smileytraveler

Best Friend: Your loins will be burning for a child by the time you leave Portland.

Me: Bwahahahahaha! Not gonna happen!

My best friend has two kids. The last time I saw them, they were barely out of babyhood. Her eldest, a daughter, was the first diaper I've ever changed. I was 34.

The first time I announced to the world that I didn't want kids, I think I was around 18. I have no idea what my reason was back then. It might have been some kind of shocking way to rebel against society. (Knowing me, that's exactly what it was.)

My family and friends assumed I'd change my mind when I got older. So did I.

It was curious how, when I hit 30, that “my loins were not burning” yet. I'd been married for 3 years at that point. That was actually a good thing, because my then husband had convinced a doctor to perform a vasectomy on him at age 28, six months after we met.

Then 35 rolled around. I literally did not think about it. Ever. But its amazing how many people think about it for me. And remind me about it.

You know those movies with the wacky, single, childless “Auntie” character who rolls up at Christmas dinner on a motorcycle, fully decked out in camo and feathers, fresh off a three month hike through Nepal? Well, that's me.

I fully embraced my “crazy aunt” truth many years ago. I've meticulously designed the lifestyle I have and have no intention or desire to adopt the suburban, structured life 99% of my family and friends have. To do that would be throwing away the years of sacrifice and fighting I endured for the dream: the life of a wanderer.

A lot of people mistake my not wanting children with my not liking children. You don't want kids? Oh, you don't like em, they'll say, smiling. They just can't wrap their heads around the disciplined thought I've put into the decision.

For the record, I find children gut-wrenchingly annoying. I don't like being around them. This is not the same as “not liking them”. They're alright, and they bring a lot of joy to those who choose to have them. And whether I like it or not, they are in fact, our future.

But the high-pitched, whiny voices, the constant need for approval, the stomping, the shitting, the messes, the toll they take on their parents, the expense...uh, I'm happy to let someone else do that job.

But, it's different when they're yours! Oh, if I had a dime for every time someone has told me this. And, yes, I believe them. Of course it would be different...without question.

What a lot of people don't know is the real reason I don't want kids. I don't dare explain it to them, because it would take too long and move polite, boring chit-chat into a philosophical realm most people don't want to enter.

So I'm perfectly happy letting them think, she doesn't like kids, so she doesn't have any.

Whatever.

The real reason: I like my life too much.

I've done the impossible in my family. Since I was a teenager I've dreamed of a life of freedom, fluidity, serendipity, and discovery. Like a killer whale in a giant theme park tank, I knew I had to commit to die fighting for the freedom (and danger) of the open ocean. Any thought to the contrary I quickly beat from my mind. Simply put: I'm one of those whales who will go mad and start maiming people if I'm kept in a tank. It's better for everyone involved if I go.

I've had some fantastic adventures, which I can assure you, 100% would not have happened if I had kids. And the thing is, I'm hungrier for more.

I would love to have my own family. If I could be assured that my life wouldn't change too much, I would do it in a heartbeat. But that's not possible. My life would change a lot. And right now, in this moment in time, the benefits to having a family do not outweigh the joy I get from exploring the world unhinged. Think what you like...that's the honest truth.

I've told my best friend this a thousand times. She doesn't seem to agree.

Best Friend: Your life wouldn't have to change that much if you had a baby. I want you to have a baby!!! She says with big, excited blue eyes.

Me: You know how things would go? I'll tell you. As soon as the umbilical cord fell off, I'd throw that shit in my bike basket and we'd go on adventures!

Best Friend: That's fine. You can do that.

Me: You mean to tell me that if I took a newborn infant on a multi-month road trip on a bicycle, they wouldn't call DHS on me and lock me up?!

Best Friend: No! Well...as long as the baby was wearing a helmet.

I start cracking up at the vision of a tiny baby in a basinet on the back of my bike wearing goggles and an itty-bitty helmet. And you know it would be one of those helmets with a mohawk on it, too!

Best Friend: It's Portland! People do all kinds of crazy shit with their babies and nobody cares.

Now, this, I can believe.

*Me: Fine! But you know what else? I'm deathly afraid of messing this person up. I would be one of those moms everybody thinks is a huge weirdo. I wouldn't allow them to watch TV, have electronics, play with Pokemons, or whatever the fuck. They'd eat paleo, spend all day outside building forts and inventing stuff. I'd judge all the kids they played with...big time. And they'd judge me.

“Wow, your mom doesn't let you watch Disney (whateverthefuck)? That sucks!”

Don't you think this person deserves a chance at being normal? Knowing what's “cool” in the world? Not being some kind of traveling intellectual weirdo none of the other kids will relate to? They might even be hated or feared by other kids.

