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Hello,

I'm back. I can hear the train choo-chooing in the distance and all the city and highway noises rolling in like the ocean. I'm about to start a long narrative enty, so you know what that means. That's right; I'm drunk. I use the word narrative when I mean random rambling, because I can only stand so much aliteration.

I decided to visit my friend Will over in SE Portland today. I used to live over there, but I haven't seen him in the seven months since I moved out. Today, I called him up, and he said come on over, I'm gonna cook up some Salmon. So, I grabbed my bike and pedaled five miles over to his place. I didn't think about my route before I left, I just pointed myself in the right direction, and took the most direct path. This was onto the highway, and over the Ross Island Bridge. Once I got there I realized that there's no bike lane on the ross Island Bridge, so I stopped on the side of the road until I could run across to the other side where there was a sidewalk. I detect a why did the chicken cross the road joke here, but I'm going to resist telling it.

You never see a lot of foot traffic on this bridge; that's because it's fucking scary! The whole way up I moved as slow as possible, trying not to peer to the left into the rancid river below where boats skipping around looked like mosquitos in a puddle.

The Interstate bridge next to me is known as the suicide bridge, but isn't any taller than this one. You might say that it's called that because it's closer to the city than this one, and if somebody is walking along the interstate bridge across the river, they're probably only there to kill themselves. But, I would disagree. I think the only reason that the Ross Island Bridge is not know as the suicide bridge is because it's too fucking scary to jump off of. If I was thinking that I wanted to die, and then I looked over the side of this thing, I wouldn't be able to do it. The site of this skinny stretch of road suspended so many hundreds of feet above the water is more terrifying than anything that has ever happened to me. I'm not usually afraid of heights, but I try to stay as far from the side of this bridge as possible. A simple gust of wind could push me right over the knee-high railing into the Willamette.

Enough about bridges. When I got there, Everything was very much the same. Rob wasn't happy to see me. I just looked at him and laughed. He ducked his tail between his fat, aging legs and left the room. Will and I went to his space in the basement and hung out among his bookshelves. His room is a small library. Everywhere you look is another section: history, literature, philosophy, science, geography, botany, and on and on. He has so many books, you barely notice that there's a bed. When we hang out, the itinerary is as follows:

Drink.

Philosophize.

Drink.

Philosophize.

Drink.

Current events.

You want some weed? Oh why thank you.

Hmmm. Computers sure are weird.

Then we ate fresh Salmon. I love Salmon. If you don't live in an area where you can get fresh Salmon, you are wasting your life. After that, we listened to Bo Diddley, and after we started feeling that easy blues mojo, we busted out a jam. I played what I described as a blues-slappity-slap-pop-funk bassline, and I loved it. After all things were done, and everything that was done was over with, and I became sick of writing real sentences, I headed back home. This time toward Hawthorne Bridge. I covered most of the five miles back to the river by only passing through a couple stoplights, because I needed to keep my drunk ass away from cops and dangerous vehicles. Once I was back downtown, I walked my bike up the hill to my place, and had nothing better to do than write this useless bunch of words.