My Visit to Eugene

“Eugene is a Petri dish, where the Federal Government is the bacteriologist, removing all constraints from the sample population in order to view American anarchy. Kind of like Lord of the Flies with Adults.”

 – Local resident outside the Wandering Goat in Whiteaker neighborhood of Eugene.

Flying into Portland I can’t seem to get Carolina Pi out of my mind  from last week’s visit to  Cairo (Illinois) . If you remember from my last posting Carolina was about to tell me about what happened to Bobby Albright, but in order to do so she had to talk about the epileptic Catholic girl Mary Anne Piano.  Apparently Mary Anne had a fatal seizure where Albright left her, sans undergarments, right there in the linen closet at Manser’s place after the party and when her brother Johnny found out he took it real hard. After the funeral, like a couple days later, Johnny found Albright in the auto repair garage where Bobby worked and starting beating him with a ballpeen hammer that had been laying on a workbench. In defense, Bobby picked up a nearby mason jar containing fluoroantimonic acid, popped the top,  and threw the contents at Johnny, splashing against the left side of his face. At the trial, Bobby pleaded self defense and won, also stating that he didn’t know the nature of the liquid in the mason jar. After Johnny got out of the hospital with the right half of his face intact he kind of flipped out, got into LSD, moved out to California, back to Cairo, and then out west again to Oregon. From what Carolina told me, Johnny eventually ended up in the Shiloh commune in Eugene where I had lived in 1973 but with a strange personality disorder that I'll get into later. I don’t remember anyone with half a face then, but he may have been at the commune before I showed up in October of that year. Maybe he’s still somewhere in Lane County. Wouldn’t that be strange. I should look him up and get his side of the story on what happened to Bobby Albright, Bubba McCue and the others. Carolina’s account just seemed sooooo bizarre. 

Anyway Eugene is like the polar opposite of Cairo, since Cairo is mostly black and Eugene is like ALL white. I mean, like bright glow in the dark white, and about 1.5% black. There’s about 170,000 overall in the city proper and about 360,000 in the Metro Area. But besides the difference in racial fabric there’s the culture thing. Eugene is almost all hippie, like psychedelic hippie. Cairo has NO hippies of any type. There could be a correlation there since the only black hippie I know of is Jimi Hendrix and I haven’t seen or heard about him since my Junior year of High School, and again, Eugene has next to no blacks and the blacks that are there aren’t hippies. I wonder why that is? Maybe it’s because they had already tried the Peace Love thing before and it didn’t work well for them. In any case, you could just say that while Eugene is into self-actualization that Cairo is into self-preservation.  Eugene has a homeless problem and Cairo wishes the homeless wanted to live there.  

I now live in Mount Horeb, near Madison, a place that really tries hard to project itself as a hippie town, complete with hippie thought, as many university towns do, but I’m now traveling to another one that actually IS one. It is currently where my son Jon lives and he is the reason for my visit.  I used to live in Eugene (accent on gene, Eu is subsumed) back in the early seventies and was a member of the Shiloh commune there on 1900 University Avenue where Johnny Piano lived. You know it’s a true purposeful Hippie town because there’s a statue of Eugene’s patron saint, Ken Kesey, right in the middle of the town square, and it’s the home of the Oregon Country Fair (OCF) , which is kind of like Hippie Mecca.  If you haven’t been to THIS fair you can still be a Hippie but it’s like being a Muslim without having been to Mecca. Something missing. I should also add that if you are just an attendee at this fair, you may be a hippie, but you can’t really be in the inner circle and win honorary Richard Alpert type status unless you are a staffer there since only staffers can participate in the OCF AFTER PARTY, which according to some is really the main event. I have never been there in either capacity, so I don’t really know what I’m talking about, but from what I hear the after party is a lot more psychedelic and much more Pranksteresque.  Yes, in Eugene they care more about your PQ than your IQ, or how much you resemble Cathy Casamo or Neal Cassidy.  Actually, forget Neal since he didn’t have really long hair. Actually, none of the male Pranksters did at the start of the acid tests in November of 65, although they grew it out later on, like after the whole Beatle thing. The guys appeared pretty normal from 100 yards. The girls did not. (It’s hard to appear normal when you’re riding naked on the back deck of a multi-colored International Harvester bus named Further on Interstate-10)  Up close there was nothing normal about any of them and that’s probably a good thing since normal people create neither cultures nor sub-cultures. 