Sorry, if I have a baby, I'm going to do things my way. And I'm not sure I'm okay with being responsible for raising a social outcast.*

Best Friend: Lots of people make decisions like this for their kids. There's nothing wrong with it.

Me: AND I have to deal with their father having his own desires about how they should be raised. If I have to agree to things I'm not comfortable with, will I just end up miserable?

Best Friend: You figure this stuff out as you go! Seriously. You are so damn serious and afraid. We love you anyway. She laughs at me, sympathetically.

Best Friend: You'd be an amazing mom.

This, ladies and gentlemen is why you don't want weirdos having babies! (Just kidding. I have to laugh at myself for being so overly analytical and computational when I regularly accuse others of being robotic and losing their humanity.)

But, seriously. I don't want to raise cute little consumers. I want to raise warriors. I want a five year old who can grow his own food, set up his own tent, and find his way out of a forest, unharmed. Hell, I'd probably leave him in the forest just to see if he could do it. That would make me a proud parent. Not how “polite” he can be in a classroom full of sugared-up dickheads. Not how well he did on some standardized test based on regurgitation. Not how “cool” the car is he picks up his first date with.

Plus, if I had a baby, I would commit 100% to raising him. I don't feel comfortable with the “baby as accessory” I see with so many couples. You bring this person into the world and then throw it into daycare? And when it's not in daycare, it's sitting in front of a screen with all kinds of colorful, loud lunatics bouncing around, forced to consume ads for plastic, squeaky garbage?

That means my career would drastically change...something else I've worked very hard for. Not that I'd be the sole breadwinner...both parents need to be equally involved. I don't like the thought of one parent working all the time and one raising a child. So there would have to be some financial challenges to overcome. I can live incredibly simply and cheaply, and think a child could, too. But, traveling, my friends ain't cheap. Unless you are willing to ride a bike (or walk) and camp every night. Wait! Did I just prove myself wrong? We're back at the baby bike adventure again!

I have to go, but there's lots more to explore here. Including how my best friend may not be so far off in her predictions about this trip.

A paper-and-ink journal entry from May 3, 2017.

Long Key State Park, Florida

A mosquito got trapped in the tent last night and we were eaten alive.

As I scratch my skin raw, I imagine the little bastard rolling back to his village all fat, bloated, and burping. The other mosquitoes are puzzled.

Fat Mosquito: You'll never believe this, guys! Last night I flew into the humans' tent and got trapped. At first I panicked, but then I looked down on them and realized I hit the jackpot! I was alone, so I just fed on both of them all night. Beeelllllllccchhh!

And those little gnat things. Sand fleas? They're quite awful, as well.

I sit at the picnic table, still scratching uncontrollably, watching the Florida sun rise slowly. It, too, will destroy us shortly. It's brutal.

On the fence, a little lizard is sticking out his weird little lizard red neck thingie. I see a bird above, sights fixed, and ready to dive. I want to shout, watch out, little lizard! Save yourself!

I figure it would make me feel good about myself if I saved an animal today.

Meanwhile, this bird hasn't eaten in days.

Hungry bird: That was my breakfast, you bitch!

He flies away to die of starvation.

Quote of the day: There are two sides to every story.

A paper-and-ink journal entry from May 5, 2017.

Key West, Florida

Finally went snorkeling and my dream of just floating around looking at sea creatures has come true. Suspended in the warm ocean, existing where the tide takes me.

They said we couldn't have picked a better day to go out.

Me: Do we have to wear flippers? Snorkel Boat Lady: Shakes head.

(Yes, I know they're called “fins” but the word “flippers” is so much more fun to say.)

No flippers. That's the way to go. Good exercise fighting against the draw of the water. The water silky between my toes.

Glittery light, everything gently swaying together. The fish are rainbows of beauty. You couldn't find better art in a museum.

Man, VR ain't got nothing on this, I think. Today they can put you at the bottom of the ocean, but they can't recreate the sensation of the water, the waves, the sun on your back...

I pause.

Just give 'em time. They're coming for this, too.

A swimming pool. Safety everywhere. Fake animals.

That's what we all want.

Ok, can't 100% remember what point I was trying to make yesterday. That's the beauty and the heartbreak of the muse. When she visits, you must seize the opportunity to write – once she leaves you, the thought might be lost forever.

There was a point, though, swear! Something about the wider internet grouping me into two camps: the “anonymous” camp and the “real identity” camp and how both of these are dangerous to great writing, even for non-writers.

In a perfect creative world, there's a third option, hiding somewhere in the middle. (This really has nothing to do with travel adventures, just something I was thinking about.)

In the last few years I've found myself thinking, why on earth is the internet so shitty? Is it me? Is it because I'm not reading the right people? If so, where do I find them? It's not easy. When I find an author/thinker who blows my mind I frantically add them to my RSS feed, somehow afraid they'll get away.

