Wednesday 18 March 1998

(National Pseudo-Irish Hangover Day)

What a load of shit, everything. I’m depressed now, so whatever sorry bullshit I’ve written prior to this is, it doesn’t count. I’m at the Sandwich Experience, a place that is frequented by cops. They have breakfast—so I thought I’d drop in. The coffee is self-serve, and you can see your car in the parking lot from where you sit and smoke—this explains its appeal to cops. There’s a complete disregard for any decent aesthetic quality, anything diner-like, etc.—but I guess it’s a certain type of establishment that is unique in everything that it isn’t. It’s cafeteria-style—no counters or booths, just tables, and really pathetic attempts at prettification. The cancer ward is sitting near me, four women sucking down cigarettes like it’s the last day it’s allowed—the oldest of them with an old man’s smoker’s voice. They’re all overweight, don’t smile, and are talking about sick and dying people. Probably nurses. Probably work together at a nursing home or hospital, night shift, and are all having breakfast together after work, discussing their depressing job.

The most disturbing thing about Portland is that there never seems to be any crossover between the different cultures—the yuppies all go to the yuppie places, and the rednecks go to the redneck places, and the “alternative” people go to the alternative places—each place is totally predictable, and there aren’t any places where everyone goes—that I’ve found, anyway. There probably is somewhere. But generally, in Portland, there is the lack of subtlety, sophistication, and complexity that there is to a great degree in somewhere like Ohio—and certainly New York City. But maybe it’s not Portland—maybe it’s the times. After all, I came here from Iowa City, which is a place certainly lacking in many ways, but is full of crossover, because it’s so small and thus you have the rednecks and the PhDs rubbing elbows everywhere you go.

I really love Portland, but sometimes the whole West Coast thing gets me down. The newness, lack of old roads and small Ohio-like towns—and the lack of diners and history. I mean, relative to the East. The whole USA lacks history compared to the rest of the world. I’m just depressed today. A woman was out running as I walked here—and her beating the concrete with her running shoes just depressed me and made me think, “What could be worse?”

Smoking seemed much more attractive until I came here. I don’t know. I’m paranoically worried about being fired from my job. I won’t discuss the reasons, the clues, the history—unless I do get fired, because then I’ll be right. If I’m not, it’ll just be paranoia. Or employer terrorism—which there is—but I don't know, you can’t blame them. What do they have to motivate people with, really, besides fear? It’s not like anyone’s doing that job because they want to. I’ve got to take some kind of desperate measures soon to not succumb to depression

(*Also, include, below, the next day’s non-post…)

Thursday 19 March 1998

I’m at the Hollywood Burger Bar for breakfast—it’s just so nice out, I had to get out somewhere. Unfortunately there’s no—no—I don't know what, because it’s now, today…