Travelogue #8
Stuck in Portland until VooDoo Doughnuts
The concept of sticking to one's word--something I'm adamant about--is now manifesting itself in my life's outcome. For instance, I asked my friend Ines and her boyfriend Richard what doughnuts they must have at VooDoo Doughnuts. "Something with jelly," was the consensus, and I left their company, to make money on the streets.
By a weird turn of events, I got stuck, penniless in Portland, until the following evening. "Screw it," I said after witnessing car after car reject me. In the back of my mind, I tried to doubt it, thinking that it was purely the location of I-5 and the on-ramp... but secretly, I knew: I must get them doughnuts.
And after another turn of events which got me drunk and put money in my guitar case, I purchased two doughnuts, dodged a cop trying to profile me as a lush/libertine, and made it to Ines' doorstep. I placed the doughnuts as stealthily as possible by the door. When I looked up, I saw Richard's head peeping out the upstairs window.
Then, they invited me in, and a mellow 3am time was to be had, exchanging stories, drinking rooibos tea, and eating really fatty doughnuts. In the morning, I caught an easy ride to Salem. Which was a mistake.
Success in Ballard
The Ballard neighborhood in Seattle will hold a special place in my heart. When I woke up in the park off of 22nd Street, a bum came up to me, inviting me over to another group of bums. They were of the 40 to 50 year-old variety, and humble. One, named Mitchell, had a 12-string guitar, to which we taught one another songs. He played a funky version of "Lady Madonna" when I taught him the original, an oddball choice of America's "Tin Man", and the street rave-up of The Band's "The Weight". The rest of the bum group were hangers on, entourage--men lost in a mid-20's arrested development. When the cops came, one guy ducked, to which Mitchell--the de facto leader--berated him in a gang-style speech: "If you go down, we all go down! You don't run when the cops come. Just, be cool." It was decided that we should all play on the streets for the tourists, playing the songs we rehearsed in a loose fashion.
First, I sat down on the stoop of a guitar shop and began playing guitar. Within minutes, a man from above asked if the bass from his apartment was too loud. "I can't even hear it," I replied. Money had begun to pour into my gutiar case, bums began to congregate--even one offering to buy me a beer from a bar ("Pabst," I said, knowing that it was impossible for him to bring it out of the bar).
The guy from the apartment above finally came down. He was born Aaron, but named himself A-Sha. We chatted, and instantly bonded in awkward fashion. He had played in a band called the Palisades, knew about K Records, and played guitar. Because of my sonic intrusion beneath his apartment, I offered to help him move some furniture into his apartment. In return, he offered to put me up among the debris scattered on his floor.
Mitchell and a mandolin player named Ben came by, and now joined with A-sha, we busted out the previous covers. From the four of us, we generated a tiny crowd, and some dollar bills began to fall into the case. The best part, of course, was the loose arrangement of the songs, added background vocals, and an intense joint being passed around.
Mitchell and Ben took their leave, respecting our separate endeavors towards money-making. Within an hour, I had a steady stream of cash, sing-a-longs, high-fives, and my own bum entourage. One guy offered a place to stay on his yacht, but his closet-homo tendencies were like tasting saccharine in my coffee.
By the end of the night, I had made more than $50 in tips for very little work. Previous jobs I had worked were more taxing (lit. and fig.) and composed of the fallen dreck of society. As drunk, stoned, and derelict as Mitchell was, there was a spark of life. By 3am and after witnessing fisherman trying to kill each other--the most vivid memory being a dread-locked girl in a Brasil shirt kicking the black shirt of one of the fighters to antagonize him--I made my way back from Ballard Avenue and up to Market Street. At the intersection, I saw Mitchell seated alone on a park bench. His eyes were close, and his fingers worked the 12-string in a silent fashion. I greeted him.
"How'd you do tonight? I made fifty bucks!!"
Mitchell's face looked incredulous, his mouth turned sour. "I don't care where you're from. You don't do that. You don't do that. Its not about the money," he paused, "you don't do that." The high of success counteracted his scoldings. I said my goodbyes, half-apologizing, but gleaming with the idea of talent equaling compensation.