**Note The bus was named by Roy Sebern, who first painted the word “Furthur” on the destination placard.  In looking at the video documentary “Magic Trip” the bus name is always “FURTHER” on the placard.  My guess is that Roy simply made a mistake on the initial spelling, someone corrected it by painting over it, but then thought later that Furthur was actually better, and so it changed to Furthur at some point.

Some may disagree about Eugene’s number one status as Hippie Town saying San Francisco, Asheville, Bisbee, Portland, Missoula, or Berea, but whatever,, Eugene is up there on anybody’s list.  Or down there.  Yes,  true hippies still exist but they are pushing 75 now, so some activities needed to tone down, and as they age further, will tone down to nearly nothing. Or actually nothing.  There are new ones too, but somehow they’re different than the old ones. It’s hard to explain, but those who already understand need no further explanation and those who don’t will not be helped by further explanation. It’s just one of those hippie things that mostly only older hippies understand.

I used to love hippie towns, when I mimicked one, although at the time it was kind of a rule that if you really WERE one you would never refer to yourself as such. That would kind of be like a teenage girl in high school saying “I’m in the popular group”. They may know it but they would never say it.

I remember hitchhiking east over I-90 to Missoula, Montana from Marble Mount, Washington in 1973, and was just fascinated with the multi-colored buildings, the dry hills, multi-colored clothing, everyone plays the mandolin,  EVERYONE has really long hair, long dresses for the ladies,  the bra stores were all out of business, lentils and sprouts were in abundance, no old people, no conservatives, everyone thinking properly. Even the Jesus freaks who thought improperly at least LOOKED like they thought properly. I remember talking with an attractive young hippie woman downtown there, and while we’re discussing the pastries at the Black Cat Bake shop, she pops out her left breast and before feeding her infant just leaves it hanging there, nipple exposed to the two o’clock sun. I tried not to stare since that would be so uncool for a true hippie to do, and it would be really uncool if I reached out and touched it, so I just appeared to take it in stride nonchalantly as I attempted to move the conversation to the Black Cat’s crème filled Long Johns;  it was awkward but interesting, and more interesting than awkward. Everything seemed fascinating, and the people were all far-out, had iron-clad logic underpinning their anti-Vietnam War culture, and they were somehow better looking than those in towns that had real people. Hmmm, now they are the norm, at least in the bubble communities. Also, while they hate Trump they are thankful for him since now they have something meaningful to protest. He kind of serves as their rai·son d'ê·tr , as well as a congealing agent.   There is no counter culture without something to counter. At least not a fun one.  While you CAN have a counter culture without hatred, it’s more vibrant with it. It’s like gasoline versus kerosene. Way different, but gasoline is certainly more fun. To them Pence is Kerosene, and Trump is Gasoline. At the core they hate them both, but Trump is quicker and easier, a convenient hate handle so to speak. He also appears to enjoy supplying the handles. Pence doesn’t provide as many, but his essence may be more despicable to them than Trump’s. 

