They needed more information. More time. This was important, you know. Look how (self) important I am for taking my time and really questioning conventional wisdom. It’s all about me. Look at me, the skeptic! YOU don’t know what you are talking about. I KNOW what I’m talking about. I don’t run with the lemmings and their mushy mainstream beliefs. I read something on the internet…let me send you the link. It proves monkeys can fly out of your butts and the universe began in 4004 BC and that a horse de-wormer can treat Covid and that the ballots in Arizona were constructed from bamboo grown in Asia and that an Italian laser changed voting machines or that the Kinks didn’t write the real American national anthem for dumbshits with their song “Destroyer.”

There’s a red under my bed
And there’s a little green man in my head
And he said, you’re not going crazy, you’re just a bit sad
‘Cause there’s a man in ya, gnawing ya, tearing ya into two

Silly boy, ya self-destroyer
Paranoia, the destroyer

Self-destroyer, wreck your health
Destroy your friends, destroy yourself
The time device of self-destruction
Light the fuse and start eruption

I’ve written the following sentence about America a lot in recent years: “Where are we going as a nation?”

I’m done writing this question. Now I’m writing: “Where have we gone?”

Wasn’t this a stupid Pandemic piece reacting to stupid Americans?

But I do feel a little better.

The Gypsy Boys Rock Out!

NSP Meditations

I walked toward the entrance of the Office Depot with materials in hand to produce another anonymous Left wing publication distributed exclusively in street libraries. I guess I’m a pamphleteer now.

Something to the right of main door caught my eye. A large man was seated in a chair and playing an electric guitar plugged into a tiny amp. A brown Chihuahua was hanging out beside him.

Then I heard it: a bluesy riff of some kind, drenched in fuzz.

The man set down the guitar and swigged an energy drink as I stepped up onto the sidewalk. He was bald, rotund and wearing orange and brown plaid pajama bottoms and a yellow t-shirt. Besides the guitar, he had a bass drum and sticks at his rock disposal and this man looked like a rocker. The dog looked like a rock dog as well.

He didn’t seem to notice me and I went inside to make copies for my revolutionary pamphlet featuring beavers in the starring role.

After conducting my business, I left the store and beheld the man shredding a surf rock instrumental. I hastened up to him, listened, then slipped a few bills in his tip jar. He stopped playing and thanked me. In short order I learned: the man’s name was Robert. He was 61 years old. The dog was George. They lived in a mini van that doubled as a recording studio. They were the Gypsy Boys and available for live gigs. The Gypsy Boys played instrumental rock, all originals. Their YouTube channel featured over 200 videos of their performances. You can check it out at: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCGSU-TW2sC5yS2iE3a4H9QA

Robert and George had lived in an apartment not too long ago, with his wife. Husband and wife split up. Robert and George moved in with another man in the same apartment complex as the ex wife. A couple months later, the roommate kicked the Gypsy Boys out because they apparently were rockers. George didn’t really give a shit. The guy was an asshole anyway and now George didn’t have to spend $560 a month on rent. He rigged up the van with a microwave and coffeemaker. He plastered advertising all over the van promoting the Gypsy Boys and the YouTube channel. He was living the fucking dream! Just roaming and rocking! He had this regular spot and the Starbucks in Oregon City. So far management had left him alone and let him rock. Why the fuck not? We all need a little live and gritty rock and roll in these terrible times. Didn’t the Stones sing, “It’s only rock and roll but I like it?”

Yes, yes, yes, I know rock is dead, but that’s commercial and corporate rock. The Gypsy Boys are living rock and roll.

I tipped the band a few more bucks. George barked. Robert said that was signal he was through rocking and wanted to hit the bricks. When the dog was done rocking, rock was done for the day.

Later that evening, I checked out the channel. You should, too.

If you do, and I really must insist, get ready for one of the more interesting rock experiences of your viewing life and absolutely emblematic of the current American Diaspora going on. In fact, The Gypsy Boys, in their own way, may be the band that defines this era.

Where to begin?

How about the beastly shredding sounds (often accompanied by a drum machine) of “Psychobilly Asshole,”Plus Size Lingerie Model,” “Die Magats Die 2,” and a cover of a track by Amyl and the Sniffers? How about George eating a meatball roughly the size of his head? How about Robert’s t-shirt collection or playing shirtless? How about his rant about being kicked off the grounds of a Goodwill but not a Starbucks?

Jesus, I wish Robert would put some words to these savage and feral riffs! What would he say and snarl? Maybe he’d sing about his Chihuahua eating a fucking meatball! Maybe he’d sing about all the fucking assholes in Amerikka? Maybe he’d sing about the death of fucking rock! Maybe he’d sing about killing forest fairies and frying them up for fucking supper!