When the “real identity” internet took off – social media and the like – it was pretty cool, I guess. There most certainly is a place for it. But the more time I spent on these sites, the more boring and vacuous I found the ideas/posts. For a time, I forced myself to participate because...I don't know. But the stuff people share when their real-world identity is on the line tends to lean safe. Boring. Overly polished. Kind of like idle cocktail party chit-chat to avoid disappearing into the corner and being forgotten. Or maybe for attention. I have no idea. I'm someone who shares my professional work on these platforms, which, undoubtedly belongs there. It helps clients who don't know you from a stick on the ground feel more comfortable about hiring a “stranger”.

But, I just can't seem to get addicted to it like I hear people talking about so frequently. Frankly, sometimes it's like torture.

I would love to share my awkward travel stories with family and friends. (I have more than 12 years worth of stories that have never seen the light of day.) But the real-identity internet is just not the place for that. If I had to blend my wacky, adventurer self in with all the stuff I share professionally, 99% of what makes it (I hope) semi-interesting would have to be stripped out, leaving me one more boring, safe, internet person. That's just the way it is.

Then there's the “anonymous” internet, which has more merits than I could possibly list. But this internet has the opposite problem. When people's words aren't tied to a real identity – an identity responsible for those words – they tend to over-share, join mobs, and sometimes act outright disgustingly. It's a one-sided relationship where they get all the benefit of being a jerk, whatever that is, and none of the consequences of real-world harm they do. A system lacking in consequences is an affront to nature. Nowhere else in nature or society can I think of an agreement where I get 100% and you get 0%. (Or less, in this case.)

We need this anonymous internet. While at times dark, it serves to protect dissidents and helps those who need to get stuff off their chests without fear of damaging the reputation responsible for their livelihood and family life.

With Great Freedom Comes Great Responsibility

My dream is an internet where individuals can tell the stories others want to hear in a responsible fashion.

I've always wanted to write a book about my travels. I've found myself in situations where I could only laugh. How the hell did I get myself into this?! But two things have been holding me back. First was the feeling that I couldn't tell “the whole truth” due to the association with my real-world identity. Second is the fact that the longer I wait to write stuff down, the less I'm able to adequately communicate the rage, fear, hilarity, etc. So a “blog” style seems to be the best bet. That's why I love this platform. (Full disclosure: I know the founder of write.as and have witnessed his commitment to internet privacy, which is why I feel confident sharing stuff here I wouldn't elsewhere.) With separate personas and a commitment to truth and real-world respect, I think we could all put some really interesting, helpful, funny shit on the internet for others to enjoy.

Getting out of the habit of over-thinking and editing is so liberating! What kind of art could we make?

Just want to put this out there before continuing the journey of writing and sharing.

I'm not a journalist. I'm not a writer. I'm some schmuck with a computer. None of my stories are fact-checked. I write what I see and what I feel. Everything I'll put here is 100% true, but it's also 100% opinion. If I ever say anything negative it's because that's what my brain spewed out. Lots of times, when I calm down and reflect, I take some of those words back.

Anonymous writers have a huge responsibility, but so do their readers. I can't remember with whom I was speaking or where I was, but an uber-traveler friend told me an interesting thing about communication styles in different cultures. (Probably should have written it down at the time.) Basically, in our culture the responsibility is on the speaker to be understood – to make their words, opinions, and intentions clear so that the recipient can decipher them in the way the speaker intended. In other cultures (again, can't remember which) it's the listener's responsibility to figure out what the speaker's words mean. I thought this was really fascinating, especially in the context of the internet.

Perhaps we're ignoring that some people take it upon themselves to decipher the meaning of our words. Almost like our words don't belong to us anymore.

This essay is getting out of control, so I think it's time to pack it in. I have no idea where I'm going anymore.

I think the original point was why don't I write stuff down? Why don't others write stuff down? Then, as always, my mind wanters into societal, cultural, and sociological theories.

No interesting travel stories in the last couple of days, so that's all I got.

Remember that whole post about not drinking wine, except on weekdays? My intentions were good, I swear.

Remember that whole quote about “write drunk, edit sober”? Of course you do! That's Hemmingway, dawg!

Well, God bless Mr. Hemmingway, whose advice I dare not take at a time like this. Writing drunk and putting it out on the internet for the whole world to see, without editing, is my idea of living dangerously.

So, I ask you, dear reader...forgive the typos, forgive the thoughts.

Let's get down to business...

A Confession

I'm not a writer. I'm not a big shot. I am some schmuck with a computer. Now, repeat after me...

You: You are some schmuck with a computer.

Me: Very good.

