East Bay Babylon
The FreeSlave is wintering in Oakland, CA, my children. I’ve been suffering a melanin deficiency these last 14 months. One week in Dark Country and I have met black people and white for that matter, with a sophistication, sensitivity and awareness that shames the Portland populace. Portlandians have this great hubris borne of complete isolation from reality and oxygen; the hubris is rooted in the illusion of uniqueness that so many carry there. We’re Sooooooo sPecIaL cuz we’re soOOO hip, so fucking cutting edge. The blade is shockingly, terminally dull, but no matter.
The postmodern bars and coffee shops along Mississippi, Alberta, Hawthorne and Burnside delude the little buggers into thinking they sit atop some interstellar throne of consciousness, high above mere earthlings. A passion play, costumed dramas, no Merchant-Ivory productions these, more like Grateful Near-Dead-Ness on hallucinogens. Its Aquaboogie, baby, these folks can’t swim or dance, can’t see, can’t hear. But don’t interrupt their cockeyed musings and inept shoelace tied shuffle steps with a mirror of reason. Their delusion is purchased with their Wild Oats coffee mugs, the anti-Bush bumper sticker dashed across it at a studied angle.
Style trumps substance, tattoos trump reflection, fear trumps all other considerations. East Bay Babylon….