My friend Greg McCue, (Bubba's brother) originally from New Jersey, was with me in Missoula back then in 73 and invited me over to a Catholic church where he knew one of the priests who liked to get high so he asked if I wanted to join him. “Absolutely,” I said, and we went over and smoked opium but I don’t remember any conversation about Catholic stuff, or even Jesus. How far-out was this! I just wanted to stay here the rest of my life thinking that if even the priests do opium, that the rest of the town must truly be off the chart. Unfortunately Greg had to get back to Washington so we headed back west to Marble Mount  to our little commune there with Lucky, Mickey, Me, Greg, and Paul. That was it, just five of us, and yes, just one girl, Mickey, who was married to Lucky, but we were hippies and the marriage thing was deemed to be such an antiquated relic that it did not get the proper respect. In any case, word got out that Mickey had a thing for Greg, which she did, and Greg for Mickey, but he DID respect the marriage thing and never touched her. He also respected Lucky's twelve gauge.  Didn’t matter, the rumor was out and Lucky was unhappy. Never said anything to Greg though. I only heard about his discontent from the others. Lucky suspected me also so I tried by best to avoid the topic altogether. As a wise North Vietnamese Christian once said, "better to let dead dog’s lie, lest you get bit by the fleas."

One crisp September evening that year  Mickey thought it would be ‘far out’ to build a sauna out in the woods using alder branches, blankets, fire, heated rocks and various buckets of water with eucalyptus scents. We first constructed the outer shell of the hut using the alder branches, then placed the blankets on them, forming a type of tepee without the whole in the top. Next we heated the rocks in the fire, and when they were glowing red we rolled them into the center of the hut using big sticks. Removing all our clothes, we sat in a circle around the hot rocks, and poured water on them so that they would steam, thereby creating the sauna. Worked great, except Greg was sitting directly across from Mickey, and they just stared at each other, and it was REAL tough for Greg to not show any ‘emotion’, which was REAL important since Lucky was sitting right there with a birds-eye view of both of them. It should be noted that Mickey was not completely naked since she WAS wearing her wedding ring.  In order to keep his mind off the parts that were not covered with a ring,  Greg had to think of something really unpleasant so he just racked his brains for unpleasant thoughts that could sustain him and keep Lucky's finger where it belonged, which meant anywhere except the trigger of Mr. Twelve Gauge.  Ah, GOT IT. The New Jersey State Championship baseball games of 1971. Perfect. Greg was able to recount that game and keep his mind off Mickey for awhile, week’s later he explained to me what he was thinking as follows…

“Since we were all naked and didn’t want Lucky to know how attracted I was to Mickey I had to think of something totally non-erotic and the best I could think of was the 1971 New Jersey HS Baseball Championship games. Remember, time was of the essence so I had to think quickly.

I was pitching against South River High near Perth Amboy, and I couldn’t be happier. We were up 7 to 0 and I really don’t remember the last time I had this much fun. There is no way they can hit me, and now in the last inning the River Rats (their nickname)  and their douchbag fans have turned from angry pitbulls to despondent cockroaches, whatever that looks like. I’ve already struck out 11, and will strike this one out as well to end the 7^th inning AND the game, allowing no runs. During their angry state they are throwing the ball back to the mound as hard as they can to try to hurt my hand. If I missed on purpose that would excite them further, and they would start calling me a pussy or something. Anyway, I try to catch it in the web of my glove each time, which I was mostly able to do.  I’m surprised coach Hawkins isn’t saying anything, and I think they’re trying to get me thrown out of the game. What they want me to do is throw the ball back into their dugout as hard as I can so the ump will eject me.  Since we are the visitors, I don’t dare complain myself for fear that it will rile up the fans even more as well as the players, and the atmosphere is hopeless enough for them which is keeping them somewhat calm. My curve is working great today, totally faking them out, and so is my drop ball which doubles as my change-up. I aim the curve ball at the back of their head, and then just as they duck, it curves sharply over the plate. Sometimes they try an awkward last minute pathetic swing, and then fall down, looking like an idiot. Most of them time they just let it go for a called third strike, and walk back to the dugout in a huff, looking like a fool.  Even my fastball is rising with a little jitter, so the combination is absolutely killing them. Just when they expect the hanging curve they get the fastball or the slider. I laugh visibly and audibly every time one strikes out which makes them even more furious. Dicky is calling a great game behind the plate, and he’s the only catcher I’m comfortable with. Been throwing to him since I’ve been five years old since he only lives two houses down the street. South River went down easy, but the environment was one of the most hostile. I probably shouldn’t have laughed after the strikeouts.

