Patrick Wensink

If you know me, you know I am no stranger to the dark corners of juvenile delinquency. You might remember the national headlines from 1997: Teenager Arrested for Loitering.

No?

Jeez, do you pay much rent living under that rock? Okay, I’ll refresh your memory. Seventeen year old Patrick was hanging around the parking lot of his hometown’s only pizza parlor on a Friday evening, talking to friends—neither causing a ruckus, drinking beer (big brothers and fake IDs were a thin commodity in 1997) or having a backseat wrestling match with a cheerleader (you’ll also recall that in 1997, boys who neither caused a ruckus or scored beer got laid). 

This was back when the internet was little more than a sonogram photo of the wild child it would quickly become, cell phones were for Zach Morris and TiVo was the name of that foreign exchange student who smelled funny. I lived in a small town and had no choice but to take pleasure in particularly Amish delights like standing and chatting with other humans.

 Not exactly public enemy-type activities. But, of course, our town’s sole policeman didn’t agree.

It must have been a slow night because he screeched into the parking lot with flashers blazing. Young Pat was charged with loitering, but would soon beat this rap by defending himself in court with the now famous “Wensink Defense #1”. Basically stating to the judge I was not loitering because I was going to leave eventually. Mom and dad have HBO and everyone knows the dirty movies were bound to start soon.

This previous brush with the wrong side of the law recently came back to the foreground of my mind in disturbing fashion after my wife and I ran into America’s new generation of juvenile shenanigans. The only loitering, however, was done by a potted plant.

If you guessed the neighbor boy (also seventeen) decided he’d try growing marijuana on our garage roof, you get the golden pot leaf for the day.

Okay, stop right there, smart-ass. I realize I’m no longer seventeen and might be a little out of touch with what young bucks do for fun (such as grass growing on other people’s property). I couldn’t name a Lady Gaga tune if it was tattooed on my wife’s arm, the internet is getting harder and harder for me to understand and I actually found hair growing out of my ears the other day. But it’s difficult not to think we’re going to be doomed because today’s juvenile delinquents are getting remarkably dumber.

Remember, this is coming from a guy who was arrested for standing.  I know a thing or two about dumb crime.

The fifth of July was a sweet one this year because Uncle Sam’s birthday fell on a Sunday, meaning there was no work that Monday. Like any red, white and blue blooded American man, I called my mommy that day. Midway through our chat I told Mamma-W I had to let her go, something weird was on the garage roof.

Keep in mind, our one-car garage is in the back yard, has a flat roof and is no more than eight feet tall. So it’s pretty obvious when there’s a large green flower pot atop it. A flower pot we didn’t own.

My wife and I had been cautioned by a neighbor weeks earlier that the boy a few doors down had been getting into back yards and acting suspicious. This fella had dropped out of school and was unemployed, which apparently left a lot of free time to roam the wide open spaces of Louisville.

Those spaces seemed to include our garage roof.

While not the greatest student or job-holder, this criminal genius must be an excellent climber. And, for that matter, a decent horticulturist. Because when the wife dug out the ladder and got on the roof we discovered this wasn’t a bouquet of daisies—delivered to our roof by some FTD snafu—but, instead, something resembling Bob Marley’s garden.

Inside our little gift pot was, well, the gift of pot. I’ve never grown weed myself, but have seen enough Grateful Dead tapestries and Snoop Dogg albums to get an idea of what we’re dealing with.

Frankly, I was a little jealous of our neighborhood Tony Montana. This kid’s growing hearty crops and, meanwhile, I can’t grow cherry tomatoes (still legal in Kentucky, last time I checked) to save my life.

I’m sure a lot of people would have yipped for joy and started cycling through brownie recipes before getting this little bundle of joy down from the garage. But we decided to be good citizens (also known as squares) and phone the authorities.

In the interim minutes, our initial head-scratching about how this thing got there wore off. In its place we were left with a strong suspicion it was the neighbor boy and then a migraine-inducing amount of confusion about this little criminal mastermind’s intelligence level.

“Really?” was all we could say. “On what planet does he think someone fails to notice a flower pot on their garage?”

Back in 1997—when I was loitering up a storm—we heard about this kind of stuff. Guys with fluorescent lights and hydroponic greenhouses in their closet. Or some secret clearing in the woods supposedly flush with green gold. But a neighbor’s roof? Come on, even the kid arrested for loitering knew better.

I try to be an open-minded dude. If you want to grow weed, knock yourself out. But, me, I have my hands full with a rotting crop of cherry tomatoes, so I don’t really want my garage being used to rub my nose in someone else’s agriculture success.

I’m not upset about the drugs aspect at all.  Lil’ Einstein could have just as easily been hiding stolen diamonds in that flower pot and I’d be equally disturbed. It’s just insulting to assume I’m that dumb or out of touch not to know what was going on.  

Our confusion just kept repeating as our jaws dropped a little further. “Really, dude? You’re just going to hop on our roof and grow pot? Maybe you’d like use our cats as heroin mules? Or raise magic mushrooms in my closet—probably not the only fungus down there.”

“Mi casa es su casa.” Go nuts.

The portly, good-humored police officer soon arrived, climbed the ladder and informed us: “well, it sure looks like marijuana. But, of course, we can’t be sure until we smoke it.”

