Randy's Poem and the Top Down Day

Sunday June 8th --What a fantastic day. I had a quick banana with Tia and Dahlia (my littlest nieces), getting my daily dose of vitamin cuteness, checked the visit count for the blog and then headed over to Wilsonville Bally's. 87 unique visitors yesterday, the first-week record for one day. Something like 250 in the first week. A good start. But in the words of the immortal Curley the cowboy, "Day aint over yet."

Top down, KMHD old-fashioned jazz on the Alpine through beautiful country roads, from the Wheeler ranch to Mollala to Canby to Wilsonville, peaceful meadows and glorious blooms around every bend of the road. Man that car is fun to drive.

I chatted with the desk clerk, Matthew, for a few minutes, a really pleasant and enjoyable kid, then headed to the lockerroom and then gym floor for a cleansing workout, hot shower and a shave of the head (God only made a few perfect heads--the rest he covered in hair.) I weighed myself and I'm down to 217.4 on the digital scale, the all-time personal best since maybe age 26. (Men compete over everything, even if it's only with themselves.) I'm starting to look really juicy in my old age. Check out the Paul McKenna link, I'm serious. Already the day is off to fantastic start, and it only got better.

I called my son Roger and he's at work at Game Crazy a few blocks away. The cell phone drops the call. We're four blocks apart from each other and the call goes dead right after "Hey Bud are you hungry?" So I drive over. I told you the car is fun to drive. A white Chrysler Sebring Convertible.

I made the down payment three years ago with the money I got when my mom died and she has been smiling down on me ever since. She would have loved to see me in that car. She always took such good care of hers. I rented one once for a first date years ago and I was telling her about afterward and she said, "you should have a car like that." And now I do, and I think about her every time I put the top down and put my yellow Oregon hat on. I love a top down day.

Man I've got to fire my cell phone company. They really stink--we'd be better off with two oatmeal boxes and a quarter mile of kite string. I don't think I can say the name for legal reasons, but it starts with t and ends with mobile. They send me a really nice detailed well-organized bill every month--they just don't successfully complete many phone calls. Fortunately it's two days after pay day and I have plenty of precious fossil fuel.

I make the arduous drive in my distracted way and managed to arrive safely. (I have a guardian angel. It's the only way I make it safely from one place to another. Sometimes I arrive at work and wonder how I got there. Today on the way to Angel's Rest I was stopped at a four-way stop in Fairview north of the old dog track, a blinking red light, and I was so into Brandenburg concerto number 5 and the feel of the sun on my shoulders I didn't move until the person behind me let loose with a loud nasty honk. They could have at least honked nicely. I drove ahead a few feet and pulled over so they could continue on their way and take their nasty honks elsewhere.) I backed in to avoid a distracted accident on my way out. Plus the car looks cool that way, all streamlined and shiny. It's a very nice car.

I go inside the Hollywood Video, Game Crazy in the back. The Hollywood part smells like unwashed socks and stale beer, a smell men find quite heavenly, which I believe Mennen is now marketing as "Eau de Wife Out of Town." Roger is there at the counter, looking cool and in charge. I love that boy. He is smart, funny and devastatingly good-looking, just like his old man (hee hee).

Roger greets me with an arms-wide-open hug, in the middle of Game Crazy with a customer in the store. I love this kid. He has grown up to be twice the man I ever was in half the time. Fortunately his mother was in charge of his upbringing. He's not hungry but he is thirsty, and we decide on super large fresh squeezed orange juices. Lamb's Thriftway has a broken juicer but they do have some nice cheese rolls. I love cheese rolls. Bread and cheese in one package, what a concept. They were soft and fresh. Extremely tasty. I think I have one left. It's going down. Tia had the other half and gave me one of her 1000-watt smiles. More vitamin c.

The clerk up front let me write a check for ten over without cracking me about it or calling over the manager, and I had a nice talk with the bag boy about Angel's Rest Falls and perfect top down days. It was nice he took the time to say hello and actually talk with me in a pleasant and unforced way. Refreshing, a courtesy clerk displaying actual courtesy. It doesn't always happen.