If you are here reading my words, I want you to know I appreciate you. Writing is the only way we will ever get into another's mind. (Some other art forms qualify for this, as well. Actually, I'd say most art forms...cause now I'm thinking of music, photography, paintings, etc. Like I said, I'm not editing right now...)

Something writers struggle with A LOT is how to write interesting shit. And, I must admit, the world trained me well. Do we really need another asshole writing a blog about their travel adventures? No, dear reader. The answer is NO.

But you know what the world does need more of? Personal experience. Personal opinion. (Speaking of assholes, opinions are a lot like those.)

Not just personal opinions, but reasoned, no chains, no pressure, personal opinions.

The internet sucks when we're not anonymous. The internet sucks when we are anonymous.

Hold on...

Shit, my best friend just summoned me via her husband to come inside and watch a movie with her. I have no idea if I'll remember what the hell I was about to say. If not, sorry 'bout that. If so, I'll see you tomorrow.

My bear research continues as I plan my descent into the Oregon wilderness. And, like any other (probably) ill-advised adventure of mine, this one will probably require baby steps until confidence is gained.

If you want to learn survival skills it's probably a not good idea to jump out into the sticks and start surviving. It might be a better idea to go on a few overnight camping trips, and then slowly build up to multiple-day and week trips so you can practice your slick skillz and deal with the stuff that comes up. Over time a nice little repertoire of knowledge develops.

A few days ago I told my best friend about my bear fears and how I'm trying to get a little perspective on how dangerous they actually are so I can feel better about the whole thing. I figured she could provide some calming support to assuage my fears:

Me: ...and that's why I'm deathly afraid of bears. Sigh...I don't know, I'm probably blowing this way out of proportion. Attacks aren't that common, right?

Best Friend: Ohhh, did you ever see that episode of “I Survived” where the guy woke up in the middle of the night to crunching noises and there was a bear eating his skull?!

Me: Blink...blink.

Best Friend: It was crazy! So horrifying...

Me: To be honest, I'd totally forgotten about that one. Thanks for helping me remember.

My research then led me to the big boys' bear defense of choice. It's called “bear spray”. Oooh, tell me more about this bear spray, thought I. After some further reading, I swiftly made my way down to the friendly neighborhood REI to get me some.

It was a typical trip to REI. I wander through the store. I want everything. I think of my bank account. I resist. Rinse, repeat.

In the middle of the store, I turn the corner and there it was. COUNTER ASSAULT! “Grizzly tough bear deterrent!” It has a scary looking bear on the label, so it's obvious marketing knows their target customer (me) very well.

So I'm looking at this thing and basically it's a can of pepper spray, about the size of a fire extinguisher, which will launch a 30-foot stream of 2% capsaicin at the poor dear. To put it mildly: it's a far cry from the cute little hot pink canister of pepper spray I carry for dogs and other critters while on bike rides.

I'm fixin' to go on a hike. I need this.

The practicality of this well-intentioned but semi-ridiculous exercise starts to sink in. Where the hell am I going to put this stuff? It obviously has to be easily accessible, else, why carry it at all?

I look to the side. There's no less than four different kinds of harnesses and holsters for your bear spray. Some go around your hips so you can carry it on your lower back, some criss-cross around your chest, some hang by a strap at your side. I have a nice laugh. How exciting! It's like the Wild West again, only instead of six-shooters, we're all sporting assault fire extinguishers.

I decide against the holster. After all, a Lara Croft look might suit me better. A can of bear spray strapped to each thigh, trail mix and cooking utensils strapped to my chest. I imagine myself facing down a Grizzly. I drop down in a lunge position, tightly gripping a can in each hand, pointed directly at the enemy, my bitch face dialed up to Defcon 1.

I'll just get the bear spray and figure out where to put it later.

Walking out of the store, feeling victorious. Now I have to learn how to use this stuff. I'm afraid to even take it out of the package.

After thoroughly reading the directions and watching a few You Tube videos, perhaps I could practice my quickdraw moves in the backyard? Probably not a good idea. That would be more entertainment than the neighbors could handle.

I go on my hike (lovely, by the way), the bear spray still safely in its protective packaging in my bag. I make peace with the idea of certain death should I meet a bear today.

Next lesson: bear bells. I saw them beside the COUNTER ASSAULT. I have no idea how they work, but I imagine that when a bear approaches I just grab the thing and start shaking it. Ching-a-ling. Ching-a-ling. The bear stops, a puzzled look on its face, then starts laughing so hard, it falls to the ground in a furry puddle.

Bear: Cute bell, dumbass! Now, meet my fangs!

Fade to black...

Using this Sunday to chill around the house and plan my next adventure. Every month or so I get a bug up my butt do so a “freestyle” adventure and the bug has arrived.