Instead of finding a bong and digging out a couple Phish albums, the officer proceeded to call about six other cops and drug detectives to my yard. A quick tour of the back alley revealed two similar growing operations in an elderly neighbor’s yard. Our street was suddenly turning into Little Jamaica.

The police seemed just as perplexed as my wife and I. “Really? Are ya kidding me? We’re not entrepreneurs, but growing pot on a neighbor’s garage roof isn’t exactly sound business.” Our neighborhood Johnny Appleseed wasn’t going to be on the cover of High Times anytime soon.

Eventually, two detectives moseyed over to the boy’s house for what they called, “a knock-and-talk.” Beaver Cleaver, unfortunately, wasn’t home. I’m sure he was reading Bible verses to senior citizens or, at the very least, at the library studying for the SAT.

The police did, however, take a little tour and uncovered (big shock) a small cash crop also growing in his bedroom. Apparently, my garage was this kid’s Overstock Department. They also removed a fair number of firearms.   

At that point, the cops stopped updating us with the investigation. My assumption is that things aren’t going to go too well for Cheech & Chong Jr.. My first reaction was “good riddance” and I hope this kid gets in some serious trouble for dragging me into this mess.

But then I felt guilty. No matter how misguided his world already is, I might have inadvertently screwed it even further. I hope not. I’m a big believer in redemption and this kid’s life is far from over, considering the slap on the wrist he’ll likely get. But I’m a little worried, not only for this dufus, but all the other boneheaded teenagers too.  

Ideally, this teen will soon grow up and probably get a job. And I hope he makes something good happen. Given his clearly stellar IQ and propensity for narcotics, he’s already on the fast-track to holding public office. [FAST FACT: many politicians got their start as criminals. Herbert Hoover was a notorious horse thief, John Quincy Adams paid for college as a male prostitute and Abe Lincoln built the world’s first meth lab in a one-room log cabin] But even if he’s fixing plumbing or replacing brake pads in the future, those are important jobs, jobs I don’t want a complete moron handling. So, I’ve got some gnawing worries about the nation’s weak criminal element. Smart kids tend to land on their feet in some manner of speaking, but how will the world be when it’s run by guys who think elevating a weed growing business in the air eight feet is plenty clandestine enough?

There’s probably nothing to worry about. Today’s juvenile delinquents are most likely just as smart as yesterday’s loiterers. I think I’m just getting old and mean. Frankly, I want this kid to succeed in something other than converting my garage to a greenhouse and hope he turns it around. Anything is possible. Take it from a guy who was arrested for simply standing around: when you do something moronic, there’s nowhere to go but up.

July 14, 2010

*Originally appeared in The2ndHand, May 2010

The girl on the sidewalk, a few feet away, busts out a dijeridoo and makes it growl, taking breaks for cigarette drags. Across the street, punk rock circus clowns slap together a stage in their front yard. I’m just one of hundreds who skipped work or a strict bong regimen to unfold a card table in the hot sun. But I’m the only one with two gallons of barbecue sauce and a plan to get rich.

Th is sidewalk doesn’t get interesting until one of the clowns—sensibly dressed in a leather jacket, jean shorts, cowboy boots and white/black makeup—rides a tricycle through the busy street, twanging a banjo and nearly flattening himself in oncoming traffic. He’s sort of the opening act. He’s the warm-up comedian before Richard Pryor steps onstage.  

 How did I get here? Usually, people start a business by opening a little corner store or setting up a website. For some reason, I pitch my capitalistic career into action with a card table at the intersection of Unsafe Clown Boulevard and Stupidity-with-Fire Avenue. Portland, OR’s Last Thursday street fair is the only place in town anybody can sell anything. There are no rules or regulations or forms to sign. If you suspect it’s the kind of place a guy with no food-handler’s license and even less culinary experience can hustle homemade barbecue sauce for six-bucks a jar, you’d be right.  

It’s not a flea market and it’s not really a fair. Actually, it’s some anarchist gang-bang of art and garbage…and BBQ sauce. The girls on my left sell pencil sketches for forty-bucks a frame (Dijeridoo concerts are free, I guess). The ladies on the other side push hand-made necklaces and purses. Elsewhere, down about a mile’s worth of Alberta Street, amateur businessmen hawk everything from welded Socrates sculptures to possibly stolen tube socks at rock bottom prices. It’s the last open market economy in America. The only rule is: stay on the sidewalk. But that rule, apparently, doesn’t apply to guerrilla clowns with impatient landlords.

My suspicions get hot when the Clown House (the tenement across the street hosting the face-painted madness) has its reggae band warm up at the volume of a Led Zepplin concert, followed shortly by an eating contest on the porch. It’s at this point I realize capitalism is a brutal racket. Getting rich is tougher than it looks. Contrary to my lazy belief, Wentastic BBQ Sauce won’t sell itself, especially with this competition.

Ah, yes, Wentastic BBQ. Don’t you know? It’s the jar with my picture on the label, cross-eyed drunk. No? Man, I should talk to the shareholders about this. Well, if there were a press release, it would look like this: “I’ve always had a special knack for public embarrassment. At the same time, I have a lust for cooking. My BBQ sauce stems from the natural desire to fuse both talents into a single, awkward, money-hungry machine.” Thus, Wentastic Enterprises opened its Barbecue Sauce Technologies division.

It felt like success was already ringing my doorbell. What could be more of a no-brainer: Warm Weather + BBQ Grills + Food + Handsome Sidewalk BBQ Sauce Salesman = Early Retirement. A resignation letter to work was typed up and all but inked with my signature.

