Stan- “BU I WAnna Go OVER ThERE to see the.. I THINK That.. I Have YOU SEEN THe THIng oveR There? Is GREAT!- Wait, wheressS My candy? I CANt FINd my canDY.. I dONt know, … Where are wE?…”
Captain Dave- “Shhhh little buddy.. Everything’s gonna be ok.”
Stevil came to Portland and he, Cheever, and myself proceeded to wage thermonuclear war on our livers, by way of backyard fires, bike rides, and something called “Circulus”.
The Circulus is a curious thing housed in PDW‘s space in NE Portland. A circular wooden velodrome at an insane pitch ridden by folks on BMX bikes. It were a fine event and yinz shoulda been there if’n you wasn’t. Lots of crashing, lots of hilarity. As the beers flowed, the gaps in racing lengthened, the crashes more frequent. A wheel was bent. A gal hit her head. Then, all three of us managed to get yelled at by almost everyone in the place, especially Stan Beaver, who drew the ire of many folks. But, that’s par for the course. As I’ve cited numerous times before, when Stan Beaver is in full effect, it’s where Kung Fu and Autism meet. A silly sight for a silly night.
There was something on the order of 8,000 cans of beer consumed, and Sunday morning found Evil HQ’s littered with bodies in all rooms. The morning hangover ride to the Nite Hawk was our only choice, where bloody mary’s and cans of Hamm’s helped soften the blow of the collective hangover, which, given it’s size, could have anaesthetised the entire population of Guam.
That was a fun weekend, and now it’ll take the better part of this entire week to recover. May as well go ride ze bike and sweat the funkiest sweat in the world.
That will be all.
Thank you for your time and consideration on this matter.
There must be some really good porn on, or his hand is stuck in Cheever’s zipper again.
Whatever the case, there is a bicycle related throwdown in Portlandia this coming weekend, where there will be o’plenty of fit boys and girls in stretchy pants riding around in circles and squares.
Sign up, play your cards right and you might walk away with some loot and bragging rights. If racing’s not your bag, bring the family and a picnic. With any luck you’ll meet some tramp or man-whore and get laid behind a dumpster.
