CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY . . . a serious person Decisions. Some of this junk must be tossed out. Keepers must go and the kept will stay. We shall never live under thumb of white carpet or according to dictates of furniture. Our clan of things are domesticated allies, voluntary servants, not our guardians or trainers. A lot must be abandoned; and sadness cloaks the never-to-be- reread books, the outgrown wallpapers (postcards with their backsides up), various memory edges which must be put to sleep. Weave the West behind. We’re moving to Minnesota. Should I part with my first edition of Harlan Ellison’s Rockabilly? Another dime may matter when we arrive in Minneapolis jobless and cold. I have to discriminate differently now with borrowed lives and old nooks and crannies being friends that’ll never write. But there are grounds to be kept (Nosferatu’s mattress of dirt). I more often select to save still “ valueless” items over collectibles, concerned, I guess, about the all-too- common goods and their fragile popularities. Orphans who would be laughed off any auction block will someday be worth not just money but histories which fled from the texts. 1’1 keep the Ellison and sell the autographed Kipling. Another dime may just spell another wrong number. I’ll sell all variously rare objects I’ve accumulated without whiplash. Dealers love to peekshow bid and feign need for discount acquisition to fog their even lowlier bids for all objects being of greater value than themselves; c-note sick and vomitkind. We’ve had four sales already and made it a point not to invite dealers because we’re looking for homes, not hostage camps. But some of them sniffed us out and made our otherwise friendly translations a matter of bloodsuck and gristlechow. What I’d like to stage before splitting is a garage sale of dealers, just their beings, without their gouging wits and wisdoms, and see if anyone would try to have a few bucks knocked off the penny-ante souls on display. But there’s no time. We leave in four days. Stuff by truck and staff by Amtrak. I have to get busy; ah P o r t l a n d , w e ’re m ov ing to Minnesota. Fast-fiddler Billy Oskay (of Everything’s Jake fame) once told me to give up writing and draw more because his then-wife, Jay Rothbell, was just writing too well for me to bother. I gave up music instead. Hello I must be going. Fred Nemo, where’d you go with all those manuscripts and photos? I miss the SCRIBE-ettes too, those wacky chorines; Mimi once interrupted a comedy routine I was doing when I related a true incident about my wife telling me that I should do my art after doing the dishes; Mimi shouted, “ Only a man would say that!” I didn’t get it, thank Goddess. But have to run, see you in purgatory. Chris Howell, poetry festivalist and longtime diversifier, is still possessor of an artwork I’d sold to someone else in ’78 but loaned to him for a chapbook cover. Chris pretended not to recognize me at Artquirk this year (maybe I looked like an arsonist or cattle rustler). I’ve had to develop stories and excuses and ultimately compensate the purchaser, and now I’m supposed to disappear as well? Okay. It’s just a matter of getting the stereo and file cabinets into my briefcase. We’re moving to Minnesota. With her District 8 Issues Survey, Mardi Feather for state rep became an honorary Impossibilist; wish I’d written that spoof (e.g., “ Do you favor a dump in our area that could pollute water, destroy wildlife habitat and increase truck traffic?” ) Mardi said she needed our answers to help her with her platform; not exactly the sort of help I’d recommend in a case like this. I’d send her the dump. But we must be off, election day is near. Remember not to breastfeed at Coffee Ritz; it’s inappropriate — milk is for coffee and only healthy stuff like that should be consumed there. There’s a time and a place for everything. Maybe ours is in Minnesota. What’s that belief about closing the suitcase in a dream? Do we die or does Portland? Baby Hamil will someday wish he knew you all. When I was emergency Santa at Meier & Frank’s (the regular Santas often catch cute little diseases from the cute little kids and an on-call St. Nick nack is needed), I had a wonderful time except when the Headstart Program troops flocked in for group- visits. Their teachers or keepers would simply tell them to hit me up for the free candycanes and then they would call their packs onward within seconds. No, the kids were hardly a treat with their aggressive beardyanking and demands to know my real name because they were browbeaten anti-fantasylanders, unlike any of the other kids who came. Yes, Headstart, there is a Santa Claus. And instructional denials to the contrary shouldn’t include participation in a game which you can’t kill. But maybe it’s different in snowbound Minnesota; we’ll raise reindeer and I’ll wear huskies. Oh, I’ve got room for another cuppa. (Zoomer’s notebook: scalding yourself on java helps you perk up quicker.) Michael Esquire borrowed my Pepsi-Cola soda shoppe sign in ’75 for a few weeks; I just know he’ll dash along the railroad platform to hand it to me as we depart. Automatic Advance Sales (a spin-off gag of historical landmark Quality Pie) placed a pop machine in Keep ’em Flying when that store was unfash- ionably fun, unintentionally nonprofit, and mine; the damn thing broke down daily, leaked a puddle nightly, and was serviced only after days and dozens of phone calls finally convinced a slow-lane secretary that my complaint wasn’t about the godawful bilious liquids which claimed to be name-brand soft drinks; after a few months, the serviceman removed the machine in disgust, my percentage of the limited income in tow. I guess they were convinced I didn’t appreciate their humor device because in spite of promises via phone (also jokes), I never received my part of the take or the taken. In truth, it was a swell machine; soda before cup appearance, cup before syrup-only appearance, cup clog to splash water appearance; it made giggling sounds. Now that’s Quality. Once, however, after eating a meal that seemed predigested at said establishment, my then-patron and avatar (I needed the money) noticed a cockroach on his plate; he glued it to the tab with leftover jelly and asked the cashier if the wee wiggler had to pay a booth minimum. She screamed; she probably never expected such a creature to not be on a main course plate as garnish. Said friend was Manuel Izquierdo and Quality Pie was suddenly artful, the best straight-man in town. Well, I should really freeze-dry the heaps of manuscripts now and put them in a jar. We’re leaving you know. We’ll miss you. (A Missing Persons Salute is forthcoming.) We’re leaving you now. We’re leaving you know. We’re leaving you now. And we’ll miss you. Musicmaster as much fun os you con ham in public Oct. 20 Monday Paul Delay Band 21 Tuesday Beatlemania Night (Sleezy Pieces) 22-25 Wed.-Sat. Paul Delay Band (22) Wednesday KKSN Mighty 91 Night (914 cover, 914 pitcher) 26 Sunday Slow Train 27 Monday Paul Delay 28 Tuesday The Odds 29 Wednesday Malchicks 30-1 Thur.-Sat. Johnny and the Distractions Nov. 2 Sunday Slow Train 4 Tuesday TBA 5-9 Wed.-Sun. Slow Train 11 Tuesday Odds 12 Wednesday TBA 13-15 Thurs.-Sat. Seafood Mama 16 Sunday Joe Cannon 18-19 Tues.-Wed. Odds 20-22 Thur.-Sat. Johnny and the Distractions 23 Sunday Slow Train 25 Tuesday Odds 26-29 Wed.-Sat. Sleezy Pieces 30 Sunday Slow Train specials SUNDAYS MONDAYS A l l w ine two fo r one Free pool, A l l tap beer tw o fo r one TUESDAYS f ree foosba ll, free p inba ll MONDAY-FRIDAY 4-6 pm Happy Hour 2 for 1 on all refreshments and free pool SACKS FRONT AVENUE, SW FRONT AND YAMHILL The jazziest sounds are at Budget Tapes and Records. Come jam with us. We’re just around the corner. Our prices are low. And out selection is high. Your favorite jazz performances are happening now at Budget. 117AState St. Lake Oswego 636-1928 OpenM-Sat 11-9 Sun 12-6 We have cutouts and Paramount Concert tickets. Over 2,000 titles under $5.00. Always new releases on sale. We’ve Got Tour Song. And all that jazz. Give the gift of music. 41
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