Thursday, February 12, 2009



I had a ton of this typed and then Blogger just lost it. So now I am pissed and don't really want to re-write this shit. Motherfucker.

Here's what this piece of fucking shit saved...

I bailed on Long Beach last Saturday. It's now Thursday. I think.

Before I get into it, let me begin by saying how angry I am at myself for forgetting my nail clippers. I need to get some asap because I can't stand long fingernails.

Now on to the trip so far.

I left home around 1 p.m. Saturday and worried the weather would make it a long trek to Portland. Light rain from Dodger Stadium to Santa Clarita. After that, it was smooth sailing for the entire drive.

For the first time in all my travels north, I stopped in Weed, California. And yes, the people of Weed get the joke. All their souvenir stuff said things like, "I'm High on Weed" and then in real tiny letters, it would say "California." They had shirts, hats, shot glasses, the whole nine. I looked into getting something, but it was expensive and I'm broke.

The drive through California was really great. Apparently, people don't drive to cold weather states in February during a recession because the highways were almost 100 percent clear. I got all the way to Roseburg, Oregon, and could have made it all the way, but that would have meant rolling in around 4 a.m. I wasn't going to wake up friends for that, so I crashed. I got to my Motel 6 room (which had an elevator --I'd never seen that in a Motel 6 before), brushed my teeth and passed out.

The supposed two-hour drive from Roseburg to Portland was an absolute nightmare. Two lane roads. Sunday. Families. (HERE'S MY NEW VERSION OF SHIT I JUST WROTE. FUCK YOU BLOGGER. I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU DID, BUT I'M PISSED.) Truckers. People who don't understand the rules of the two-lane road (drive on the right, pass on the left) drive (no pun intended) me nuts. Three hours later and I was ready for a beer.

Luckily my cousin was there to help with the drinks. We hit an Irish pub in the Southwest and asked them to put on the Lakers game. Since this wasn't LA, they gave us funny looks and kept asking, "isn't the game on at 3?" We had to explain that we wanted the LAKERS, not the BLAZERS. This is something I will have to get used to once I move. The Lakers whooped on the Cavs and I had two Hefs. Feeling fine.

We bailed on the Irish pub and in passing I mentioned the my cousin how I'd never been to Mary's, Portland's oldest strip club. So of course, we went. It was about 2 p.m. when we got there. Two girls took turns while some dude who more than likely had a mental disability was yelling things and biting into an empty Mountain Dew bottle. We got some drinks and I noticed that tittie bars in Oregon are different than California. For starters, they don't do that whole "dance with my clothes on for one song" routine. They just get right to the main event. Secondly, the main event is really THE MAIN EVENT. Booze and full nude. Now, I love women, but I don't need to see the bottom unless it's me and her and a bedroom. Or the backseat. Or a bathroom. You get the point. The other crazy thing was these women were their own DJs and had to change songs in their birthday suits. Kinda embarrassing for them and kinda hilarious for us.

Then we hit a spot called the Olympian. Cool biker bar with the Pro Bowl on. The joint was about 50 yards from my hotel and the next thing I knew, I was wayyyyy-sted on a Sunday afternoon. My cousin walked me back to my room. I walked in through the front entrance and stumbled to the desk, where I asked the very Portland-esque girl (ie wrist tattoo, plug earrings, short dyed hair) where the jacuzzi was. She looked at me strange and said, "we don't have a jacuzzi." Not knowing what to say and feeling super bummed about not taking a dip, I just walked away with my tail between my legs.

The next thing I knew, it was 10 p.m. I passed out with my shoes on and when I woke up, I thought it was morning. I was wrong. Somewhere between drunk and hungover, there was no way I was leaving my room. So, for the first time in my life, I ordered room service. The veggie burger was $16. The $3.50 tip was added. So was the $2.50 delivery fee. Grand total for two slices of bun, a veggie patty, tomato and lettuce with a side of fries and ketchup: $22. The burger was good, but not $22 good. The next morning, when the hangover had pretty much gone away, I wondered how in the world a hotel could charge a delivery fee. I'm new to the whole room service thing, but isn't that what room service is? A delivery?

Thanks to Blogger losing my shit, I'm going to stop here. I need to take a nap. But don't worry. You don't want to miss my re-telling of the time I went by myself to the vegan strip club and how I think a certain employee was hitting on me.

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