Driving and Thinking of Drinking

Sometimes it’s a race to get home to crack open that first beer. When the hard moments of the day pile up like a stack of bricks just waiting to topple onto your chest and the only thing between you and a moment of bliss is this jerk in traffic in front of you.

In this particular equation beer can easily be substituted with any liquor at least 80 proof. I know Jagermeister is 70 proof but it’s for German high schoolers. And Americans who are scared to drink so they close their eyes and throw their heads back with a circle of friends.

(Beer or liquor can also be substituted with either a protein shake or fresh fruit juice. Just make sure you’re either doing some squats or getting skulls tattooed on your neck.)


Nickelback Rules (So Does Creed)

Matchbox 20, Blink 182, Good Charlotte, Disturbed, Staind, Linkin Park etc. If any of these bands have merchandise that has somehow found its way into your possession or onto your property then you need to immediately put this next paragraph into the nearest orifice that leads deep into your eardrums and brain.

The Melvins, Turbo Negro, The White Stripes, The Mars Volta, Nebula and the almighty Nashville Pussy. This prescription of rock will surely prevent any overdose of suck that may occur while listening to those other manufactured, gutless schlock artists whose music is more of a commodity for commercial whoring than anything resembling a creative endeavour.

I’ve always thought rock music is supposed to be rough hewn, passionate, energetic and original, with enough sexual voltage and beautiful belligerence to blow your neighbors back to the stoned century of Iron Butterfly.

Don’t get me started on how the fall of civilization just began when some jerkhole in a wifebeater, fur coat and fedora barfed saccharin all over Lynyrd Skynyrd. No-talent rubes are ruining the music of yesteryore. (They also said the same about rap but we’ve come a long way, baby.)

Next issue: Death Cab For Cutie Rules (So Does Fall Out Boy)

Portland, My Little Liberal Hipster Redneck

When I get to Portland I’m afraid I’ll have to vicariously smoke cigarettes in back alleys and friends’ basements. I’m scared I might run over an emo/scene/hipster midwest/east coast transplant with my car. Or run one over riding a fixed-gear bicycle with my big black motorcycle. Or maybe a 21 speed sponsored neon spandex Tour de Francer. Or having a huckleberry in a pickup run over me and my big black motorcycle. I’m uneasy about the gossip/politics of the city’s administration and the impending unemployment and economic depression that looms over the city like a smog of corporate locusts.


I miss the crisp air and fresh seasons and the pseudo/uber/progressive/ liberal/ redneck mindset of the literati and rockabilly, tattooed, pierced, horn-rimmed and shoulder-bagged, and everyone in between. The mix and mash of a salient core of thinkers, drinkers and lingerers. Miss the trees and streets, the dogs and all of America’s unnoticed qualities that are never more apparent until you spend some time far away from the music, art, books and films that define a charming little skyline and where green is now more than something you score for 5 bucks in the park.


Tropical coasts provide the opportunity to witness waddling vacationers lumbering down to the pool to beach their tan, bloated stomachs and soft gigantic bikini bottoms upon chaise lounges that tortuously cry out under such lotion and gravy duress.

At the same time, along the winding windy shore the kite boarders and wind surfers stride with low slung shorts and tiny bathing suits that gloat their taut bronzed bodies like some prurient fashion pageant of abs and cleavage at a swingers resort.

Stepping Out From A Whole New World

Departing from ants and foam beds, walking from backpacker neighborhoods and deeper into the city, tentatively crossing through traffic and carefully avoiding girls in heavy make-up and hot pants who hang out in front of barber shops. Trying new eateries, testing an alley or two, politely declining tourist goods and services and watching my every step.

And watching my head. Awnings, pipes, gutters, wires, ledges, lights, a variety of blunt objects like to randomly jut from places and love to take a chunk or leave a lump or make a cut somewhere on my body. Watching the holes and strange piles of refuse or murky puddles, loosely broken sidewalks and slippery decorative bricks.

I’ll soon be home to Oregon where sidewalks are wide and largely free of danger and debris, where intersections are quiet and car horns are rarely used, and during all this relative safety and serenity I’ll secretly be wishing to be once again deep inside the adventure and din of Southeast Asia.