Jimspeak

Last night. Hoo boy. For a night that started out calm and tranquil, it sure took a turn. For the better or worse I haven’t yet decided.

After my movie finished (which was awesome, by the way. My new fave Bill Murray performance. The Man is incredible!), I felt no trace of the tiredness required for quick and seamless sleep exploration. Instead of ramping into bed, I tossed on my clogs, a woolen hat and my trusty quilted flannel and headed out into the dark misty night to explore what there was to be explored at 1AM in Portland, OR.

Fate or luck or bad manners steered my feet towards Belmont, a major E/W thoro that passed within blocks of the Apartment. Nearing the corner of 34^th/Belmont, a car pulled up and I was shouted at:

“Hey! Get in! We’re headed to a party!”

Assuming it was people I knew (it looked like some paddler types) in I jumped only to discover to my Shock and Awe that I knew none of the people in the car. Huh. Panic was unnecessary as I knew not yet if these were friend or foe. A bottle of wine was pushed my way, and I pulled a swig. Grimacing, I noticed that the Nalgene from which I had quaffed seemed to have been stuffed full of Franzia, that horrendous wine that comes in a bladder in a box. Laughter emerged from all corners and fast friends became the order of the night.

Roaring down the road. Ramping railroad tracks and blowing thru orange lights. I came to know the folks in the car within which I rode, and I found myself excited at having ventured out in the Working Man’s Evil Hours. The music could be heard houses away. Piling out of the car I blundered behind my new pals into a run-down house on the edge of a field. Emo music blasted from speakers mounted on every wall and it was all I could do to resist the erotic swinging and swaying of the “much-younger-than-me” crowd swelling the walls of the house, bipping and bopping to tunes I had no familiarity with. However, I did recognize the bottle making its way towards me and I snagged it. Shortish pants, black shoes and bowl-looking cuts gazed at me quizzically and angrily; I made my way out onto the back porch amidst the ruffians thereabouts. Towering over them, I slugged from the glass container in my hands relishing my relative height, until they decided to stand up, deferential to the old man hangin’ with the kids on the outskirts of town and decency. Cheers, Mate.

Soon enough I was beckoned inside by the girl in my ride most gifted with beauty brains and cleavage to match. Thinking myself in store for some unwarranted ‘attention’, a smile splayed my lips like a warm knife thru butter. Disappointment arrived in time to stave off my declarations of “No, thanks, I can’t!”. Instead of wanting to get down and diggity with me, all this young vixen wanted was for me to witness some snake dancing.

Yup, dancing with snakes. And I’ll tell you one thing. You haven’t lived until you’ve watched an 85lb shaggy kid (I know he was 85lbs. I was able to wrangle an answer out of him before the MEDS carted him off) try to gyrate and fight stand up under the weight of an 18 foot, 150lb Anaconda draped across his shoulders, and around his torso, thru his legs and up and over both feet, curling back up to repeat the process three times. The poorly planned bastard managed to make one full rotation (which I still declare was due to the snake's writhing and twitching rather than the efforts of said Kid) before crashing to the floor, eliciting laughs from the ladies, guffaws from the guys. The party raged on as Anaconda rapturously wrapped windingly around the wimp. As the rest of the house seemed not to mind the Kid’s plight, I found my Eagle Scout-self kicking into true form-I grabbed some lighter fluid from the counter to my right and lit a streaming flow from the Kid to the front porch. To illuminate his escape path, of course. No worries. A little singed hair is good for everyone. Except for perhaps some women you want to woo. The Snake scuttled off to the keg and Kid limped onto the porch.

In the relative sanity of the front porch, me and Mr. 85lbs got to chatting until he learned my age, then he ran off screaming. Well, perhaps it wasn’t my age so much as my efforts to get his permission to pool some LF on the brim of his hat prior to lighting it on fire. Rookie.

Timing, for once, was on my side this night. Kid ran off, my friends hustled onto the porch and we dashed to the car, tearing out onto the blacktop just as the Po-Po pulled in. Somehow I found the wheel in my hand, a dangerous predicament given my newly found desire for daring deeds.

Mt. Hood loomed large in the windshield, and I vowed to run the car into Her side before night’s end. Whooping and hollering on all sides confirmed the prudence of my plans.

Two hours later, I abandoned all hope and turned the car back towards town. Blocks from my house I pulled to the curb and waved “bye-bye” to the gang. (But not before writing ‘Butthead’ ‘Tool’ and ‘Sexy Mama’ on various sleeping heads.). Receding into the shadows, I hoisted a large-ish melon above my head and lofted it at the windshield where it splattered gore and awoke the car’s innards. Confusion showed on all faces and I giggled as they drove away.

Turning to walk home, I realized the folly of my actions: I live in southeast Portland and had stopped the car in northwest. A long walk home, to be sure.

Fortunately, Ben the Bum fell in stride beside me, passing his stash off now and then to sustain me along the way. A wonderful conversation made the time pass by like the ages 28-30. Politics, religion, women and native vegetation wove intermittently around our tongues producing only minor fracases every two blocks or so. Unfortunately I had to shove BB into a bush beside the bar blocks from my abode so as to prevent him from crawling into bed with me (as he professed a need of doing).

Run run run! Word to the wise. Don’t look back for too long when moving quickly in a forward direction. Trees don’t dodge. That’s all I have to say.

Finally I found myself in bed, covered from chin to beyond my toe with an excessive amount of bedding, happy to no longer be courting disaster with random strangers. Sleep came quickly and made a very short appearance, staying only for a minimal number of hours. But so it goes. Now I can move on with my life, hoping that coherent thoughts will permeate the fog within my cranial cavity allowing me to do homework and my taxes. Wish me luck.

Kevin Costner has a Casino. The Lawrence Arms declares it so! Who am I to argue?