We used my brand-new sustainable reusable attractive green Lamb's Thriftway shopping bag, on sale for five-for-five-dollars, which now doubles as a man purse for all the crap I carry around with me. Cell phone, checkbook, wallet, keys, pens and paper--because you never know when writing will break out. I have to carry the checkbook because I've made two separate trips to the bank to request a new debit card over the last six weeks and I still don't have one. I answer all the questions and fill out the forms, but no debit card. I'll have to fire my bank too. They also stink. I can't say the name for legal reasons but it starts with U.S. and ends in bank. Man writing a blog is fun. Just a sec I need to hit save.

Women really have so many unfair advantages. They can use extremely practical crap-carrying devices without having their sexuality questioned, and they get better bathrooms. I checked Friday night--I was at Holman's for Brad Brenner's live blues show and this other guy, Rob, who had latched on to me for no apparent reason, pushed the door open a crack. Fortunately no one was inside. He was a little drunk, knocking back whiskey over ice at an alarming rate. The bathroom was painted a beautiful shade of pink, and they had a SOFA. We never get a sofa. Of course if we did it would smell like unwashed socks and stale beer so it's probably just as well.

Now I'm reaching the point of this story. If I want to be a writer I'll have to improve my narrative flow a smidge, but this will do for now. I walk into Jamba Juice and the store is clean and bright and smells deliciously of fresh squeezed oranges. I order our drinks and the young lady is very nice and asks for my name. So much nicer than blaring out, "number 22." I notice these little details. That's why my career arc is so promising.

In the left corner of the store there's a tall table and a young man with a head band is seated next to a pretty young girl. He's holding a book. It's a book of poetry from a Seattle writer and the young man stands up from his seat and starts reciting the poem, several pages long, and he knows every word by heart. The poem is in his energized crystal-clear blue eyes and in his limbs and his torso and he reads it with his whole body and whole heart, four pages of poetry pouring out of him. I wrote the poet's name on the back of my Jamba receipt but I've lost it--my god I need a scribe and an assistant and an editor that works cheap. They can make double what I'm making: I'm at .00 so their starting salary will be 00.00. I have a lot of trouble with hypens, does anyone know hypens? Have to pick up a new copy of The Elements of Style.

I ask him his name and he says "I'm Randy." and we shake hands. Nice firm grip, eye to eye. On his inner forearm he has a full-color Jamba Juice tatoo, bananas and oranges in a row with the logo lettered. How many of us love our jobs enough to have the company logo inscribed there, or hang out after work, or recite poetry in the lobby? His coworkers seem used to his antics and smile affectionately. A lady waiting for her juices and the counter girl applaud at the end of the reading.

I can't help but think how in our country we have phony competitions for mediocre talents and spend hours of production and graphics and hype to prop them up and they're trotted out week after week in a breathless hush like it all means something and the nasty judge gets the last word. Then "America Votes." Top-rated show in the country. I wonder how it would be if there was a show for Randy and others like him, if once a week Ryan Seacrest would look into the camera dramatically and say, "Ladies and Gentleman, this is American Idea." But no one would ever buy that show. Too bad. I'll have to start another blog.

The juices were fantastic and Roger and I talked between customers. He likes his new living space and the rent is cheap and his friend's parents treat him like one of the family, urge him to help himself to the leftovers in the refrigerator and the rent is only a 150 bucks a month. The pickup is running good and him and Justine are still cool. He has a large welt on the top of his nose from playing airsoft wars with his buds and I told him if he didn't wear goggles I was going to kick his butt.

Of course I'm not really going to kick his butt; I'm deeply proud of the fact that even though my old man used to smack me Roger and I broke the cycle of violence and he greets me every time with arms wide open and a big smile on his face. I love that boy. He's a great kid. It's always a relief when they turn out that way.

So all in all it was the best day ever. And that was just before noon.