Turns out, when a thousand people shuffle by your little homemade BBQ sauce stand, about every hundredth person swings in for a free bite. Most are creeped out. If taste testers weren’t a big enough hurdle between me and a sack of cash, the brave free samplers voiced concerns like: “Hey, there’s no ingredient list here,” “Ewww, how many people have touched these samples?” and, “Are you certified to sell food to people?” And most important, “Did you put drugs in this?”

Meanwhile, drug addicted anarchist clowns draw huge crowds and applause, juggling fire in the middle of our intersection, only a few feet from the little jars with my beautiful face on the label. Why, I wonder, are people okay with that but not Wentastic BBQ? What charms do psychopath clowns posses that I don’t? And, if the juggler catches on fire, it could be good publicity to pour a jar of BBQ sauce on her.

While Wentastic BBQ makes its silent debut on the anything-goes street fair circuit, the Clown House is a cottage industry. On previous trips to Last Thursday they were always a highlight. Past events included a mud wrestling match that looked like Barnum and Bailey Circus in need of a bath, but with whiskey and cigarettes mixed in. Last time, a gang of female clowns in pink tutus showcased a BMX ballet bordering between, “Performance Art on Two Wheels,” and “Pornography on Two Wheels.” This insanity used to be free of charge, just for kicks and the joy of being at the right place at the right time. Thus, making all the card table salesmen, like myself, happy for the foot traffic.

But today, of course—Wentastic’s debut—the clowns demand donations. We’re expected to pay when the fire is flying, the eating contest reaches button-popping limits and the surprisingly good white reggae band is thumping on stage.

Tonight, it’s all about capitalism for the anarchist house. Why the change in politics, you ask? Here’s a shocking news flash: communes of twenty-something slacker clowns can’t afford their rent. Apparently, if people don’t donate money and help cover their bills, we may never see worthwhile programming like tonight’s popular skit: My Burning Baby. My Burning Tricycle. My Burning Mustache. It’s all starting to sound less anarchist and more Public Broadcasting Fundraiser.

I can’t help but assume some of these clown donations are filtering dollar bills out of my pocket. These clowns easily raked in more money than Wentastic Enterprises. It couldn’t be hard, really. After only selling a few jars and giving away three, the guy peddling tube socks probably pulled in more cash.

But why?

I think the answer is that greasy bitch economics professors call “credibility.” Turns out, when you’re trying to make as much money as possible at an anarchist street fair, Street Cred is the name of the game. Doesn’t matter if you’re trying to pay the rent or simply feed a pulled pork sandwich habit. Those with credibility rule the street, an aspect the Wentastic Enterprises board of directors ignored.

“Starting today, things are gonna change around this office,” I’m gonna say at the annual Wentastic BBQ shareholders meeting in Aspen. “We’re gonna go bigtime. We’re gonna hit the streets and build a buzz. We’re gonna burrow our way into America’s hearts and flick it behind the ear!” That’s where I pound my fist on the long table with a bunch of old guys shivering. “And we’re gonna start with a classy campaign. Effective immediately, I’m stepping down as the face of this BBQ Sauce.” This is the part where the old men gasp, one of them faints, “I know what the people want, so from now on we’ll have the banjo playing tricycle clown on the labels. Let’s give him a big hand. America loves this guy!”

As you already guessed, stocks begin to soar. Then I retire early.

March 6, 2010

Your safety is everyone's business but your own. In America we are allowed to let our common sense take a nap and have Big Brother do all the hard work.

Before, say, 1970, we were left to fend for ourselves, chain smoking Marlboros because there were ads on television led us to believe they made you thinner. I assume at this time coal mines and steel mills were also presented as health spas.

Of course, somewhere down the line it became known that, yes indeed, ingesting smoke might be harmful to your body. So, of course, after some delay the government decided to do our logical thinking for us and put a warning label on every pack of smokes.

Somewhere around the same time, some pencil-necked accountant in Washington started noticing something strange happening at construction sites. There were a lot more heavy-machinery related accidents near breweries and whiskey distilleries throughout our wonderful land. So finally it comes to light that alcohol impairs your ability to operate machinery. Apparently, most cement truck bloopers and back-hoe mishaps can be avoided if the room isn't spinning while you're behind the controls.

So, of course, our wise friends in DC decide it's high-time we warn our citizens of this phenomenon. Before you knew it, every bottle of booze, can of beer and box of wine was slapped with a highly informative label letting us know the dangers of drinking and doing pretty much anything productive. The common sense part of millions of brains across America breathed a sigh of relief, their lives just got easier.

Flash forward to this morning at my desk. The next logical step in human safety.

It's been a long week and I decided to reward myself with a Payday candy bar. I’m ready for peanuts and nougat and lots of fun. But, when I peel open the wrapper my common sense rattles out of its coma.

In faint red type: Candy is a treat. Please enjoy in moderation.

Huh?

There is no room for subtlety in warning labels. My entire life, a little black and white sticker has told me when I'm about to consume DANGER. There are labels to warn parents that Guns and Roses albums might have questionable content. There are labels warning against sticking my fingers under a lawnmower blade. But what are my friends at Hershey trying to tell me?