I went to sleep in the park. The next day, I saw Mitchell and his entourage again. They were in jovial spirits. Mitchell showed no signs of the previous day, instead swilling from his beer. I taught him "Blackbird" as compensation for easing my way into Seattle. After trying to play on the street, A-sha appeared. The Sunday crowd was much thinner and stingier, so I truncated my efforts when A-sha insisted he put me up. My last memory before passing out was A-sha hanging a large teal-colored length of tulle above his bed, mosquito-net style. There were no mosquitos that night.
We ate at a cafe in the morning. The barista had wonderful breasts. It was time to leave.
Memories from the Salem Mission
1) A large young man with an orange shirt casually walked through the television room towards the kitchen. On passing a Mexican/Hispanic with a baseball, the man knocked off his hat. No one but the now-bareheaded Mexican moved, turning around to recover his hat, his eyes wide and fearful.
2) For dinner, Salem's Union Gospel Mission served two rice-based dishes; one with meatballs, one with shredded beef. Both? Disgusting, but edible. Posting on the line was a young kid of caramel complexion and youthful uneasiness, handing out cans of donated Coke Zero. The kid arranged the tops to all face in one way. He was OCD'ing pretty bad, the entire time I had watched him, tilting cans ten degrees to the left, five degrees to the right. On the call for "seconds!", I succumbed to trying a can of Coke Zero, adjusting one to a better position. And now, maybe, I realize my OCD is watching other people and their reactions.
Canyonville Joke
I stopped at a Canyonville Shell Station to use the payphone after the grocery store's didn't work. "The idiots took 'em away. They said everyone has a cell phone nowadays." I agreed with the gas station attendant, Julie, who offered her own local phone and the comment, "Isn't that retarded?"
"It is. I mean, I don't have a cell phone!"
Another attendant appeared, Diana, and I lazily made conversation. Julie and Diana kept me company, and I kept them laughing. I made a few calls to Ranger, whom I was trying to meet up with. "You remind me of my son," said Julie. How so? "Oh, just the way you speak."
In fifteen minutes, I used the phone again. Answering machine. A van had pulled up, with an ex-veteran looking man and his son. The son was obviously retarded. The Veteran started talking to Julie, whom I deduced as being her husband. Which, led me to believe that her son was the retarded. Which makes me a Mongoloid.
"What you got there?" I asked the Mongoloid, who sat down next to me with an orange Fanta.
"Pop-pop," the Mongoloid replied.
Stuck in Portland until VooDoo Doughnuts
The concept of sticking to one's word--something I'm adamant about--is now manifesting itself in my life's outcome. For instance, I asked my friend Ines and her boyfriend Richard what doughnuts they must have at VooDoo Doughnuts. "Something with jelly," was the consensus, and I left their company, to make money on the streets.
By a weird turn of events, I got stuck, penniless in Portland, until the following evening. "Screw it," I said after witnessing car after car reject me. In the back of my mind, I tried to doubt it, thinking that it was purely the location of I-5 and the on-ramp... but secretly, I knew: I must get them doughnuts.
And after another turn of events which got me drunk and put money in my guitar case, I purchased two doughnuts, dodged a cop trying to profile me as a lush/libertine, and made it to Ines' doorstep. I placed the doughnuts as stealthily as possible by the door. When I looked up, I saw Richard's head peeping out the upstairs window.
Then, they invited me in, and a mellow 3am time was to be had, exchanging stories, drinking rooibos tea, and eating really fatty doughnuts. In the morning, I caught an easy ride to Salem. Which was a mistake.
Success in Ballard
The Ballard neighborhood in Seattle will hold a special place in my heart. When I woke up in the park off of 22nd Street, a bum came up to me, inviting me over to another group of bums. They were of the 40 to 50 year-old variety, and humble. One, named Mitchell, had a 12-string guitar, to which we taught one another songs. He played a funky version of "Lady Madonna" when I taught him the original, an oddball choice of America's "Tin Man", and the street rave-up of The Band's "The Weight". The rest of the bum group were hangers on, entourage--men lost in a mid-20's arrested development. When the cops came, one guy ducked, to which Mitchell--the de facto leader--berated him in a gang-style speech: "If you go down, we all go down! You don't run when the cops come. Just, be cool." It was decided that we should all play on the streets for the tourists, playing the songs we rehearsed in a loose fashion.
First, I sat down on the stoop of a guitar shop and began playing guitar. Within minutes, a man from above asked if the bass from his apartment was too loud. "I can't even hear it," I replied. Money had begun to pour into my gutiar case, bums began to congregate--even one offering to buy me a beer from a bar ("Pabst," I said, knowing that it was impossible for him to bring it out of the bar).