I did one in Florida a few months ago and it was life-changing. However, surviving in the tropics, I can imagine, is much different than surviving in the Pacific Northwest.

Before the Florida adventure, I had next to no survival skills. I didn't bother to learn any, either. That's not the way I learn. Everything in life is learned on a “need to know” basis. When I get uncomfortable enough, the nerd hat goes on and the research begins.

I've been fascinated by off-the-grid living for many years, mainly because it just makes sense to know these things just in case technology fails us. I never applied any of the knowledge, but thought it was cool nonetheless.

However, my tropical adventure presented a host of opportunities for me to use the few bits of knowledge I had and to acquire tons more. Solar-distilling ocean water was my favorite. Although, it took me two hours to make like two tablespoons. I probably would have died in a real survival situation, but it was good entertainment.

Florida has a great climate for outdoorsy stuff. That's if you like sweltering heat, humidity, and frequent, violent thunderstorms. I like 'em...keeps life interesting.

The one thing about roughin' it in Florida which differs greatly from the Pac Northwest is that the second you step outside, you will become a buffet for the wildlife. Sometimes it's just an irritation, but other times you'll be engulfed in a black cloud of swarming insects, taking turns feeding on your flesh.

That's just the mosquitoes and ticks.

Then you've got the insects that mind their own business, but you just don't want to encounter because they look like frightening, murderous, monstrous aliens. The spiders, the beetles, the f'n linebacker-sized grasshoppers, the snakes, and all manner of other creepy-crawlies.

Some of the spiders are the size of my head and are so horrifying they look like they'd slit your mother's throat and then sell her parts off to his friends one-by-one. I think they're called Giant Banana Spiders or Golden Orb something, and apparently they're harmless. That's great to know, but trust me, if you find one of these things six inches from your face, you will rediscover your religion very quickly.

I recently hosted a Japanese cyclist, who'd just done a cross-country ride from San Fransisco to Northeast Florida. It was his first trip to the US, and for some reason he was very nervous about riding the length of our state to Miami.

The language barrier was tough, and he didn't know how to explain what he was freaking out about. He grabs a cellphone and shows me. A giant alligator. I laugh. Basically, he wanted tips on how to not be attacked by alligators.

I then tried to explain in the simplest English I could that, dude, literally you are not going to get eaten by alligators here. It's just not gonna happen. If you want some advice? I guess stay away from canal banks.

Poor guy thought a gator would come and snatch him right off the bike path and drag him back to its lair.

I can have my chuckles, cause I know my local critters pretty well. But here, I don't.

My biggest phobia about camping here is bears. I know the chances of being attacked are slim-to-none. I've gotten advice from seasoned outdoorspeople about how to properly store food away from the campsite, and how to respond if you see a bear. It's awesome to not have to worry about my flesh being eaten off by all manner of insects, but my lizard brain just won't accept sharing sleeping quarters with Grizzlies.

Lizard Brain: Why would a Grizzly bother hunting if he can just feast on 150 pounds of unconscious fatty human, laying right here?

Lizard Brain: Have you ever tried scurrying up a Douglas fir at 15 miles per hour? I bet it would be haaaard!

Lizard Brain: When that bear sees you, he's going to know you're not from around here. They can smell weakness a mile away.

Driving through Oregon's backroads I dream about hiking up into the forest to spend days. At the same time I fantasize about constructing tent made of steel bars, which I can crawl into at night.

The plans become wackier. Maybe I could bring an airhorn, so that when it gets close I can blast it a good one in the face! But would that only piss it off?

Are giant bow-and-arrows legal in Oregon? Wait! What am I talking about?! I could barely hit a target in archery class from 20 feet away, standing dead still, and aiming for several seconds.

It's fun to let your imagination run wild once in a while. But, at times like this, there is no other choice than to become educated on the realities of perceived dangers. What do the statistics say? What do the experts say?

If a little truth is injected into the brain, at least the lizard will have someone to do battle with.

I fully expected the experience detailed in my last post to be an isolated incident. I wanted to get back to the business of singing Portland's praises so all my friends and their friends would visit me here and hurl dump trucks full of money into their economy, as I have every summer since 2007. (Save 2015-2016.)

I was going to leave said previous post to ripen and then wither on the vine; another notch in my bed post of humorous travel stories.

But today was so unpleasant that I'm going to take a more serious, condescending tone in the words that follow. I hate doing this. (Do we really need one more douchebag on the internet complaining about stuff?)

If you hate internet douchebags who complain, leave now. If you care about Portland, and consider it the gorgeous little slowflake that I do (or did), read on.

Note: This will make absolutely no sense unless you read this post first.

You Were My Sunshine

I don't watch the news. Haven't for years. But my best friend and her husband do, so lately I've had the pleasure of watching hilarious trainwrecks every night, just like a normal person.