Is it possible that eating chocolate and nougat and Carmel and peanuts can impare my ability to run a forklift? Should I not consume Kit-Kats while pregnant? Is crisp rice and chocolate as addictive as nicotine? Will eating half my day's saturated fats in one sugary lump cause obesity?

Black and white label, I wait for your answer.

November 20, 2009

From 2007

             Gold medal gymnast and 80s icon Mary Lou Retton tells a crowd she has to take a piss every minute of the day and it smashes me in the face: The State Fair is the saddest place on earth.

            The State Fair has, for years, been a symbol of all things American. It’s where your state comes together and salutes its flag, rides tilt-a-whirls and judges beauty pageants for teenage girls and Holstein cows alike. On a good day, it’s where everyone learns something new about home and eats something fried. It’s a place where hard-working carnies, in my opinion, the V-8 engine that drives America, hold your life in their scabby hands.

It’s not the place we come to see how American culture is stepping on its own neck. It’s definitely not the place we come to hear a midget with a gold medal talk about her bladder.

            The Oregon State Fair held a lot of promise for me. This state is weird and I assumed this would be some sort of Bizarro State of the Union. Hell, the commercial for the fair involved Donald Duck (The University of Oregon’s mascot), a Sasquatch and Art Alexakis (The blonde dude who sang in 90s alt rock stars Everclear.) cruising down the highway in a convertible. This was a big freak flag and it looked to me like it was flying high over our state capitol, Salem.

            It wasn’t until we were in the parking lot when my wife reminded me that Portland is the only bizarre place in Oregon, the rest of the state is very rural and very redneck. She had a great point, but I didn’t let it slow down my lust for one-eyed carnival workers, pie eating contests and America’s sweetheart, Mary Lou Retton.

            In a one-two punch that seemed like proof to its wackiness, Friday’s big draw was American redneck supreme Ted Nugent and this afternoon offered everyone’s aforementioned favorite gymnastic legend. I assumed Mary Lou would perform some floor routines and maybe even a number on the uneven bars, tell us to stay in school and cartwheel out the door. In the meantime, I planned on having a love-in with our delicious state fish, the salmon, and poke the Ferris wheel operator with a stick to hear him growl about how, “This town ain’t no Sacramento.”

            Man, was I wrong.

            By now, everyone’s heard endless liberal white noise about how capitalism and the American way of life are, well, killing the American way of life. While I agree with a lot of that, I’m not going to preach. I will however sermonize about how capitalism and the American way of life are killing my beloved State Fair.

            Things start off fairly promising as we walk through a maze of old rides clanking and screeching and causing vomit. Further down the path, we’re boxed in by the usual array of shooting/tossing carnival games. But we didn’t come for the rides and games, we are adults now and damn it, we’ve come for things like the bearded lady.

            The first fair-like thing we see is a lonely trailer that claims to have a 13-foot alligator inside. Somehow even the one dollar asking price seems a little much, so we pass. Bigger fish to fry, I tell myself. Next was an elaborate booth provided by the Highway Patrol about crystal meth. While it was meant to scare kids, it more or less gives step-by-step directions how to make it in their basement. Oddly, right next to this, the Highway Patrol offers a game which boils down to, “Guess which dead animal’s fur is which!” I don’t see the connection, which must mean I’ll never cut it as a radar gun jockey.

            Things pick up steam with, “The Great American Spam Championship.” Here a representative from the canned meat king accepts recipes; the winner gets theirs on a can of Spam. While the judging takes place he and his assistant play twenty-questions of Spam. This consists of, “Can anyone tell me how many cans of Spam it would take to equal the weight of the Statue of Liberty?” A man in the front row has the highest guess with one-billion, while I have the lowest at seven. The truth is somewhere around seventy-million. The winner gets a t-shirt.

            We also learn on your thirtieth anniversary working at Spam you don’t get a gold watch, but your likeness carved in gooey pink meat. Wow. “This,” I start to think, “is what America is all about.”  

            I look at the rest of the schedule and see our little gymnastics dynamo is sandwiched between the Home Depot Tool Contest and the Hermiston Watermelon Seed Spitting Championship.

            I start to feel embarrassed. This woman was the first athlete on the front of a Wheaties Box and now she’s second banana to seed-spitters? Where’s the justice?

            To add salt to my rapidly opening wound, she’s here to talk about taking charge of your health. I’m disappointed there will be no pommel horse, but decide it’s probably a good topic since everyone is eating elephant ears and deep fried Snickers bars. Sadly, I didn’t read the fine print under her picture.

            I’m starting to suspect that the wife is right, the Oregon State Fair isn’t a haven for the beaver state’s weirdest. The remainder of the pavilion is filled with the 4-H baking competition, and it’s safe to assume the brownies here aren’t “Special.” There’s a cake decorating contest, some kid’s pocket knife collection (At 77, while impressive, I fail to see how this warrants it’s own booth.), a quilting bee, a dress making contest (I actually get a little hope when one of the entries is made of Duct Tape!) and possibly the world’s most boring exhibit: The Oregon Table Setting Competition. Yep, you guessed it, a contest to see who can put the salad fork in the right place.

            We leave the pavilion kind of wondering why we spent nine dollars each to see this. Though, I now have a new goal in life: to be an official 2007 Oregon State Blueberry Pie Judge.