Now I’m smelling the Eucalyptus really strong, and glance again at Mickey, but no, must keep thinking about baseball. Back to baseball, back to baseball, what next, ah, the Bridgewater game. Perfect. I start thinking again… 

A few days later we’re playing Bridgewater-Raritan East in the state semi-final, and during my warm-ups I can tell that the edge I had at South River is gone. The fastball has no zip. The curve breaks, but nothing fantastic. In fact the curveball is advertising itself to the batter, screaming, “ Here I come, see my spin? I’m a really slow curve ball, and now I’m about to curve right over the plate, right in your wheelhouse, so NOW would be an excellent time to hit me over the center field wall, or whatever wall you prefer.” The fastball was saying something similar. In other words today I’m a little better than a mediocre pitcher for some reason, but worse than that I’m mediocre against in the semi-finals and teams in the semi’s don’t have mediocre hitters. 

This was affirmed when the lead-off batter hit the first pitch to the center field wall, but it was caught for the first out. The center field wall is really far away. Batter two steps up and hits the second pitch of the game OVER the center field wall. Remember, the center field wall is really far away. After that I never got another batter out, they scored five more runs in the top of the first inning at which point they were leading 6-0  and finally Coach Hawkins replaced me with lefty Craig Carlson who quickly retired the next two batters, and only allowed one more run the rest of the game. We lost 7-6. In other words I, solely, all by myself lost the semi-final state game.  People think that a good pitcher is always a good pitcher, with the only exception being when he is injured. Wrong. The other exception is when he doesn’t ‘have it’, and every pitcher knows what ‘IT’ is. Some days you do and some days you don’t. Not a big difference in most disciplines, but since baseball is a game of milliseconds and millimeters, that ‘it’ is huge, the difference between getting 12 strikeouts or allowing 22 hits. All pitchers know this, regardless of the level of play. 

When Hawkins finally pulled me I remember thinking, ‘what took you so long. You could see that I was struggling at 3-0 and certainly at 5-0. I am obviously a different pitcher than against South River and this is just embarrassing as I watch the visitor’s dugout high-fiving each other, but not just normal high-fives, but laughing high-fives, laughing in disbelief that this is easier than batting practice, and they can basically score as many runs as they would like as long as they leave me in. I can hear them mocking me in the dugout, laughing at ME, like demons in the pit of hell. Their fans are joining in the festivities, and they actually LOOK like demons. THIS is what it feels like to be a piñata at a big party where the participants are drunk with glee, as your insides release their contents.’

 Ugh,   Especially painful because a pitcher can’t just pull HIMSELF out of the game, like just walk off the mound and tell the coach that you’re done. I can’t just walk over to Craig Carlson in the dugout, hand him the ball, and say “see what you can do”.  Coach Hawkins has to make the decision, and then have someone else warm-up, and then wait until that person is warm, and this NEVER happens in the first inning. Since there is no protocol for removing a pitcher in the first inning, the coach is stymied. How humiliating for HIM  to have the bullpen active in the first inning with only one out in a State Championship game. In the meantime you just have to try to do better, but the most painful thing is that you are ALREADY doing the best you can, and there IS nothing better IN you.  The best you can do is take a really long time between pitches in order to just limit the damage before your replacement comes in, and HOPE that the coach takes you out as soon as possible. If I were 10 years old I would be crying. Actually, I did cry I think. At 17. People thought it was sweat, at least I hope that’s what they thought. 

