When Unsavoury Types Attack!
Oh my. Saturday was a strange day, a strange day indeed. Started out like all those other days, but then developed a serious plot twist. Like on the O.C., you know?
It's got some blurry areas. I know I woke up, walked down to the bank and then to the grocery store. I did a bit of gardening, took the bike to Portland Nursery, promptly got a flat tire. Walked it home along with my fern bulbs, seeds, and free potting soil. Got it fixed, dug around in the dirt a bit. All typically normal sort of things. Then, I participated in what's now become a familiar routine, where Kenneth comes over and we wander aimlessly down to Hawthorne, giving nods and props to familiar sorts of strangers. Oriental food of some kind usually follows. Then, making sure to hit Fred Meyers, we make our way back up to Belmont (with a few friendly detours), and settle down for some concentrated laziness. Which emerged in the form of some stencil making, some spray-paint vandalism on huge scrap pieces of sheetrock in the backyard, and some quality O.C. watching time after it got dark. How long of time, you ask? Suffice it to say, long enough that you wouldn't respect me anymore. I vaguely remember my roommate Paul leaving, and several episodes later, Kenny left. Needing constant companionship, apparently, I padded barefoot next door and surprised my friendly neighbor while she was laying on the floor listening to the static between a.m. radio stations. It kind of sounded like jets taking off. So I convinced her to come over and engage in some serious teenage soap drama action, which she readily agreed to. 3:00 in the morning rolls around, and we're *just* about to turn in for the night to our respective Chuck-owned homes, when Paul pushes his bike in through the front door and says...
"Uhh...I'm sorry. I invited some friends over, is that ok?"
Sure, sure, I like friends, they're nice. And about ten minutes later, it hits. A steady stream of black-wearing rocksters pouring in, drunk, more alcohol in hand, cigarettes tucked firmly in the back pocket of their jeans. A bit overwhelming, for someone who's just spent about six hours watching television. And they took over. Completely. Loud and kind of raucous but unfailingly verbally polite towards me. I retreated next door, watching the shadows move back and forth in front of the lit windows, wondering how exactly to handle it. I would estimate about fifteen people, maybe? I'm not sure, they were all sort of grimy and loud. I heade back, armed with moral support, and pored myself some cranberry juice and let people introduce themselves once, maybe several times. They turned on the Clash, then Jay-Z, followed by Al Green, and then, just the sound of laughter and intoxicated voices. A girl admonished me that I could sell my paintings for thousands of dollars, and I nodded. Uh-huh. Yeah. Sure. Oh, really? I retreated to my room after an hour or so, laying in the dark, unable to sleep, listening to voices rise and fall, and footsteps heavy on the stairs, the bathroom door opening and closing, people crowding into the confined space to do God-knows-what. A girl was talking about how she went to high school with the Shins, and how one of them was totally in love with her for like, eight years, and now they're fucking millionaires, you know? I heard her explain the gist of this story about five times, all to the same peoplle. Rinse, repeat, continue until about 5:00 in the morning, where they finally dispersed into the wet Portland streets, leaving a smell of smoke and cigarette stubs littered on the front porch, bottlecaps on the kitchen tile.
You could hear the birds singing. There was that cold blue light filtering in through the curtains.
It's got some blurry areas. I know I woke up, walked down to the bank and then to the grocery store. I did a bit of gardening, took the bike to Portland Nursery, promptly got a flat tire. Walked it home along with my fern bulbs, seeds, and free potting soil. Got it fixed, dug around in the dirt a bit. All typically normal sort of things. Then, I participated in what's now become a familiar routine, where Kenneth comes over and we wander aimlessly down to Hawthorne, giving nods and props to familiar sorts of strangers. Oriental food of some kind usually follows. Then, making sure to hit Fred Meyers, we make our way back up to Belmont (with a few friendly detours), and settle down for some concentrated laziness. Which emerged in the form of some stencil making, some spray-paint vandalism on huge scrap pieces of sheetrock in the backyard, and some quality O.C. watching time after it got dark. How long of time, you ask? Suffice it to say, long enough that you wouldn't respect me anymore. I vaguely remember my roommate Paul leaving, and several episodes later, Kenny left. Needing constant companionship, apparently, I padded barefoot next door and surprised my friendly neighbor while she was laying on the floor listening to the static between a.m. radio stations. It kind of sounded like jets taking off. So I convinced her to come over and engage in some serious teenage soap drama action, which she readily agreed to. 3:00 in the morning rolls around, and we're *just* about to turn in for the night to our respective Chuck-owned homes, when Paul pushes his bike in through the front door and says...
"Uhh...I'm sorry. I invited some friends over, is that ok?"
Sure, sure, I like friends, they're nice. And about ten minutes later, it hits. A steady stream of black-wearing rocksters pouring in, drunk, more alcohol in hand, cigarettes tucked firmly in the back pocket of their jeans. A bit overwhelming, for someone who's just spent about six hours watching television. And they took over. Completely. Loud and kind of raucous but unfailingly verbally polite towards me. I retreated next door, watching the shadows move back and forth in front of the lit windows, wondering how exactly to handle it. I would estimate about fifteen people, maybe? I'm not sure, they were all sort of grimy and loud. I heade back, armed with moral support, and pored myself some cranberry juice and let people introduce themselves once, maybe several times. They turned on the Clash, then Jay-Z, followed by Al Green, and then, just the sound of laughter and intoxicated voices. A girl admonished me that I could sell my paintings for thousands of dollars, and I nodded. Uh-huh. Yeah. Sure. Oh, really? I retreated to my room after an hour or so, laying in the dark, unable to sleep, listening to voices rise and fall, and footsteps heavy on the stairs, the bathroom door opening and closing, people crowding into the confined space to do God-knows-what. A girl was talking about how she went to high school with the Shins, and how one of them was totally in love with her for like, eight years, and now they're fucking millionaires, you know? I heard her explain the gist of this story about five times, all to the same peoplle. Rinse, repeat, continue until about 5:00 in the morning, where they finally dispersed into the wet Portland streets, leaving a smell of smoke and cigarette stubs littered on the front porch, bottlecaps on the kitchen tile.
You could hear the birds singing. There was that cold blue light filtering in through the curtains.