            The rest of the fair goes nowhere but downhill and in a tilt-a-whirl-type hurry. As the wife describes in another dose of common sense, “The fair is a place you pay to get in so you can pay for more shit.” Everyone is selling stuff, from chickens to dairy cows to cheap t-shirts to farm equipment to gourmet wine. This is starting to look like Oregon’s Largest Swap Meet…with a fried food court.

            If the food court at the State Fair doesn’t make you seasick, I don’t know what will. It’s exactly what I expect: lots of overweight Americans eating things that shouldn’t be fried. “This”, I start to think, “is what America is all about.” I’m always interested to see how far the carnival pushes the culinary envelope every year. Corndogs and elephant ears are old news, they’re your grandma’s fair food. A few years ago stomachs ached across this country when an industrious redneck deep fried a Twinkie and sold it for four dollars. I’m psyched to see what’s new.

            What catches me this year, aside from the Ketchup Udder—a ketchup and mustard dispenser that works like a cow udder, is the MONSTER Fry Brick. For five bucks some dirty carny chef fills an entire deep fry basket full of French fries. By this I mean they pack it full of potatoes until it’s a solid brick. Then they dunk it in scalding oil. What comes out is a giant fried lump the size of a bread loaf.

            The family next to us sat down with one brick. The wife and I quietly eat the only healthy thing available, a chicken skewer with rice (Surprisingly, not fried rice) and a coconut shaved ice. Normally I wouldn’t be embarrassed about this, but at the state fair eating healthy is like admitting you were a communist in the 50s. I assume at any moment the Carny CIA will take us away and force feed me chilidogs. Before we leave, the patriotic family next to us orders another MONSTER Fry Brick.

            After lunch I start to chip away at the carny illusion at the Oregon State Fair. And, if we’re shooting for a sociology project, what’s happening to this country in general. Yes, it’s becoming fat, but America’s also being ruined by efficiency and capitalism. The proof, you ask? Funtastic Traveling Shows.

            I practically have a seizure when I realize all the carny booths are painted the same. None of the workers have facial scars or tattoos or prosthetic limbs. Every ticket taker is well-groomed and clean…and worst of all, wearing uniforms.   

            Now I’m fine with a Starbucks on every corner and TIME/Warner owning pretty much everything else. Every consumable product in America can be traced back to five or six parent corporations. Whatever, that’s fine…at least it was before this mentality crept into my beloved STATE FAIR.

            Funtastic’s slogan, “Quite Possibly…the World’s Finest Carnival,” is their corporate rally cry. It says, “No more independent carnies. No more bearded ladies. No more grizzly, smoking pedophiles behind the controls of the Tilt-A-Whirl.”

            The noble carny is the last pioneer, the last nomad of this quickly shrinking nation. They go from town to town, don’t give a damn about anything and feed your fried foods. They’re heroes, they are what’s great about America. And like every other brilliant aspect of this country, someone figured out how to turn a profit by draining all the character out. Funtastic has its fingers around the carnies’ throats and it’s not afraid to squeeze.

            My mouth is sour from noticing this. These are the same kids that work at the mall, now they encourage you to shoot water at a clown’s mouth. I’m in a horribly sweaty place and only one person can save my day—1984 Women’s Gymnastics All-Around Gold Medallist…you know who. 

            Sadly, the Oregon State Fair, already staggering around like a drunken one-legged carny, comes crashing down back in the pavilion. On the same stage where I dreamed about having my face carved out of salty, canned meat, Ms. Retton stands.

            She’s tiny. I could easily squish her into a French fry basket and make a MONSTER Lou Retton. She still has the growth-stunted voice of an 11-year-old. And she’s not here to stress the importance of an education or how staying away from drugs is cool. In fact, she’s here selling drugs.

            She’s now a representative for corporatized, All-American, pharmaceutical behemoth Pfizer. If Funtastic Traveling Shows sold drugs, it would be called Pfizer.

            Little Mary Lou talks into the mic wearing a business suit, she doesn’t even have the courtesy to slip into a leotard. She never jumps or spins or flips. She just wraps her life story into a well-rehearsed drug commercial. Looks like Mary suffers from an overactive bladder. Her whole life, even when she was whipping Russian ass at the Olympics, she’s had to piss really bad. It caused a lot of anxiety and suffering in her life. But now, thanks to her friends (and sugar daddies) at Pfizer, she is no longer a victim. She’s working on a campaign called, “Life Beyond the Bathroom” and is encouraging people to come out of the water closet to admit that they, too, need to pee.

            Pissed off and sad, Leah and I leave before she’s done. Mary Lou has thrown the last shovelful of dirt on the State Fair’s grave. The annual celebration of Oregon’s awesomeness is ruined.

            We’re paying to spend money.

            And even when we’re not spending money, we’re being sold corporate urine medicine from an American hero. Now I realize the seed spitting contest is sponsored by a watermelon producer. The Spam Championship is a fancy, traveling commercial. Shit, the 13-foot alligator is probably sponsored by Sea World.

            Not even the Tilt-A-Whirl can bring a smile to our faces, especially since the operator’s never seen the business end of a tattoo gun. There is no uncharted corporate territory. “This,” I tell myself, “is what America is all about.”

            But still, staring this evil money machine in the eyes, we have to laugh. Any company that gives away free Post-Its that say “LifeBeyondtheBathroom.com” can’t be all that bad, right?  

September 16, 2009

From July, 2006

There is one kind of polar bear at the bar in Estacada, OR.: the freaking huge kind.

