Bringing Home the Freshest Kill

Posts in the Oregon category


  • ForeignPolicy.com: “…the claim repeatedly made by President Obama and his senior aides — that targeted [drone] killings are limited only to officials, members, and affiliates of al Qaeda who pose an imminent threat of attack on the U.S. homeland — is false.”
  • Night photographer Troy Paiva: “You can’t do this kind of photography if you spook easily, because yes, these places can be creepy in daylight. At night the creep factor really spikes. But a lot of those spooky feelings are bred into us — from a very early age we’re taught to be scared of abandoned places. That they are inhabited by ghosts and demons, that no good can come of visiting them. It’s been a common literary trope for 100 generations, so long that it’s practically stamped on us genetically. I’ve never seen a ghost, and I’ve spent nights in dozens of supposedly haunted places. I’ve experienced a lot of things that people could interpret as ghosts, but were easily explained away as wind under the eaves, or animals in the walls. And even if there really were ghosts, what can they do to me?”
  • When it comes to eating locally, Oregonians are full of shit


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Auntie Anne's

  • Being in a Band is For Losers (Needs one additional paragraph about the requisite intervention Aging Band Guy‘s friends must administer to save his train-wreck life.)
  • Daniel Kalder: Are White Supremacists On The Rampage In Texas? — “…white power freaks had been almost mythical creatures for me, like unicorns, only less appealing to preteen girls. Of course, I knew that they existed, but overexposure to British TV documentaries about American weirdos in the 1990s, not to mention Russian anti-Americanism in the 2000s, had bred weariness in me, and I had rejected the characterization of America as a land teeming with survivalists, apocalyptic believers, Hitler fans and serial killers long before I moved here. I mean, come on: No place could be that interesting.”
  • Gates of Hell: “A group of Italian archaeologists have announced they have found the legendary ‘Pluto’s Gate,’ a portal filled with foul-smelling noxious fumes which inflicted a quick death on any person or beast that was driven into its embrace.”
  • Gavin McInnes:Here in the real world, love is blind. So are erections. [Men] don’t really care what [women] look like as long as you have a vagina and don’t dry-heave when you see us naked. If women knew how unbelievably perverted we are, they wouldn’t even brush their hair. Napoleon said to Josephine, ‘I will return to Paris tomorrow evening. Don’t wash.’ We want to inhale your flaws. As my buddy Sharky said, ‘Smelling a woman’s ass is a poor man’s Viagra.’ Our testosterone is already airbrushing you into perfection the second you walk into the room. We have virtually no deal-breakers.”
  • Roger Ebert‘s 1971 review of Head: “It was written by Jack Nicholson, who went on to star in “Easy Rider” and “Five Easy Pieces,” and directed by Bob Rafelson, who directed “Five Easy Pieces.” The producer, Bert Schneider, created the Monkees for television with Rafelson, and “Head” was apparently their scheme to bury them.”
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Via the magic of the Wayback Machine, I uncovered this gem, which I wrote for the local paper of record back in 2004:


Rich "The Locust" LeFevre at the 2004 World Rib-Eating Championship

Lincoln City, Ore. — Several of the most prolific competitive eaters in stomach-centric sports gathered at Chinook Winds Casino Saturday night to battle it out in the 2004 World Rib Eating Championship, an event sanctioned by the International Federation of Competitive Eating.

“The rib is perhaps the most prestigious of the debris foods next to the chicken wing,” said federation chairman George Shea in a news release prior to Saturday’s competition. It, he promised, “will challenge even the most seasoned IFOCE gurgitators.”

No argument there.

Last year’s champion, Ed “Cookie” Jarvis of New York, fresh off a two molar-extraction, looked poised to claim another title but was bested by diminutive Rich “the Locust” LeFevre, a retired Nevada accountant who wolfed down 3.40 pounds of barbecued ribs in 12 minutes in front of an enthusiastic crowd of RVers and barbecue aficionados. (That total, though impressive, is 1.24 pounds short of what Jarvis consumed in a truly prodigious feat last year—4.65 pounds in 12 minutes.)

