Give a man a waffle, he eats for a day. Teach a man to sketch abstract caricatures and compose obscure poetry, and he eats for life. Or, at least, until the end of the tourist season.
I just got back from Southern Oregon. Ashland, to be exact. Gorgeous town in the Rogue Valley sheltered by the Cascade Mountains and just about fifteen miles from the California border. I headed up with barely enough gas money for a return trip, but, as usual, I was operating with a cross-that-bridge-when-Im-already-ankle-deep-in-rushing-water mentality. I love my job dont get me wrong but theres a four-week period every year when I dont see a paycheck. The Bizarro Me would undoubtedly have dutifully prepared for the financial drought, but that guy is also devoid of wit and charm and has lame superpowers. Im happy to be me.
Anyway back to Ashland. The towns claim to fame is an almost seventy year-old Shakespearean festival that has grown, over the decades, into one of the most impressive and well-attended repertory companies in the world. Ranks right up there with London, Tokyo, and Stratford, Ontario. I shit you not.
So the town literally quadruples in size during the festival season, meaning there are now basically four types of people predominating in Ashland. In addition to the tourists, you have the retirees, the folks associated with Southern Oregon University, and the young vagabond nouveau-hippies playing hackysack and asking for spare change on Main Street. Basically like the kids on Haight except without the benefit of patchouli to cover up b.o. and wet-dog smell.
My unemployed and broke-as-hell ass was meandering through town Tuesday when I was asked for change by a group of three kids sitting on the ground in front of a park bench.
Sorry. Ive got less cash on me than you. And that was the truth.
Sokay amigo. We just really want some waffles.
Waffles? I fucking love waffles! And thats the truth too. See my into box. Thats not just there to make me look like a gourmand. I mean it. If I was into chocolate Id be honor-bound to spend at least a month in Belgium on account of their other two claims to fame: waffles and Stella Artois.
So that was enough of a conversation starter to eventually talk about their panhandling technique. I offered my two cents: I give money, food, or time to people down on their luck. But I like to get something in return. Its the reason I have a growing collection of bum signs and enough Street Sheets to catch all the pigeon shit on Clement Street.
And especially if its a lifestyle choice no handouts from me.
Josh and Nicole had hitchhiked down from Grants Pass a week earlier to crash in Bryces dorm room. Hes an SOU student on summer break who, although not currently taking any classes, was apparently never asked to vacate Cedar Hall. He wasnt billed for June either. Oregonians seem somewhat relaxed on the whole bookkeeping thing.
The four of us had, collectively, enough money for a white chocolate mocha (Ashland also has two Starbucks) and we now all wanted waffles. Ideas?
Bryce had a guitar, but that wasnt going to get them anywhere. I mentioned that, years ago, I bought right there in Ashland no less a poem scrawled in felt pen on the back of a paper Red Robin placemat. The poem was incoherent and mostly illegible, but the guy who wrote it was sincere and was only asking for a buck. At that, Nicole reached into her canvas bag and produced several dozen grubby, stubby oil pastels. The four of us pitched in on two sketch pads and went into business.
I spent the next two hours in the park drawing, along with Nicole, babies in strollers, puppies on leashes, space aliens, dragons, and anything else that came to mind or was requested. I wrote haikus that were only slightly better than the ones I wrote in sixth grade. Bryce played his guitar; Josh drummed up business. Before we knew what had happened, we had close to thirty bucks and were headed for waffles. [Off The Grid on A Street highly recommended.]
Im supposed to meet the three of them exactly one year from now in Lithia Park. Or, if they ever make it down to San Francisco, theyre going to look me up. If that happens, check the SFWeekly for the following haiku. Then head down to the Conservatory for a personalized oil pastel. On me.
waffle says to me
with blueberries I can be
close to perfection.
Write me a haiku.
I just got back from Southern Oregon. Ashland, to be exact. Gorgeous town in the Rogue Valley sheltered by the Cascade Mountains and just about fifteen miles from the California border. I headed up with barely enough gas money for a return trip, but, as usual, I was operating with a cross-that-bridge-when-Im-already-ankle-deep-in-rushing-water mentality. I love my job dont get me wrong but theres a four-week period every year when I dont see a paycheck. The Bizarro Me would undoubtedly have dutifully prepared for the financial drought, but that guy is also devoid of wit and charm and has lame superpowers. Im happy to be me.
Anyway back to Ashland. The towns claim to fame is an almost seventy year-old Shakespearean festival that has grown, over the decades, into one of the most impressive and well-attended repertory companies in the world. Ranks right up there with London, Tokyo, and Stratford, Ontario. I shit you not.
So the town literally quadruples in size during the festival season, meaning there are now basically four types of people predominating in Ashland. In addition to the tourists, you have the retirees, the folks associated with Southern Oregon University, and the young vagabond nouveau-hippies playing hackysack and asking for spare change on Main Street. Basically like the kids on Haight except without the benefit of patchouli to cover up b.o. and wet-dog smell.
My unemployed and broke-as-hell ass was meandering through town Tuesday when I was asked for change by a group of three kids sitting on the ground in front of a park bench.
Sorry. Ive got less cash on me than you. And that was the truth.
Sokay amigo. We just really want some waffles.
Waffles? I fucking love waffles! And thats the truth too. See my into box. Thats not just there to make me look like a gourmand. I mean it. If I was into chocolate Id be honor-bound to spend at least a month in Belgium on account of their other two claims to fame: waffles and Stella Artois.
So that was enough of a conversation starter to eventually talk about their panhandling technique. I offered my two cents: I give money, food, or time to people down on their luck. But I like to get something in return. Its the reason I have a growing collection of bum signs and enough Street Sheets to catch all the pigeon shit on Clement Street.
And especially if its a lifestyle choice no handouts from me.
Josh and Nicole had hitchhiked down from Grants Pass a week earlier to crash in Bryces dorm room. Hes an SOU student on summer break who, although not currently taking any classes, was apparently never asked to vacate Cedar Hall. He wasnt billed for June either. Oregonians seem somewhat relaxed on the whole bookkeeping thing.
The four of us had, collectively, enough money for a white chocolate mocha (Ashland also has two Starbucks) and we now all wanted waffles. Ideas?
Bryce had a guitar, but that wasnt going to get them anywhere. I mentioned that, years ago, I bought right there in Ashland no less a poem scrawled in felt pen on the back of a paper Red Robin placemat. The poem was incoherent and mostly illegible, but the guy who wrote it was sincere and was only asking for a buck. At that, Nicole reached into her canvas bag and produced several dozen grubby, stubby oil pastels. The four of us pitched in on two sketch pads and went into business.
I spent the next two hours in the park drawing, along with Nicole, babies in strollers, puppies on leashes, space aliens, dragons, and anything else that came to mind or was requested. I wrote haikus that were only slightly better than the ones I wrote in sixth grade. Bryce played his guitar; Josh drummed up business. Before we knew what had happened, we had close to thirty bucks and were headed for waffles. [Off The Grid on A Street highly recommended.]
Im supposed to meet the three of them exactly one year from now in Lithia Park. Or, if they ever make it down to San Francisco, theyre going to look me up. If that happens, check the SFWeekly for the following haiku. Then head down to the Conservatory for a personalized oil pastel. On me.
waffle says to me
with blueberries I can be
close to perfection.
Write me a haiku.
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
another cool heart i came across tonight. metallic silver design. right across from union square @ macys. i must go back... i had my camera with me....but i was on a mission to find the perfect jeans b/4 closing....
~cheers