A polar bear at the zoo is usually more than 20 feet away, sleeping and, by my best guess, the size of a St. Bernard. A polar bear in Estacada stands 12 feet tall, a few inches from your nose and is, as previously mentioned, freaking huge.

But this is what we have come for at 11 am, t hat and a stiff Bloody Mary.

Estacada is a dot of town. It's a speck of pepper on the T-Bone steak that is Oregon. It has one gas station, which proudly boasts a restaurant called Taco Time. It is an hour east of Portland and the last sign of humanity before an enormous State Park. Amazingly, it also hosts the Safari Club, without a doubt the most bizarre watering hole in America.

Giving it a style is tough to pinpoint. African-Apocalypse Chic? Frozen Jungle? Embarrassingly American? The Safari Club is where you go when you need a drink, some greasy Chinese food and to sing karaoke under a stuffed cheetah.

I've heard mutterings of this place since I moved to Portland three years ago. Part Animal Kingdom, part dive bar, part totally worth the drive. The Safari Club is where big game hunting marries binge drinking and pops out a baby of Elephant Man proportions.

The story goes that the owner of this tiny bar happened to be the country's foremost safari hunter in the 50s and 60s. Facing the problem most famous hunters encounter, which is, "What to do when your home gets cluttered with stuffed tigers?" this man smacked logic in the face and turned his bar into a taxidermy museum.

It's places like this that give Europeans the impression that all Americans own firearms. And I'm starting to believe it myself.

You are greeted at the entrance by the aforementioned freaking huge polar bear and his smaller cousin, the Alaskan Brown Bear. Both are on their hind legs flashing teeth and claws like switchblades. Both are the size of economy cars. Sadly, both have a bald spot below their stomachs. I guess the penises were removed to make the Safari Club a suitable attraction for Sunday school field trips.

These two beasts are trapped behind glass, in front of them are two hand written pieces of paper taped to the window, "Restaurant" with an arrow to the right and "Bar" with an arrow to the left. These are stuck on the glass so that you can't really read the plaques telling where these two wrecking balls were killed. Almost as if they are just part of the wallpaper scheme.

We are all hungover from a night of camping and near-mainlining of liquor, so this trip is two birds with one stone: see stuffed gazelles and swallow Bloody Marys. We are not disappointed on either front.

A dark hallway leading to the lounge is some sort of backwoods natural history museum. Huge, nightmarish African animals, gorgeous and incredibly dead, lead our way to vodka and tomato juice. Right next to the pool tables, two Bengal tigers wrestle, each a hiccup from tearing the other's throat into a tasty snack.

To their left, a leopard, spotted and sleek and equally dead, sits on plastic rock ready to destroy a daydreaming hyena. A little further down the Tunnel of Taxidermy a stiff gazelle watches over the Oregon Lottery poker machines.

I failed to mention the entire building looks like a grass hut. Or at least it did in 1971 when the Safari opened its door. Estacada has a cute downtown as short as the distance between third base and home plate. The buildings are sturdy brick and classic. The Safari has a thatched roof that was once painted green, but now could best be called grayish. The highest point in Estacada is the faded Safari Club sign that fails to mention a word about the frozen zoo hell inside.

But it doesn't need a sign; it's pretty obvious where all the dead animals hang out in this town.

So past the pool tables is the tiny bar and lounge. Antelope heads are shoulder-to-shoulder on the wall. Behind the bar a massive, fully preserved and fully dead, buffalo's head watches us. It dwarfs the bartender's standard, human-sized skull. It's intimidating to sit across from, especially sipping a Bloody Mary as hangover tingle numbs your limbs.

I drown out my friends' chatter and try and piece this together. Why would a man do this? Why wouldn't he just donate these pieces to a museum? Or to a school? Or to Ted Nugent?

I'm supposed to believe the owner flew to Africa,  risked possible death to kill a tiger, had it sent back to Spokane, Washington to have it stuffed (this info was related to me via weathered plaque next to the brown bear) and then put it in a bar in Estacada? While, yes, this is a great roadside attraction, there has to be an easier way to sell Bloody Marys at 11 am on a Sunday. Was the World's Largest Aluminum Foil Ball already busy?

A dense American pride, perhaps? A message to the youth of Estacada to, "Stay in school, don't do drugs and clean your rifle." Is it some symbol of a bygone era when we, as Americans, assumed we could kick anything's ass? Eskimos may brag about using every single part of a polar bear when they kill it, eating the meat and wearing the fur and whatever you do with the teeth, but did they ever use it to sell Bloody Marys?

All I know is that it is possibly the most brilliant anti-theft device in history. If bank and liquor store proprietors would proudly showcase rhinos they shot and killed, their robbery rates would plummet. I would wager one gazelle pelt that says the Safari Club has never been held up, because the criminal element knows somewhere near the cash register a rifle big enough to kill a tiger is waiting.

Next to the dueling neutered bears, the centerpiece of the bar is the dance floor and stage. The bartender says they have a band once a month and karaoke on the weekends. This makes me incredibly sad as it has always been a dream to poorly sing Huey Lewis' "Power of Love" on a stage with a thatched roof and two pouncing cheetahs with a snarl that says, "I Break for Human Meat," shooting out above me.

We drink the Safari's weak coffee and eyeball-popping Bloody Marys and ask locals where the best place to eat a pizza would be. Meanwhile, the souls of exotic animals float in and out of the room. And I begin to ask myself why men build half the roadside crap in this country. What makes a man carve a maze out of a cornfield or advertise the world's smallest bicycle?