Last night, I almost fell over backwards upon hearing a quote from the mayor of Portland regarding the “homeless” situation here. (Again, HATE that word, hence the quotes.)

Very long backstory short: Laurelhurst is a STUNNING neighborhood just east of downtown Portland which is very near and dear to my heart. I used to spend hours in the park there. So beautiful it made me want to cry.

The citizens of Laurelhurst would like the city to, ya know, kinda sorta prevent folks from shitting on the sidewalk. And maybe not pump themselves full of illicit drugs. (That's what we have highway underpasses for.) And maybe, once in a while, clean up their rotting, stinking garbage. Not unreasonable demands, by anyone's standards, right?

Apparently Mr. Mayor considered those demands (and many others) and decided not to take action against “the kids”. His very logical reason was that the Laurelhurst ordinance “criminalizes homelessness”.

Let's all take a long pause. Close our eyes. Breathe deeply. Stare up into the universe, and then let our heads flop forward.

OK, moving on. Obviously I'm dealing with a very simple mind here, which generates very simple ideas. So, let's try to stick with short sentences and short words.

This. Ordinance. Does. Not. Criminalize. Homelessness.

Mr. Mayor, read the following sentence very sssslooooowwwlllyyy:

Your constituents would like to go to the park and not find themselves accidentally covered in warm, sticky, fly-infested, diseased human shit.

Now this one:

Your constituents would like that their children play outside without worrying that they'll stick themselves with a needle, (yes, the kind that's been in someone's arm) or cut their feet on a tubular glass object with human saliva and methamphetamine residue on it.

One more:

Your constituents live in a beautiful neighborhood. They would prefer if there were not excessive garbage.

None of the sentences above had anything do do with homes. This is a public health issue.

I'm sure as a politician you've read tons of history. But just in case you haven't, one of the most miraculous things our ancestors have done is figure out a way to live in densely populated areas, while simultaneously NOT being knee-deep in our own excrement. Sir, these were the original “progressives”, so the next time you're enjoying a bottle of Henny, pour a little on the sidewalk in their honor.

If you need some further reading, I can highly recommend getting schooled on what city life was like during Elizabethan England. But, you're busy, so here are the Cliff's notes:

Poopie = Bad No Poopie = Better!

Did you know the Romans didn't even have electricity? Yet, they were so desperate to remove human poopie from their midst they developed systems to whisk it away that are still marvels to this day?

Exposed poopie is a public health risk. Bodily fluids which are no longer inside bodies is a public health risk. Rest assured, you are not violating anyone's civil liberties by enforcing a “no poopie policy”.

How many citations have your administration given for dog owners failing to pick up their doggie's poopie? Doggie poopie is gross and nobody wants to step in it. (You even provide cute little baggies free of charge to house and transport it.) But the difference between doggie poopie and human poopie, at least to yours truly, is like night and day.

When I step in doggie poopie, it's a mild irritant. No, I don't want it on my shoe (and I will work swiftly to remove it in the nearest public sink). But when I step in human poopie, it's followed by immediate gag reflexes, fainting spells and the search for massive quantities of bleach.

If you insist on not enforcing extremely important public health laws, at least supply “the kids” with a shovel and a cheap print-out on how to properly bury their shit so the earth can go to work on it. This is one of the first things one is taught when they learn how to camp. If you want the campers to stay, that's fine. Teach them how to camp.

Print This On My Grave: “I strongly believe that any citizen has the right to be on any public property, for any reason, for any length of time.”

But citizens also have responsibilities, Dear Mr. Mayor. One of their responsibilities is to refrain from splattering said public places in their colon rot. It's a very simple concept, and easily remedied by education and enforcement.

Same Shit, Different Day

The only reason I'm writing this is because I was traumatized today. I was so excited to visit Powells City of Books, which has become an annual luxury for me for so many years. It's like Disney World for geeks. I bought some dope books, after spending so much time in the store my tummy was gurgling audibly. So I leave the store and am waiting for the cross signal on 11th. I smell something foul. But not dogshit foul...so, you guessed it. I look across the street and see a gentleman squatting between the crosswalk button (hand sanitizer, guys!) and some other object.

Shitting. On. The. Sidewalk.

Not in the woods. Not in the park. Not in a trash can.

On. The. Sidewalk.

You know what immediately went through my mind, Mr. Mayor?

“Fuck this place.”

Fuck this shit. We've come too far as a species and this place is too special to me...I just can't take it anymore. You need help, Portland.

Perhaps it's all one giant conspiracy to prevent growth? Make your city as horrifying as possible and people won't move here? If you're lucky enough, tourists will stop coming. It will be great for jobs.