Eventually I’m taken out, and now have to sit on the bench with my peers who are battling back, but 6-0 is tough to overcome. The ride home on the bus is hell, and I’m actually told by the other pitcher that I lost the game, as if I didn’t know that. Once I was pulled the coach never said a word to me. Ever. To this day. Thus ended my baseball career, at which point I decided that being a hippie was easier and less stressful. Problem was I wasn’t very good at that either as easy as it was. You really just have to adopt a certain thought pattern, grow your hair out, reject any type of authority, take a few drugs and there you have it. The thought pattern is paramount though.”

Greg’s thought control technique as he explained it to me DID work for about five minutes in the sauna tent, but then Mickey said something about wanting another hit of substance, which took his mind off the baseball games, South River and Bridgewater-Raritan East. He could feel the earlier sensation coming over him, and some unwanted nascent activity, and was afraid that Lucky would eventually perceive this activity. Time was of the essence and for lack of any other thought control mechanisms he decided to ‘accidentally’ kick the WHOLE ENTIRE bucket of Eucalyptus water onto the fire, everyone in the ‘tent’ screamed, and since we would have otherwise died we bolted out the sides of the structure, destroying it in the process, as the temperature spiked north to about 350 Fahrenheit due to the excessive vapor.  They cook pizzas at 550. Greg blamed it on the bad acid but I knew he gave his last hit to Paul earlier, but Lucky didn’t know that, which was all that mattered at this point. We were all infuriated though since we had worked so hard on the alder branches, building the tent, and heating the rocks, but due to the fact that we all wanted to be true peace and love hippies we pretended as if we believed Greg’s story.  Lucky really did believe it. I think Mickey set the whole thing up just to tweak Lucky, whom she really didn’t care for. Marriages can be funny like that, they look fine at a hundred yards but morph when you get a bit closer.   

Anyway, the hippies today are pretty much copies of the hippies of yesterday, with some mutations, and not particularly attractive ones.  Kind of like cloned humans, yes, they’re human, kind of. Of course now they ARE the normal people here in Eugene, both clones and originals. They are similar to university professors in that they are open to everything idealogically, except of course Christianity, and in their defense how COULD they be open to something that is not open to anything else?  Actually they ARE open to Islam which IS fascinating since Islam is against everything that they are for. Anyway, If they gave assent to Jesus then they would have to dissent on everything outside of Him, and there goes the Culture. He would have been better off and certainly more popular if he said that many roads lead to heaven instead of making the narrow statement that the only way to God is through Himself, and that there is no other way. Not very open minded and not very much fun. Harsh.  Narrow. Truth is often both.   We like teachings when they align with our narrative but hate it when they don’t.  The Romans and Jewish leadership had similar sentiments, so they decided to make sure he would never experience His 34^th birthday, but that’s not a major one anyone. They succeeded in that regard but only that. Two millenniums later their Successors continue the battle with major wins in the West but not so much in East. It’s got to be frustrating with communist China and now India accepting the Message as the West rejects it. Jefferson and Madison would be fine with it, but I wonder what John Adams and Hamilton would think. 

The Successors have lost the Second Estate for now, which  is comprised of the three branches of government but it is most likely just a temporary aberration. The Supreme Court is split for now, but if Trump is not assassinated by the Successors, it will swing right, placing all three branches in opposition to them. Actually it will swing right anyway since Pence is further to the right than Trump, albeit masked by decent behavior.  On the other hand the Successors should really count their blessings since they still control the other four Estates which are actually more powerful since they have to do with thought control, which persists well into the future.  These are the Ministries of Media, Social Media,  Entertainment, and Education. (The First Estate of the Church lost power years ago) These last three are actually more important than the Second since the Government only controls the Present and immediate Future, while the others control the foreseeable future, since they shape the minds of the children, which becomes the populace, which will eventually manifest itself in the Second Estate anyway.  Yes, even Jesus said that the eventual ‘winner’ in this world will be the Successors, with the Christians (old First Estate) basically leaving, either through persecution, natural attrition, or rapture. Whatever you believe, the writing is not only on the wall but in the Holy Writings. Christians should actually be excited about the advances of the Successors and so obviously should the Successors but for different reasons. See there’s something in this for everyone.  Still not sure about how China will turn out. Probably like South Korea is my guess.  North Korea will follow if they still exist as a sovereign state, or at all. 