Is this just an American thing? Is there an Indonesian equivalent to the Mystery Spot? For that matter, would Indonesians give a shit if they were here? What makes six American kids roll out of bed with Hiroshima-sized headaches in order to say they've sipped Bloody Marys with 12 stuffed animals?

August 26, 2009

I'm standing in the same spot Bruce Willis and Billy Bob Thorton have, but I'm wearing another man's pants. There's a guy holding a rifle right above my head who claims he could shoot me from a hundred yards away. I'm warned that any moment I could be held hostage by convicted felons and nobody is responsible for my well-being. Welcome to the Oregon State Penitentiary (OSP), the Beaver State's only maximum-security jail.

Not many office field trips require a background check, but this is no normal trip. It also includes a metal detector sweep and, unknown to me, a dress code.

I show up to work ready to tour the biggest set of iron bars in Oregon, ready for a prison riot, ready for inmate catcalls…ready, possibly, to be stabbed with a knife carved from soap.

"Duude," my supervisor says first thing. "Didn't you get the email? What are you wearing?"

My office is really laid back. So relaxed, it's perfectly acceptable for your supervisor to call you, "Dude." Luckily, it’s also the kind of employer that o ffers educational trips to the state penitentiary.

“What?” I say, wearing the same thing I wear everyday: Sweater, jeans and tennis shoes. Now if I slipped into a fish net tank-top I can see where I might get into a jam during our tour of the maximum security jail today.

"The jeans," he says expecting me to get it.

We kind of eye each other, waiting for someone to fill in the enormous gap here.

"You can't wear jeans to a prison," he says.

"Why not?"

"Because the inmates wear jeans, you might get mistaken for a prisoner," he tells me in a, DUHHHH kind-of voice. "Didn't you get the email?"

Obviously not. Luckily, as a law firm, my office provides dress clothes to clients who can't afford them. We have a fully stocked walk-in closet.

I slip on a pair of brown slacks and a recent email from another co-worker whispers into my head. "Wash your hands a lot. I just went to the doctor and was diagnosed with a staph infection on my legs. Even though my legs never touched a client, somehow their bedbugs decided to get into my skin."

Could these be the pants of the staph infection guy, I wonder. Even though the office washes the clothes after they're worn, can you truly disinfect a staph infection? Should I try another pair? What if those are the infected pants? What if they have something worse, like hepatitis? Maybe I'm lucky with a staph infection.

My legs start itching immediately.

The big house, while scarved in barbed wire and a huge concrete wall, doesn't quite look like movies and TV and after-school specials want you to think prison does.

It's canary yellow. Not brick red. Not granite gray. It may as well be molded from Easter Peeps. I'm sure some board of directors sat down and digested a lot of research to find out what color best expresses, "Cheer up, you're only doing twenty-to-life."

The entire place is some skull-crushing mix of pop culture myth and dark reality. Fact and fiction play the old switcharoo, wearing one-another’s pants like a bizarre prison escape plan.

"Welcome to OSP, I have to warn you, there is always a risk of being wounded, taken hostage..." our tour guide, Aaron, says. He's a beefy guy with a mustache. He could juggle three of me he's so big. Aaron warns us of other horrible, Chuck Norris-type scenarios that can happen, but I zone out in fear. I snap back when he goes into, "We do not negotiate with hostage takers. Even if the Governor himself were taken in, we'd treat him the same as if you were."

I find this hard to believe. I check over my shoulder, Oregon Governor Ted Kolungoski is nowhere to be seen. Now I'm worried.

After searching us for guns and knives made of soap the guards lock us behind iron bars. This is where Aaron drops the next payload on us, "We have about twenty-two hundred inmates here. However, we only have about thirty-five guards on duty."

Holy shit, I'm not making it out alive. Thanks to budget cutbacks this place is teetering on the edge of a prison riot and I'm a pasty chunk of meat for them to pass around.

The only thing keeping me from huddling into a sobbing-wet ball on the floor is the security of knowing murderers, rapists, drug addicts and tax evaders are locked up tight and nibbling bread and water as I walk around catching unknown diseases from my itchy pants.

This, like what color prison walls are, is a myth that TV has pulled over my eyes.

We walk through another huge, bright yellow, steel door into the artery of this monster. And I smell the riot on the horizon.

Hundreds of prisoners swarm in and out of doors—unaccompanied by guards—free to stab and strangle at will. But they mostly just stare and scurry along like they're late to Algebra.

None of the guards seem to mind, so I assume this is normal. And sure enough, everyone wears denim: jeans, jean jackets, even jean shirts...it's like a John Denver clothing catalogue, but with lots of tattoos.

Cell Block C is first on our tour. And to my surprise, it actually looks like a prison. Five stories of shoebox cells and thick bars. It's long and holds about a quarter of the inmates. It'd be really depressing too, if every cell wasn't painted a different shade of cutesy pastel.

"Look on the bright side, Inmate #76990, at least you're not in solitary," the colors gently remind prisoners.

Cells are cramped and dark and the inmates are respectfully quiet. Nobody tosses buckets of urine at us. Nobody blows the harmonica. No catcalls.

