Files and Bills and Killers, Oh My.

Files. Bills. More crap in the form of paper than I can barely comprehend. An all-consuming pyramid of impending doom that towers up to the ceiling and hangs in the den like a black cloud with that weird hovering eyeball. It’s Machu Picchu demanding a check or money order. A looming pile of excess, financial drudgery and societal reminders that’s enough to make someone load a machine gun and prop its tripod on the crux of a dormer and clean the trees of squirrels. Not me, of course. Someone else, in theory.

Now I almost understand Texas bell towers and southern university rampages. Eep. Better watch what I write because freedom of speech only goes so far. But if the FBI is reading this than I’m just about big-time.

Book deal, here I come.

Economic collapse and food riots may be in our future but the hope in all the doomsaying is that maybe then we’ll come together and make a car that runs and sells, or maybe we’ll realize that we should help each other from across the street instead of cutting each other off to get to the red light. Or maybe just a health care system that helps us all instead of bleeding us dry and turning our elderly and children into dope-dependant zombies.


It takes the demise of many for those left behind to realize the importance of community.

I had no idea the stack of mail were bills, requests for attention, red lettered warnings of payment due and growing late fees were for me specifically since I’ve changed my name to Reid of La Mancha. And the rest of the credit collectors and public utilities can go jump in a lake because I know that the only reason light and gas cost so much is because it’s funding country club memberships and summer homes for those presently more fortunate than I. Don’t blame the “economy” as to why budgets crunch and prices rise, we all know it’s because the lifestyle afforded to those who are regularly privileged is being threatened and we certainly can’t have that. Who’s going to watch the cheewawa while the disgusting little brat gets her nails done? Who’s going to trim the hedges or nanny the kids, who’s going to cover the Nordstrom bill or the fancy luncheons if we don’t jack up the rates and milk the people just a little bit more?


When the economy truly collapses, when there’s rampant looting and wheelbarrows full of American legal tender are pushed up to the butcher shop for a few flank steaks, when the beggars outnumber the commuters and jumpers from buildings are mundane occurrences, maybe then we’ll know something about “economic downturns”. Buck up, quit yer bitchin’ and be lucky you have a few dollars for a glass of whiskey on the way home.

This is all really just a message to myself. You might not have enough for a glass of anything for all I know. Then again you may be a grinning fat cat who uses whiskey to wash your whitewalls.


Better run, squirrel.



I used to make a thousand drinks a night every weekend and feed them all to a parade of party people from all walks, neighborhoods and tax brackets at one of the happiest places on earth. The furious and frivolous circus of The Alibi Restaurant and Lounge on Friday and Saturday night were as lit as the vibrant veins of its reknowned neon sign whose legacy remains untouched by age or economic states.better sign When people across town drive “way out” to the north side to the legendary Alibi tiki bar, it’s as pure a thing as Icelandic water or a nun’s knickers. This venerable lounge rests along Interstate 5 in Portland, Oregon and boasts some of the most original and antiquated tiki decor and South Pacific atmosphere found anywhere in the country, possibly the hemisphere. Rivaled in the city only by Trader Vic’s which was subsequently revamped as a swanky steakhouse, The Alibi is the true final haunt for those in search of stunning Polynesian art and giant tiki faces carved from trees. All that’s missing is a volcano and Martin Denney’s combo. There is no other bar within city limits that boasts such over the top vibrance, color and kitsch from the 50’s and 60’s where paper parasols, Mai Tais and buying Hawiian islands were all the rage.

Anyone who visits the fair burg of Portland must visit the Alibi. And Powell’s Books. The waterfalls throughout the Columbia River Gorge may be considered vital attractions as well but good luck finding a pint sized Rum Runner in those woods.alibi bar bend

The interesting thing about The Alibi is its provision of allowing people to completely forget their problems of the outside world while inside its doors. Since the decor is so overwhelming and pronounced, visitors tend to forget that they’re in a public establishment and they forget that there is a neighborhood street outside and that their house is likely less than 15 minutes away.

As in every gin joint and party destination in any city anywhere, some quaffing carousers undergo an unfortunate transformation when drinks start flowing. The “fun molecules” in the alcohol react with the polished and polite chemicals of their body which leads them to believe it’s perfectly acceptable to devolve into blubbering boobs of monumental jackassery void of any common sense of decorum or conscience. Hence, the common “that one fool at the wedding reception” or “the idiot someone brought to the birthday party who upset all the women”. Such science of regretful drinking contributed to the advent of personal rules every individual has when it comes to what they can’t or won’t imbibe. The propensity of ugly notariety is why sparkling wine isn’t allowed near my face because when one guzzles free champagne there is an off chance of leaping into the hotel pool with nothing on but boxers and a dinner jacket during a speech given by the father of the bride. Tempting fate again after such a lesson deserves the most savage of consquences.