The guy from the apartment above finally came down. He was born Aaron, but named himself A-Sha. We chatted, and instantly bonded in awkward fashion. He had played in a band called the Palisades, knew about K Records, and played guitar. Because of my sonic intrusion beneath his apartment, I offered to help him move some furniture into his apartment. In return, he offered to put me up among the debris scattered on his floor.
Mitchell and a mandolin player named Ben came by, and now joined with A-sha, we busted out the previous covers. From the four of us, we generated a tiny crowd, and some dollar bills began to fall into the case. The best part, of course, was the loose arrangement of the songs, added background vocals, and an intense joint being passed around.
Mitchell and Ben took their leave, respecting our separate endeavors towards money-making. Within an hour, I had a steady stream of cash, sing-a-longs, high-fives, and my own bum entourage. One guy offered a place to stay on his yacht, but his closet-homo tendencies were like tasting saccharine in my coffee.
By the end of the night, I had made more than $50 in tips for very little work. Previous jobs I had worked were more taxing (lit. and fig.) and composed of the fallen dreck of society. As drunk, stoned, and derelict as Mitchell was, there was a spark of life. By 3am and after witnessing fisherman trying to kill each other--the most vivid memory being a dread-locked girl in a Brasil shirt kicking the black shirt of one of the fighters to antagonize him--I made my way back from Ballard Avenue and up to Market Street. At the intersection, I saw Mitchell seated alone on a park bench. His eyes were close, and his fingers worked the 12-string in a silent fashion. I greeted him.
"How'd you do tonight? I made fifty bucks!!"
Mitchell's face looked incredulous, his mouth turned sour. "I don't care where you're from. You don't do that. You don't do that. Its not about the money," he paused, "you don't do that." The high of success counteracted his scoldings. I said my goodbyes, half-apologizing, but gleaming with the idea of talent equaling compensation.
I went to sleep in the park. The next day, I saw Mitchell and his entourage again. They were in jovial spirits. Mitchell showed no signs of the previous day, instead swilling from his beer. I taught him "Blackbird" as compensation for easing my way into Seattle. After trying to play on the street, A-sha appeared. The Sunday crowd was much thinner and stingier, so I truncated my efforts when A-sha insisted he put me up. My last memory before passing out was A-sha hanging a large teal-colored length of tulle above his bed, mosquito-net style. There were no mosquitos that night.
We ate at a cafe in the morning. The barista had wonderful breasts. It was time to leave.
Memories from the Salem Mission
1) A large young man with an orange shirt casually walked through the television room towards the kitchen. On passing a Mexican/Hispanic with a baseball, the man knocked off his hat. No one but the now-bareheaded Mexican moved, turning around to recover his hat, his eyes wide and fearful.
2) For dinner, Salem's Union Gospel Mission served two rice-based dishes; one with meatballs, one with shredded beef. Both? Disgusting, but edible. Posting on the line was a young kid of caramel complexion and youthful uneasiness, handing out cans of donated Coke Zero. The kid arranged the tops to all face in one way. He was OCD'ing pretty bad, the entire time I had watched him, tilting cans ten degrees to the left, five degrees to the right. On the call for "seconds!", I succumbed to trying a can of Coke Zero, adjusting one to a better position. And now, maybe, I realize my OCD is watching other people and their reactions.
Canyonville Joke
I stopped at a Canyonville Shell Station to use the payphone after the grocery store's didn't work. "The idiots took 'em away. They said everyone has a cell phone nowadays." I agreed with the gas station attendant, Julie, who offered her own local phone and the comment, "Isn't that retarded?"
"It is. I mean, I don't have a cell phone!"
Another attendant appeared, Diana, and I lazily made conversation. Julie and Diana kept me company, and I kept them laughing. I made a few calls to Ranger, whom I was trying to meet up with. "You remind me of my son," said Julie. How so? "Oh, just the way you speak."
In fifteen minutes, I used the phone again. Answering machine. A van had pulled up, with an ex-veteran looking man and his son. The son was obviously retarded. The Veteran started talking to Julie, whom I deduced as being her husband. Which, led me to believe that her son was the retarded. Which makes me a Mongoloid.
"What you got there?" I asked the Mongoloid, who sat down next to me with an orange Fanta.
"Pop-pop," the Mongoloid replied.