We exit into a sandpit of denim and glares. Our guide ushers us to the corner and explains that outdoor time in the Yard is over and inmates are heading back to their cells. Everyone, without exception, stares at us. What did this guy do? I wonder. Armed robbery? Kidnapping? Molesting grown men in borrowed corduroy pants?

"I would estimate," Aaron says, unprovoked. "That eighty-percent of the men you see right now are sex offenders."

Even my staph infection gets the creeps.

I've never been undressed with someone's eyes, but I assume inmates are stripping me right now. The pores of my skin cough and wiggle in horror. I get the sudden urge to apologize to every model that ever posed in one of my sister's Cosmo magazines when I was a kid.

Before this morning, I assumed the Yard is nothing more than a weight bench and a mud pit. This too, is a myth. It's actually huge, with five basketball courts, a sand volleyball pit, miniature golf course, a garden, a running track, telephones and even two softball fields.

Apparently, OSP hosts summer tournaments with local softball teams of unincarcerated citizens. Something tells me stealing third is second nature to the OSP Fighting Eagles.

Here are some more myths debunked on my trip.

MYTH—prison food consists of bread, water and loaves of entrails: Lunch today is chicken parmesan and pulled pork for dinner. The cafeteria looks a lot like my high school one, except the prisoners get a Coke fountain. What does that say about public schools?

MYTH—inmates sit on their ass all day and think of new ways to carve knives out of soap: Wrong again—almost all inmates are required to work at one of the three factories on site: the state's third largest laundry facility, a metal shop and a furniture shop. Once, Aaron says, an inmate actually sewed himself into a couch to escape. He didn't get far.

Surprisingly, all the furniture is made for government offices and state colleges (like the prisoner-invented “Indestructible Dorm Chairs”). I take comfort knowing while Governor Kolungoski isn't here to bail me out of a riot, he is probably typing at a desk made by an inmate.

MYTH—there is a magic button, just like in the movies, that opens all the cell doors and frees the prisoners to riot and murder: Still wrong. I specifically ask Aaron and he assures me that would be the worst addition any prison could make. But they do have switches that CLOSE all the doors and other switches to cut the power or the water and other utilities in case of riots.

Wonderful, I think. So while some dude holds me hostage with a soap knife to my throat I won’t even be able to flush the toilet.

MYTH—people get tossed in "The Hole": If there's really a Hole, they hide it well. OSP has certain levels of security for hard to handle guys, but even death row inmates are given 45 minutes of outdoor time a day.

We walk on and stand alongside a huge razor wire fence circling the Yard. Aaron asks if anyone's ever seen the film, Bandits. Because this is the spot where Bruce Willis and Billy Bob Thorton escape from prison in a cement truck.

The Hollywood crew actually set up shop and filmed here because unlike most maximum security Hiltons, OSP still has a mean-ass concrete wall that people imagine when they think of prison, albeit the same color as a rubber ducky.

Aaron and his mustache aren’t just shattering myths, but here are some truths about prison as well.

FACT—it smells bad: Oddly, the entire place, especially the high security areas, smells like onions.

FACT—tower guards shoot to kill: As far as I can tell, yes. Like I said, guards are trained to hit someone a football field away. And to prove they mean business there are strategic pits of sand around the perimeter. This allows sharpshooters to pop off a warning bullet into something other than my stomach. Eerily enough, each one has a smiley face etched into it.

FACT—it's pretty freaking impossible to escape: The old standard "Dig a Tunnel" won't work unless that inmate is part sea lion. OSP purposely dropped its cheerful yellow wall ten feet into the ground, which is about where the water shelf begins. So in order to get under the wall, you also go underwater.

You're also not going to hop in a laundry sack and be smuggled out with the dirty underwear. They figured this one out by using some super-monitor at the gates that detects heartbeats. According to the guide, this thing is so sensitive it can tell if a cat's heart is thumping in the truck. My tax dollars hard at work.

But as anyone who's ever been stabbed by a soapy knife can tell you, prisoners are always thinking of new ways to beat the man. So it's not long until someone figures a way out, I assume.

On to the maximum security bunker.

It's three stories of Oregon's worst criminals and Aaron eagerly shows us around. Inside, it's a state-of-the-art chimpanzee cage. This place is dark and circular and heavily guarded. The cells are bare with Plexiglas covering the bars. Nothing is painted to resemble an Easter egg. This room would split Hannibal Lechter in two.

The biggest myth debunked is at the opposite end of this building.

FACT—the death chamber isn't a dungeon with iron shackles and water dripping from the ceiling. It looks, oddly, like my cubicle at work. Except IT has a window…though to the viewing room.

There's a flimsy partition where executioner sits and on the other side is a hospital bed with lots of leather straps. According to our guide, they inject the condemned with enough poison to kill a horse.

I'm standing close enough to smell the linens on the stretcher. Once again, my scabies get the scabies and I leave.

On my way out, one last myth is proven true.

FACT—the governor can stop an execution: Next to the exit is a little red phone labeled, "Governor". It leads to a little red phone on Kolungoski's OSP-prisoner-made desk. I think about picking it up and asking if he knows what happens if he’s caught in the middle of a prison riot. But I assume I'll get a pastel cell of my own.

Just like everything else in this world portrayed by television and movies, prison is a mixture of fact and fiction and the truth is a lot less romantic than we'd like to think it is. But it’s not the end of the world, remember what the yellow cell tells us, "Life without parole ain't so bad, at least you don't have a soap knife in your back."

July 13, 2009