Please don't think I'm being mean. If I didn't care so much, I wouldn't be shaming you. If you meant nothing to me I would just let you burn yourselves to the ground. But you're beautiful, Portland. Seeing stuff like this is like watching a supermodel get sprayed with a runaway sewer pipe. It's gross and it's sad.

I'll be retreating into the wilderness soon and you can all enjoy your human feces and garbage. It's true, I'm not a resident. I'm not a voter. I'm a visitor, and godammit I love you. And right now you are such a fucking disappointment.

This is a classic case of the lunatics running the asylum. And it's incredibly sad that the lead lunatic is also the mayor.

Portland, what happened to you? It's been three years since I was blessed to be in your weird little city and, well, I kinda feel like I don't know you anymore.

Maybe it's me who's changed? Maybe I was so besotted with your beauty, artsiness, food and uh...quirks...that I just didn't see it before. I just don't know.

I've only been here a couple of weeks, but I think it's time for a little heart-to-heart.

(Note: Words are a great expressive medium and all, but there's no way for me to communicate tone when I write. So when you read this, please know that I am speaking in a soft, concerned voice, not an accusatory one.)

Back in 2007, when we first met, I felt as though I'd discovered weirdo Shangri-La. It was a place I could appear in public wearing outfits I didn't dare sport anywhere else. I even tested you: the pastel rainbow tights with crew socks, black Converse, and a shirt/dress (who knows?) reminiscent of a burlap sack? Not even a double-take. The golf shoes, daisy dukes, and holey circa 1985 T-shirt with a severed zombie head on it? Didn't phase you a bit. You accepted me no matter how obnoxious I tried to be, cause that's just who you are.

I looked forward to seeing your friendly citizens as I walked the streets for weeks. Darth Vader cruising with his pet chicken. That guy on a unicycle covered in sparkles holding a boombox. Oh, and the doggie outfits! Such a joy! Everywhere I went, I enjoyed the company of your people. Is it a guy, is it a girl? I didn't know and I didn't care. We were all weirdos together.

You were the most accepting and tolerant place I'd ever visited. But I must say, you've gotten a little too accepting. A little too tolerant.

What I'm trying to say is, congratulations, you've become San Francisco. A city I visited just once, and one to which I will never return. It's true...I've traveled alone in third-world countries and have never been as frightened as I was in the City by the Bay. Its beauty was never enough to get me past the stinking piles of feces I waded through in public stairwells, the expletives shouted as I strolled on by, the spitballs I had to dodge (I'm not making this up) as I walked down the sidewalk. Oh, and the drugs. Lots of drugs. Not the cute “let's smoke a doobie” kindsa drugs. I'm talking the kinds that turn God's children into putrid piles of semi-sentient meat, their souls and humanity long gone.

(Note: I'm not anti-drug. Merely making an observation.)

Portland, I understand that every city has their problem children and I, in no way, expect you to be perfect...you're my boo.

Yesterday, I ventured out for a long bike ride along the Willamette, just for old time's sake. After making my way through the Pearl, I hopped up onto the Willamette Greenway Trail and zipped down the wooden boardwalk. I love the sound the tires make on the planks. Daydreaming in the “path of flowers”, I spot a nice gentleman bathing in your mighty river, his ding-a-ling waving in the gentle breeze. Portland, please don't take me for a prude, but please understand I am a simple Southern bumpkin and I'm just not used to seeing public ding-a-lings. I jolt a bit. But then I snap out of it. After all, if I had a nickel for every ding-a-ling I've seen in Portland, I'd be living in a high-rise in Monaco right now. This is mostly due to the fact that I'm – without fail – out and about when the annual Naked Bike Ride takes place.

I smile and continue with my ride. Godspeed to you and your ding-a-ling, fine sir!

I cross over the train tracks and prepare myself to pass under the Steel Bridge. Now, I know very well what the underbelly of the Steel Bridge has in store. Since you are Portland, I'll be PC here: it's not my favorite place in town. But I know once I'm through, I can delight in the wonders of the west bank promenade. Under the bridge, I become Mario when he has to dodge those giant swinging spikey-ball-thingies on his way to rescue the princess. Once I hop up into that green pipe from the underworld, I'm home free.

Or am I?

As I round the corner, another jolt, although this time it wasn't the fleeting kind one experiences at the sight of a liberated ding-a-ling. Your west bank promenade looked a little different.

For a city that prides itself on environmental beauty and purity, I can't quite figure out why there's garbage everywhere. Is this okay now? Did I miss the memo?

This is going to be hard for me, Portland, but...we've got to talk about the kids. A lot of people, including my friends, refer to them as “the homeless”. I don't like that word one bit, so I'm not going to use it. Being without a home is not something one should be ashamed of. I believe we need to stop defining our fellow man by their possessions, and begin defining them by their behavior.

