We all know what they say about assumptions

I will apologize in advance for the lack of photos. This past week hasn't been too photogenic. The weather here in Portland has proved to be fitting for the title of this blog. Actually. . .drizzle isn't what i would use to describe the recent precipitation levels. I don't know if what happens out here on the frontier makes its way to any national news channels but there has been some pretty crazy flooding going on along the Oregon and Washington coast. I don't know about our neighbors to the south (for those who failed US geography, including me [but what didn't i fail?], that's California) because it seems no body here really cares about them.

The Oregonians i have met, minus spandex clad, biking, feminine hygiene products like my friend from a former post, are pretty friendly people. Almost too friendly at times. I am surprised by their reactions when i tell my soon to be fellow Oregonians (they say you have to live here for 7 years to be considered one) that i grew up on the east coast. I am even more surprised when i tell them i hail from Death Star otherwise known as Washington, DC (metro area). People seem to be very accepting of my "roots" and usually respond with, "I've never been to the east coast and honestly don't have any interest." Coming from an Oregonian i don't take it as an insult. They typically follow that comment with what brought you out here. My standard response is, "Washington DC." We both just smile and nod.

What i find more interesting that when someone says they are from California there is no response, dead silence, sometimes followed by a bitter beer face. I think to myself, "Wow! I'm cooler than a fellow west coaster." It seems Oregonians view California and it's recent transplants as just a burden on the "live free for free" mentality (i made that up but it seems fitting for the current posting). I think some of that is due to the fact that Californians sell their 1 bedroom beachfront condos for $1/2 million and move to Portland and buy up all the shiny Pearl condos with a few hundred thou to spare on Hummers and Beamers. Not exactly what i would call the Oregonian way. Buy who am i to say anything, i'm from the east coast and live with a Canadian.

Let's dive a little further into my east coast, near country boy naivety for a bit. I'm sure at one point in my life some crabby teacher from the LC public school system told me, "you know what happens when people make assumptions?" My reply probably went something like this, "Hunh?" I won't insult anybodies intelligence by finishing that statement. But what i will do is prove the that crabby bitch right.

Last night i was out having pizza at the famed Apizza Scholls with my friend Christina (a fellow east coaster). We both had a few winter brews (Willy, remember those? I know you miss them.) and a couple of slices of white truffle oil pizza (get over it! it's damn good). When we left the joint we came away with four slices to split. Being an advocate for those willing to "live free for free," i passed a gentlemen i ass-u-me-d was subscriber to such philosophy. The dude had a beard that put Saint Nick's to shame (black though), a flannel shirt that would have made Curt Cobain's look like a tuxedo shirt, and a wool blanket bundled and tossed over his shoulder. I called out to my soon to be fellow Oregonian, "Hey brother. . .you hungry." This isn't the first time i have offered my leftovers to a puddle maker. There was something different about this guy though. He took a few steps and realized i was talking to him. He replied with a grunt and turned back my way. He asked me what flavor the pizza was and i kindly informed him it was white truffle oil pizza (classy shit). He takes the aluminum foil wrapped slices from me and continues on his way. No thank you, not even another grunt in recognition of my kind deed (not that i was looking for it).

On the way back to the truck Christina asked me why i gave my food to him. I told her i was in the habit of giving food to those in greater need than myself (i'm such a saint). Thinking no kind deed goes unpunished, i was taken back when she starts laughing at me. "He was on his way to the laundromat, you must have looked like such an ass to that guy. No wonder he seemed so confused."

Laundromat? What? Homeless people don't go to the laundromat. They beg for food why the hell would they wash their clothes, especially in a city that spends four months under a constant shower head. Now, i know i should never apply logic to the homeless but come on!

Christina proceeded to tell me that she didn't think he was homeless and that just because someone wears flannel and doesn't shave, it doesn't mean that they are homeless. Looking back on it, his beard wasn't too wild, i couldn't smell him, he actually looked dry, and his shirt was probably eddie bauer. Not to mention there was laundromat just a few doors down from the pizza joint. You know what they say about assumptions. That damn assumption didn't only make an ass of me (something i'm very used to) but it cost me two slices of white truffle oil pizza from the highly acclaimed Apizza Scholls. Son of a Bitch!

After my last phone call with brother he called back and requested another "bum" special (pre-blog). Believe it or not, this is total coincidence. I don't think it will make "puddles in the summertime" notoriety but the legend will live on in my heart of hearts. That's the last time i give my pizza to a well groomed man in a LL Bean flannel. Damn pseudo-hippies.

Well i'm off to scan craigslist for some bomber skis for Brody. The snow's a fallin' and Brody is itchin' to shred. I'm in the need of something that's durable enough to tear it up O.B. style but still afford me the rigidity to grind some steel. Peace and almost homeless, bearded hippie grease.