WEIRD, WILD TIMES IN NORTHEAST PORTLAND... FURIOUS GEORGE BOTTOMS OUT?

Its weird, wild times in Northeast Portland; strange days indeed. The Georges dropped four out of five for the second week in a row, this time to the lowly American Legion. It was a bad scene, something out of an old Greek tragedy from the start. Bam Bam, Creepy and Veto all lost to opponents whom they should have beat, and all in embarrassing fashion. The only debate is over who pissed it away worse.

"What is it in the air tonight," asked one portly little journalist, and to no one in particular. "Its as if the life has suddenly been sucked from the belly of the great beast."

Mixa was flat out robbed. Her opponent double hit the cue ball in game one, then proceed to pocket the eight ball and celebrate as if all was right with the world. When asked if she comitted the foul, the con-woman replied, "I don't think so." Oh really, you don't think so? Puh-lease! Mixa fought back honorably, but could not overcome the foul stench of dishonesty that came in from the rain and smeared to the walls like sweat. It dripped from the ceilings, clung to her clothes, stuck in her hair; it burned her eyes like pepper spray! Oh dear God, she must have thought, WHAT JUST HAPPENED?

"Who would have ever thought we need instant replay in our own bar?" bemoaned one keen observer.


Willie was the lone beacon of hope for the Georges, a true shining light in an otherwise dark and stormy sea. Then again, who would expect anything less from Black Beard? Stormy seas are his muse. He played with confidence and command and won impressively, 3-1. If not for him, well, God only knows how ugly things could have gotten on this night. Anxiety and tension hung in the air like dust bunnies, floating erratically in the fog of cigarette smoke. "Clearly, something is not right here," cried one paying fan, who stubbornly ripped up his ticket stub and demanded his money back. A brief scuffle broke out as he engaged the event promoters with pointed words and flailing arms.

"Oh, where have you gone Joe DiMaggio?" pondered one witness. "He's dead," someone else sighed.

Has Furious George bottomed out? If so, then there is surely only one way to go from here: Up. If not, then hold on because the ride could get bumpy. Who knows, these are bewildering, heartbreaking times. For those who may have doubted it, the old weird America is still alive and well, brewing just beneath the surface in places like Binks on Alberta; The MouseTrap on Lombard; places like my street corner and living room, and yours. While no one can quite put their finger on the mystery of the old ghost, perhaps the words of a lost song can best sum up the feelings of this dejected fan, beat-writer, small time gun runner, and weekend bookie:

Grow old, I'm told

Things will come around you'll see

But I think I'll hedge my bets

Against my memory

These are the strangest days

Strange days indeed

Hunker down and stay dry friends.

All the best,

RJ Pinkerton