Back to the local watering hole. Few things are better than seeing wonderfully dialed-in people arrive looking sharp and kempt for a night out of cocktails and singing. Interestingly, molting usually occurs as the revelry causes them to shed their neatness revealing a disheveled, karaoke-hoarse mess, their blouses untucked, their pants hanging crooked, one hand holding a beverage while their other hand sways in unison to a Heart song. There is something hilariously absurd but also naturally understandable with their transformation. alibi girlsThe layout of the building is remarkably divided where the ambiance is quite separate. The front lounge area with its low and dark red lights and overstuffed booths allows one to wallow in anonymity and libation while the large banquet room in the rear is where Nancy from accounting is burning down “Love Shack”. It’s two completely different bars but very much connected by the carved wood railings, seashell light fixtures and the tsunami of South Pacific kitsch.

The single most compelling quality about The Alibi is the sheer diversity of its clientele. From every corner of town the place would fill with every demographic imaginable, rich, poor, tall, small, every color, car and collar was eventually represented and it proved how a single bar could be a beloved haven for every walk of life. A very rare thing in this age of specialty venues and annoying places where everyone inside looks exactly like the person next to them. A sweet little vacation to the islands for the weekend, this place displays the greatest show of people I’ve ever witnessed to collectively gather in one tiki bar to laugh, love, sing and drink.

Binaca And A Bic

I was recently informed that many times the utterances that escape my mouth are of the negative nature, mostly in the form of snide complaints in an exasperated tone. Instead of being positive and productive with my observations, they say my verbal frustration with the world is merely attention getting from being emotional underdeveloped. Those to whom I spoke with also let it be known that I needed to start looking at myself and asking why I love to gripe while everyone else seems to carry on with smiles like Laverne & Shirley skipping down the street. Now instead of bellyaching I just carry a can of Binaca and a Bic as my opening sentence to all the workplace analysts and park bench know-it-alls.

And here I thought the title was about someone named Bianca.

Comics, Politics, Kneecaps

It took about a half second to realize my patella suddenly snapped over to the side of my leg and then crunched back in place as I drew back to kick a soccer ball. Dislocated my kneecap while bending it like Ronaldo and the mad game of soccer should be left to children and athletes.

Has the whole world gone completely off the deep end? Is there an anti-fertility drug that would prevent certain citizens from reproducing another generation of mongoloid offspring that still believe life didn’t start until Adam met Eve? How do they explain dinosaurs? Ask Bill.

What’s that you say? The word “mongoloid” is offensive? “Mulatto, Oriental, Christmas” is now “Mixed, Asian, and “Non Religious Celebration of the Winter Solstice”. Ask George about all that.

I don’t know a darn thing about relationships and know less about women but I’m pretty confident that marriage may be one of the 7 gates of hell. I’ll have to get back to that one later though Sam has some ideas worth hearing.

Is there any more of a cliche personality than the philandering politician? South Carolina guvy is worldwide in his exploits, about time someone took it to the international level of adultery. Is the Chandra Levy case solved yet? Back east politicians tend to do more openly wretched and violent things to their interns and staffers. Here in the great Northwest we have lovers, like the Idaho toilet creep who toe-tapped men beneath lavatory stalls, or my own hometown favorite, senator Bob “Gimmie some whiskey and sit on my lap” Packwood. Ol’ Bob had 26 women in line to testify against him and his grotesque libido. Usually if one person complains about something that means at least 10 more people felt the same way but didn’t say anything. That’s a lot of pantsuits and tweed skirts to roam for Mr. Packwood.

Oregon also boasts one Neil “I bought you a Snoopy Sno-Cone machine so sit on my lap” Goldschmidt who rose the ranks of local politics all the way to governor and had already finished his term before his affair with a 14 year old during his stint as mayor in the 1970’s was broke. You’re mayor of a city and all you can woo is a teenager? If I had the word “mayor” stamped on my stationary I would have at least swooped someone who could cast a vote for me.

Today they are pushing for a recall for the present Portland mayor who, when on the campaign trail fooled around with a barely 18 year old man while being in his 40’s. More fodder for the miniature minds attached to mouths belching “moral outrage.”

I hope we all agree that fooling around will always be better than missing women and bodies in the river.

My knee is swollen mush and thank goodness for dead comics and the cads of NW politics.