Thursday, 25 December 1997 – Portland, OR

Sunday Project – for Seafood – “The Christmas Story”

Christmas Day in the Multnomah Hotel, the lower-level reception room where there is breakfast for the guests. I’m a guest, I guess… at least it’s not Sunday, but then it is Christmas Day, which only comes one a week. Once upon a time it was the most special day of them all, Sunday. Everything was closed, yet everyone had to work anyway, the busses weren’t running, and our cars wouldn’t start. We had to walk, in the cold, unplowed streets, miles and miles and miles to the factory, and glue together those soccer balls.

You’re either a guest, or you’re a host. Typically, there’s a reciprocal thing going on. But in this unique situation, I’ve managed to become both the guest and the host, thanks to Mr. Ray Wheat, who left his credit card in the room that I rented, so easy to find. In fact, he must have wanted me to find it, or he would have at least put it under a loose floorboard or something. So there you are. Wheat, on Christmas Day, for being my host, and also allowing me to be the host—no, wait—I’m not a host. I’m only a guest. A host is—fuck that—you don’t want to be a host. You might get a couple dollars, but no, don’t be a host!