LeFevre’s performance capped an intriguing underdog story. Known in competitive eating circles as more of a “distance” eater than one who is adept at short, eight-to-12 minute contests, LeFevre showed he could adapt to brevity and claimed this year’s title by a margin of 0.3 pounds. The truck-sized Jarvis, who weighs in at more than a fifth of a ton, finished second with 3.10 pounds of consumed rib meat.

LeFevre’s wife, Carlene “the First Lady of Food” LeFevre also competed Saturday and finished fourth overall with 2.5 pounds. She is the creator of the “Carlene Pop,” a bobbing up-and-down technique used to release air pockets in her stomach (as well as excess nervous energy).

Her husband takes home a giant 2004 World Rib Eating Championship belt, $1,250, and world-wide bragging rights amongst gustatory and gastrointestinal athletes alike.


This article originally ran in The Oregonian, July 20th, 2004.

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I am an affluent man yet I live in a 250-square-foot hermetically sealed egg off East Burnside Avenue in Portland, Oregon.


When friends come over for bull sessions, I place them snugly in a box using techniques I learned from a Boulder, Colorado street contortionist.

I don’t own a TV and I don’t abide by the rules of AmeriKKKa, which is a collapsing turd,  a nightmarish pit of consumerism.

When I first made a killing with my Internet start-ups, I used the cash to spoil myself. Then Ástbjörg, an Icelandic beauty, arrived via ice floe at my front door one day, naked and rolling in cash. My soulmate. We were on a slow path to nowhere, despite our sexual admiration for one another.

The zeal with which we pursued material wealth left us curiously empty. I first realized this when I hired Sven, a midget bon vivant, to entertain me and occasionally do household errands.

Hiring the diminutive Sven didn’t have its desired effect.

At first it was great. My pulse hammered with excitement whenever Sven did a little jig while sorting through produce in my kitchen. Sven was also an ace composter. His value to me was incalculable.

But like the rest of the clutter in my life, I knew I had to jettison the dwarf and the very essence of my hollow, black life.

Things are looking up. See this clenched fist? The one lodged up my ass?  I have more carbon offset credits contained therein than the entire square footage in your McMansion shit-cube.  Deal with it, because you know what? Living large is a hate crime, and you and the rest of this pig society have a rap sheet a mile long.

I’m not saying I’m better than you — I mean, I am, of course — but it’s not too late for you to ditch this oil-dependent Pop Tart, AmeriKKKa. She’s a bloated bitch, pus-ridden with shame. Why not dive off the ol’ gal while there is still time to guilt others into doing the same?


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Pals Jeff and Julie recently won a photo contest for Backyard Poultry magazine. Here is the winning entry. (This chicken was eaten by a red-tailed hawk about a week after the photo was taken.)


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While driving down Powell Boulevard a couple weeks ago, I noticed this:

Teed College

It’s vandalism. And Channel 6 is all over it:

The sign modifications appear to be temporary, though it’s not clear what kind of adhesive was used.

What are your thoughts on the Teed College sign? Feel free to leave a comment.

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hunterdadface6 on Flickr.

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tallman2 on Flickr.

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If you are a motorist and have the audacity to drive to downtown Portland to buy Christmas gifts or take a loved one to dinner, you will be penalized. Penalized for stimulating commerce. The city’s leadership has made that loud and clear.

Exhibit A — Portland’s updated parking fine matrix. Note: Even if you pay your fair share of parking at one of the Smart Meter machines downtown, the city’s insectoid parking cops will still assess (at least) one of the following fines to your vehicle. Consider it an unspoken “access fee” and/or penalty for using a car in downtown Portland. “New Urbanism” at its “finest.”

This annoyance has been happening for the past two years (at least). I’ve experienced it; several friends and/or acquaintances have experienced it too.


My solution? Do not go downtown and do not give money to any downtown businesses unless absolutely necessary. The city wants it that way. The city is anti-business.

Screw the city.

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