While my Spirit is at odds with the spirits in Eugene I still love it here, probably because the people ARE so open and friendly. It’s one of those places where you could just walk up to a person and say, HI, My name is Bill, (if your name IS Bill) what is your name? Kind of like a five year old… or a weirdo like everyone else here, which is exactly why you can get away with it and which is what makes Eugene Eugene. You can’t do that in Nashville.  At least I don’t think you can. I should try it. I HAVE tried it in Wisconsin with mixed results. 

The weather this week in Eugene is sunny so pretty much every afternoon my son and I go out to the Oakshire for a beer and a snack from one of the snack trailers parked outside. The Oakshire, normally referred to as simply “The Shire”, is in the Whiteaker neighborhood (pronounced Witaker) , which also hosts the Wandering Goat across the street. The Shire, with its large outdoor seating area seems to function as the Central Nervous System of the town, similar to the Grumpy Troll and Sjolinds in Mount Horeb. The seating is family style so you are almost always seated at a table with people you don’t know, except HERE, at THE SHIRE, you WILL have some type of meaningful conversation with them by the time you finish your beverage. Furthermore you will probably LIKE them, and want to have another beverage as an excuse to persist in conversation. 

Today I actually met another Christian at my table, who overheard my conversation with my son, and decided to add her perspective. I told her that I didn’t think that that were ANY Christians in Eugene, and she laughed saying that I was probably right since she was from Corvalis. (You know, the Beavers) I also met this extremely large and intimidating Mr. Natural type guy named Harley, wearing a motorcycle gang jacket, fully tatted face and body, and a three foot Chinese beard. We discussed the finer points of toenail maintenance, WHY you should clip them , and whether you should use the Guillotine type or the scissor type clippers. Harley preferred the Guillotine ones to cut his, while I expounded the benefits of both the lever and scissor varieties. We both agreed that it was important to cut toenails on a semi-weekly basis (twice a week), since both of us like to wear multi-colored socks, which are more expensive than their uni-colored cousins. I showed him my orange socks with the blue skull and crossbones, and he showed me his with the pictures of homeless people on them. When I mentioned that my toenails are easy to cut on digits two through five, he started laughing and said, “Yes, the big toe is the most difficult, developing an extremely hard sedimentary layer, but it’s also the most important since it protrudes the furthest of ALL the digits and tends to pierce the threading at the end of multi-colored socks, which again, are expensive.”  

“Yes!” I replied, and when you KNOW that your big toenail is long, and therefore currently cutting the sock fabric it puts you in a bad mood, making you less friendly, but conversely when your toenails are short your mood is elevated, making you more friendly, and therefore we can assume that due to the fact that we are BOTH pretty friendly guys right now that both of us have fairly trim toenails since we are free from the mental burden of thinking about the deterioration of our respective expensive multi-colored socks. Is that a correct assumption?”

“Exactly, Gavrilo Princip shot Franz Ferdinand because his toenail was puncturing the threading near his left toe, putting him in a bad mood, which is why we have communists today. Let me buy you another beer” he remarked, and after more laughter from both of us and the others at the table who were now listening, he said that when he has a lapse in his toenail maintenance he simply darns the socks himself, which seemed funny for such a big intimidating guy. Here is the site he spoke of…

  http://www.wikihow.com/Darn-a-Sock

 

He proceeded to tell me where I could get the darning eggs, which I didn’t even know existed, and that he belongs to a men’s darning club that meets once a month at The (Wandering) Goat.  I think he may have been kidding but again, this is Eugene where many gender (or other) rules are applied loosely if at all.  I’m now excited that I can fix my multi-colored socks by myself.