The kids are messy, man. For a city that preaches the virtues of public health and public services, I'm a little concerned. They need a place to dispose of their garbage. A large dumpster will do. Right now, it's piling up on the ground and it's making you look ugly. They need facilities to evacuate and shower. A bank of small porta-potties might work, but I'd highly recommend a permanent structure with indoor plumbing model. I've heard these things are available at shelters, but unfortunately, the kids don't want to live at the shelters because the shelters have rules. The kids don't like rules. They want to be in the park, so it's your responsibility to bring the facilities to them.

A lot of the kids have drug problems. They, also, do not like the treatment centers you've provided. They want to do their drugs in the park, and who can blame them? It's beautiful. Perhaps it's time to deploy a few medical professionals to make rounds and ensure that nobody kills themselves or uses dirty drug delivery equipment. You'll have to bring them to the park, though. The kids don't like traveling.

Some of the kids are sick. Their brains just don't work like the rest of ours. They need people trained in sick brains to help them. Again, you'll have to bring them to the park. I say this because my best friend is a mental health professional in your fine city and she tells me there are literally no more beds in her hospital. She can't care for the kids because there is nowhere to put them. The good news is that in the park, the kids have their own beds, so all you would need to provide are the caring professionals.

And then there are the violent kids. I heard one of them decided to beat the hell out of an elderly couple on Poet's Beach. For no reason. If you're going to encourage the violent kids to live in the park, it's time for you to start considering a babysitter. There are professional babysitters out there. They wear uniforms and carry guns they are trained to use. In my two hours on the banks of the Willamette yesterday, I saw not one babysitter. If you are not willing to hire more babysitters, perhaps it's time you provided your citizens with training on how to professionally handle a gun, and made it easy for them to get permits to discreetly carry. I'm not advocating violent civil war, Portland, I'm just saying that if the kids know the people they'd like to beat up might defend themselves, well...they might think twice.

If we're going to invite and encourage the kids to live in the park, if you came up with a plan to make it safe and pleasant for everyone.

Perhaps we could communicate to the kids that it's not alright to have drug-fueled* sex in the park. (Saw this.) When brain-sick kids angrily walk around with giant sticks in their hands, maybe let them know there's a possibility that others might feel uncomfortable. (I did.) When the kids see a dead animal, perhaps it's not the best idea to dump Cheeotes all over it. (WTF?!) That's no way to treat the dead.

You are compassionate, Portland. You've drilled this into me for over 10 years. You care more than anyone. You have lots of demonstrations. Lots of “activists”. Lots of tolerance. But, yesterday, I saw one of your kids, a 20-year-old girl covered in scabs and filth, and she looked like she needed help. Don't make me think all the compassionate chest beating I've witnessed was just for show, Portland.

You are an individual, Portland. You don't need to try so hard to be San Francisco. If you put in some standards for human decency in public places, we won't think any less of you. You'll still be the artsy, open-minded Portland we love.

I'm sorry to say this, but you look tired, Portland. Kids are a lot of responsibility. I hope you're ready for it.

---

*UPDATE: I'd like to take this statement back as I have no proof they were on drugs. A lot of passion went into this post and I shouldn't have said that.

Everyday they try to sell me this product. It's a great product, but it has one nasty catch:

“You will get a few hours of extreme bliss from this, but it will cost you the next 2-3 days of your life, productivity, and mental state.”

I should be horrified and run away. But alcohol is a special little darling, isn't he?

Oh man. I guess it was a few years ago I first uttered the words “I can't drink like this anymore. I guess I'm getting old! Hahahahaha!”

Yeah, it was cute the first time I said I'm getting old. It was kind of like a right of passage. I was finally old and wise; seasoned, if you will.

But now it just isn't funny anymore. I'd go so far as to say there's a mathematical equation for how much alcohol one can ingest. For every five years of additional age, add an order of magnitude to your suffering and lost time.

I only drink on Fridays now. And only socially, as I'm visiting with my best friend for the first time in three years. The problem is, Friday's drinking becomes Saturday's nightmare. So after kinda sleeping, getting some exercise, lots of water, etc...I only find myself craving the “hair of the dog.” (It really does help if you can limit yourself to that one promised shot of whiskey.)

But, yeah, right. Hair of the dog inevitably turns into another night of us giggling on the floor, reminiscing about high school and who got herpes.

Then the problem is shifted to Sunday. Once recovery begins in earnest Sunday evening, I need until freakin' Wednesday morning to feel normal again!

I don't have the luxury of damaging my old body like I did my young one. I punch it in the face, it punches me right back.

Life's gonna suck without my beloved red wine at week's end. But, for real this time, I'm getting too old for this shit!