Even more fascinating than watching their music on this channel is watching the Gypsy Boys transition from living in an apartment to living in a van. One day they’re recording and filming in the apartment. Then, they’re recording and filming in a van. It all looks remarkably seamless and Robert told me he truly loves the van life. No comment from George. Perhaps The Who said it all in “Going Mobile:”

I’m going home
And when I want to go home, I’m going mobile
Well I’m gonna find a home on wheels, see how it feels,
Goin’ mobile
Keep me moving

It occurs to me at this very moment as I recall this ancient tune from a rock galaxy far, far away where rock once lived and flourished, that “Going Mobile” might be one of the candidates on the short list for unofficial anthem of the New American Diaspora (the others are “Shattered “by the Rolling Stones and “Keep on Rocking in the Free World” by Neil Young) Then again, “Going Mobile” may be totally wrong as an anthem for this phenomenon because many participants aren’t mobile and not going anywhere. They are stuck inside a frayed tent, busted RV, corroded camper, shot trailer, leaking boat, duct-taped car, rusted truck, holey tarp, doghouse, plywood and pallet shanty with the new American blues and not moving except to survive, compost, protest, fuck off or whatever it is they are doing.

Let me slightly amend that. “Going Mobile” does work as an anthem for The Gypsy Boys and long may they run and rock the hell out.

Book Chat and Rachel Ward

NSP Meditations

I walked a city street with a $70 bottle of scotch in one hand and John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley in the other. Both were gifts, the booze for a great friend who helped save my life, the book for Mark the Book Chat Man.

On my way out of the liquor store I spotted Mark sitting on his usual sidewalk, drinking malt liquor and reading a novel. No doubt he needed a new book. He reads one every two days. Thus, I made a short detour to the bookstore and picked out a title from the dollar table on the street. Mark prefers fiction, but since Steinbeck made up a lot of Travels With Charley, so what? It’s an America dog and road trip classic, a favorite of mine, and the first and best RV book in the history of world literature.

Mark saw me coming and said hello. I came up to him. He was reading V.C. Andrews’ Flowers in the Attic. I hadn’t read it but knew the horror novel had been a smash in the late 70s or early 80s.

I handed him Travels with Charley. He hadn’t read it! He said thanks.

He told me he’d just finished The Thorn Birds.

We dispensed with discussion about the novel in seconds, and went straight to the mini series starring Richard Chamberlain and Rachel Ward. YES, THE RACHEL WARD. AND THAT VOICE.

That launched a spirited discussion of Rachel Ward’s career and I told Mark my favorite performance was her incredible turn in the adaption of Jim Thompson’s depraved noir classic After Dark, My Sweet and the faded Levi’s cutoffs she wore to extraordinarily salacious effect.

Mark said he hadn’t seen it. I told him he was missing out on one of the great Levi’s cutoff performances in cinematic history.

As we discussed all things Rachel Ward, it occurred to me this was probably the only conversation in the history of human conversation about Rachel Ward’s cutoffs that took place on a sidewalk where one of the conversationalists was drinking malt liquor while sitting on the sidewalk and the other was holding a $70 bottle of scotch while standing on a sidewalk.

We wound down the talk and I was almost ready to depart when I asked Mark if he had any writing aspirations. I wasn’t sure where the question originated, but I asked it.

Mark told me he’d kept a journal for a couple years but his backpack was stolen and with it, the journal. The theft crushed him and he couldn’t seem to start writing again. I told him I would buy him one right now from the bookstore. He said he had one.

I suggested he start writing and record what was going on around him—he had a unique perspective during a unique time. Mark told me his daughter had urged him to write his stories for his four granddaughters.

Mark had a family. They knew where he lived. That posed about a million questions in my head.

Next Mark discussed his current girlfriend. Mark had a girlfriend? He told me he reads to her all the time wherever they crash outdoors in the neighborhood. It’s the only thing that calms her down and soothes the jag about how she’s Deborah Harry and wrote all the hits for Heart.

Who is this man? Why does he intrigue me so? Why is he on this sidewalk every day reading novels? What would he write if he started writing again?

I will continue to suggest he write, but I will not nag. That never works.

The Old Crow Book Club: Another Chapter

NSP Meditations

I had retrieved three copies of my class set of The Motel Life from storage. For several days, I carried them around on my walks and bike rides with the intent of distributing them to Mark the Book Chat Man. Once in his possession, he would distribute them to select street readers and kick off my idea of the Old Crow Book Club right there on Mark’s usual sidewalk where he drinks malt liquor, smokes, reads novels and engages with me in serious conversations about literature.

At last, there he was on an overcast Tuesday afternoon and two of his buddies were in attendance. One of them held a full bottle of Old Crow. The other man, elderly, black, wearing a trench coat and ball cap, walked with a cane in his right hand and fisted a brown paper bag that bore the unmistakable shape of booze in the other. Old Crow Man was introduced to me as Sean. Paper Bag Man was introduced to me as Red. Red was on his way to a bus stop to a ride to somewhere.

Why do I love interacting with this people? Read Cannery Row and you’ll understand.

I produced copies of The Motel Life for Mark and he eagerly accepted them. I told him in roughly a month we would convene on the sidewalk and discuss the book.

Sean offered me a hit off the Old Crow. Last time he offered, I’d declined.

