I roll my pant legs up. My legs are pasty white, long dark hairs, but well-toned. Middle of July, feeling good to be back in Portland. The sky I’m sitting under, on the front porch, is crispy and hot and deliberate: the sun is trying to destroy me, cosmic population control. I am in love with that same diabolical sun.
Before, I was in Carol’s car, driving home up 15th, laughing to myself about Norman Fuckin’ Rockwell, watching all of the well-adjusted white folk: some looking cute on their bikes, some of them training in earnest for their would-be marathons and half-marathons, an array of colorful others walking slowly– looking up, smiles full of gratitude.
This is a beautiful day, and I’m thinking it’s going to be a beautiful night. It’s the start of PDX POP NOW! Always a good time, right? Whatever, I’m stoked. We’ll see what happens. For now, however, I have a few hours and a painfully empty belly to kill. Problem is, just a little while ago, I stopped by a friend’s house to buy a bag of weed. So now I’m way too stoney to be walking around in the middle of the day, trying to cop a chimichanga somewhere. Oh shit… Lonesome’s Pizza is on my speed-dial.
Think about this: Bacon, crispy sliced potatoes, walnuts, ricotta, mozzarella, and a healthy dose of fresh rosemary… on a fucking pizza. I am a stupid New York pizza snob, and I generally whine and moan about the pizza here in Portland. This one particular pie, the one I just described, from Lonesome’s… to me, it is a bit of heaven on earth. If they made one big enough, I would lay down and sleep naked on this pizza. Yep. I would do that. I’ve got to admit, if it were with the right woman, I would probably make sweet love on top of (or wrapped up like a sleeping bag in) this particular pizza. Then there could be a party, where everyone gets together and eats the sinned-in pizza afterwards, grinning and chortling and stuffing their faces. The guy on the phone says my food will be here in an hour. Can’t wait.