As the sun starts to set, and the cool breeze is getting a little too cool, I look around for someone that could be Johhny Piano from Cairo, Mary Anne’s brother mentioned earlier. It’s been a few years but there are relatively few people here in Eugene that only have half a face. I also look over by the rest rooms since according to Carolina, Johnny had developed a few minor personality quirks after the fluoroantimonic acid incident.   

See, after the face incident he had moved out to Petaluma, California to study Noetic Sciences at IONS. There they would experiment on mice as well as human subjects to see what affects staring (with intention) would have on the subject's heart rate, blood pressure, etc, and if it made a difference if the subject knew they were being stared upon or if it were done secretly. Therefore Johnny felt that he could alter the consciousness of any given individual just by staring at them, which is one of the tenets of the Noetic Science. Anyway, when he finished his studies and moved back to Cairo a few years later he was having supper over at Willie Mae’s Wings over in nearby Charleston, Missouri  which had a uni-sex bathroom similar to the Squire here. The unisex bathroom at Willie Mae’s had a tricky push button lock on the handle, one that was hard to tell if you really pushed it in and locked it or not, kind of like the Starbucks bathroom locks today. This one evening Johnny tried to open the restroom door, the door DID open, and sure enough the person inside, the fiftyish female person inside, failed to properly push the button all the way in, and she let out a little tiny scream. Johnny was certainly surprised, said s’cuse me ma’am, like most men would do, but UNLIKE most men he just kept standing there, staring at the poor women seated on the porcelain, as her screams became less tiny. After about eight seconds of staring, and her screaming resonating through the Squire, he shut the door and went back to his table, saying to everyone in general, ”hey, don’t look at me,  she should have locked the door. Maybe she learned her lesson.” That’s messed up, but apparently this staring incident was a relapse due to his Noetic science staring experiments back in the early 70’s. The main reason he got away with it was because he was such a big guy, and if your six and a half feet tall and just north of 300 pounds, people think twice about being confrontational. 

Now eight seconds may not seem like much time, but when a strange man with half a face is staring at you while you’re ‘busy’, it may as well be 3 hours. Anyway, Johnny, who between the trauma of the acidic face, and his Noetic studies, thought it was funny and tried to replicate the scenario in other restaurants or coffee shops that had uni-sex bathrooms, gradually increasing the ‘stare time’ by a second or two each time to see what how many stare seconds he could accumulate.  According to Carolina he’d reached about 23 seconds over there in Paducah before some lady’s boyfriend, a short stocky crazy little spark plug, laid him out cold with the fat end of the pool cue. That seemed to cure Johnny of his ‘disorder’ for awhile, but only for a year or so.  Anyway, due to Johnny’s reputation I figured maybe he never outgrew it, so I was looking over at the Shire’s unisex bathroom when I saw this dude, nearly six and a half feet tall, with black hair, gray beard, and a multicolored long dress on. Could it be? Nope, full face, like most Eugenics, if that’s the correct demonym. Sounds like something out of Brave New World. Hmmm, how appropriate.  Anyway, I love the Hurricane Effect regarding the Albright Beer situation back in 67 and how it continues to impact lives today. Besides the deterioration of Cairo, the Uni-Sex bathrooms nationwide are no longer safe.  Damn Bubba McCue. Damn him. 

Throughout the rest of my time here, I met many others, similar to Harley, like Scotty, Dan, Cory, Ivy, Sprout, Billy, Carolyn, John, the Christian Lady, and others, and was actually able to have entertaining conversations with most of them even though they were complete strangers. Here is the thing.  I don’t LOOK cool. I dress poorly with drab colors. My socks don’t match. I’m bald. I wear glasses.  Basically, I don’t look like a person that a hippie would even WANT to talk to, but for some reason the people in Eugene still engaged me, with warmth and intelligence. I think I could live in the Petri dish. 

The Downtown Dog Ban, the TOMBS (Tweekers On Mountain Bikes), The Saturnia Market, and The Eugene Music Scene…