A man can’t pass up that offer twice in a lifetime and still consider himself a connoisseur of John Steinbeck’s books.

John Steinbeck once wrote: “An American writer has to know his land and the people if he is going to write about America.”

Right now, the Americans that most interest me as a writer are those homeless moving or not moving among their land. I don’t know what their land is, or what stake they have in any American land. I won’t pretend I know anything about them or the professionals and advocates trying to assist them, but I am seeing and swimming upstream and downstream in this story. I might even be fishing for something from the bank. Writing as fishhooks, a great nihilist philosopher once wrote.

I took the bottle of Old Crew, unscrewed the cap, and glugged a belt. Jesus, the fire! It all brought back my Old Crow hi jinks in the cheap lazy gray days of Portland in the late 80s when Bud Clark was doing his thing.

I remarked to the gang that I tippled Old Crow back in the day because it was Blutarsky’s preferred liquor in Animal House.

Oh that set them off! We then launched into a spirited conversation about the movie and I told them that years ago in a Newport dive bar, I’d actually met the woman who flew in threw an open window and landed in the horny kid’s bed.

Oh, they loved that!

It was time to leave and do whatever I was supposed to be doing, but the Old Crow burned like hellfire in my gullet and I completely forgot about my destination and didn’t give a country lick. Old Crow is like that.

The Old Crow Book Club is Formed

NSP Meditations , ,

Mark the Book Chat Man was sitting on his usual sidewalk, drinking a can of malt liquor and smoking a cigarette. Near him, rested a backpack and a bag of bottles and cans ready for sweet Oregon Bottle Bill redemption. His buddy was standing near him with his backpack on the sidewalk. I’d met the buddy several times in Book Chat moments but hadn’t learned his name.

I crossed the street to say hello and talk The Sheltering Sky. I had almost finished rereading the novel and was eager to talk with Mark about it. A week ago I’d seen him reading it on the sidewalk and it inspired me to revisit this classic written by Paul Bowles.

He pulled the novel from his backpack when I asked about it. Mark told me he had four chapters to go, that he didn’t want to finish it, but would. He always finished a book when he started it, except that one, many years ago—The Hobbit.

He didn’t care for The Sheltering Sky at all and he dissected its flaws better than a New York Times reviewer might have. I disagreed with him on the merits of the novel and felt it held up well.

We discussed its naive and rich American characters and exotic North African settings. Everything terrible was happening to these people because they could not comprehend where they were nor why they were there. Their basic lack of comprehension about their surroundings was either killing them or driving them insane. That sounds a lot like many Americans in their own country during the Pandemic with their various associated outcomes of death and insanity.

At one point during our conversation, Mark’s buddy reached into his backpack and produced a fifth of Old Crow. Two weeks ago, in a similar book chat, he brandished a bottle of Old Crow but failed to offer me a belt.

This time he did, but I declined. The idea of Old Crow gargling down my gullet at three in the afternoon made me wince.

After concluding our conversation about The Sheltering Sky, we moved onto One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, which Mark said he’d read three times. We took that novel and the film apart. He knew the book almost as well as I did, and I’ve read it ten times, and taught it to hundreds of high school students. We both wanted to see The Dalles Dam blown to smithereens and uncover Celilo Falls before we died.

As I stood there talking about books, a definitely great notion occurred to me. Let’s really do the Old Crow Book Club, right here, on the sidewalk, drinking Old Crow, and talking about a great book.

I pitched the idea. Mark and his buddy loved it. I would provide the novel for us to read. They even knew a woman who might want to join the group. She’d just started reading.

Even before I pitched the idea, I knew the book I wanted us to read. I’d taught it at Newport and Astoria High Schools and the students ate it up better than any novel I’d ever assigned.

Motel Life by Willy Vlautin. I had a fucking class set in storage! Why I’d hung onto the box all these years after being excommunicated from the teaching profession, I didn’t know.

I did now.

They’d never heard of Motel Life. I summarized the contents and they were intrigued. They agreed to form the book club and I told them I’d hand out copies in the coming weeks.

I asked Mark about his Oregon roots and he told me he’d been born in Hood River. How he ended up on this sidewalk was something I wanted to know but Hood River was enough for now.

Then we moved onto Tom McCall and how he might have handled the Pandemic. We both agreed he would have hit the road to rural and reactionary Oregon and delivered fiery speeches demanding his fellow Oregonian get vaccinated. It might have worked, but we’ll never know now. Too late for that.

From there, we went on to discuss crows and Mark’s habit of sometimes cursing the ornery ones perched in the trees shading his sidewalk. He’ll put up with five or six caws, he said, but not 26 and once the count reaches that high, he’s going to call them a motherfucker and demand they shut the hell up.

It was time to go. I bounded away with a little hitch in my giddy up. Not too long from now, I might actually be teaching a kind of class again. There was still teaching blood in me yet. How it might mix with Old Crow and obnoxious crows on a sidewalk in Portland was to be determined. But I was relishing the idea of that moment.

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