This is a real place. Seriously. Look it up. I learned about it only yesterday, from a Washington State tourism magazine that I picked up in a hotel. Poo Poo Point, the magazine tells me, is a popular hang-gliding launch site near Issaquah. It certainly sounds better than Pee Pee Puddle, which I also discovered yesterday in front of a urinal that I decided not to use. That’s the waste of the aimless. Poo Poo Point is oriented more towards the financial waste of the all too organized and driven. Issaquah, from everything I’ve heard, is something of an haut bourgeois nightmare, and hang-gliding is hella expensive, but I guess it feels better than giving a few thousand dollars to a food bank or some sorry-looking homeless. My homeless vet buddy from the rest areas told me a week or two ago that his plan was to “fly for a day or two” at rest areas near Hood River on his way to the Wenatchee Stand Down, by which he meant panhandle. The Columbia Gorge is a top-notch windsurfing spot, so this plan sounded unfortunate, but on the other hand, it’s a net moneymaker, not a net loss. If you saw how much some of these yuppies spend on recreational equipment while their neighbors live in cardboard shacks, you’d probably ask them if they could spare some change, too.
I’ve long noticed that Washingtonians (to be clear, the western kind, not the creeps back east) seem much more mature than Oregonians. I don’t see them walking around with borderline-retarded half-smirk smiles so often, like they’ve been medicated and lobotomized by life. When a Washingtonian gets medicated, she does so properly, with Xanax and Chardonnay. Or meth and Olde English, depending on class. I saw a woman put a bottle of Kendall-Jackson chardonnay and four cans of Fancy Feast on the belt in front of me at Walmart yesterday while I was in line to cash a bottle slip. This was in Oregon, to be fair, and her boyfriend showed up a minute or two later with some beer and toilet paper, but I couldn’t help thinking that this order was emblematic of modern spinsterhood, or else the breakfast of champions.
Being reproductive should be an improvement, but I’m sure I could find some Issaquahns raising little monsters. I always feel existentially less troubled in the shitty parts of the South Sound. There may be some thugs around, there may be some firebugs who decide to resolve their domestic disputes with Clausewitz’s diplomacy by other means, and there may even be some Micronesians (according to a Hawaiian friend, but not my frenemy Island Boy, “They look like someone put some dogshit on a head and molded a face out of it”), but these fuckers, as wrong as they are, understand something about life that the overbearing yuppie swarm in the tonier parts of King County does not. These people fuck up the Sound in ways that the poor constitutionally cannot, and they have the political system on their side. People like Pot-o-Shit Friend and Psychotarp don’t run things. They don’t have juice.
What’s the point of Washingtonians being so mature, then? It’s probably that if you’re around them, you don’t have to spend so much time pretending that Oregonians haven’t gotten totally retarded living under their own layer of smug. This assumes that the tech industry hasn’t seriously fucked up whatever part of Seattle you’re frequenting in the same way that it’s grievously fucked up so much of the Bay Area. Not being surrounded by self-important assholes is worth something. The maturity dividend isn’t paid out so much in policy, which in Washington does not include a bottle bill but does include the impressive urban planning nightmares around JBLM, SeaTac, Tukwila, and a horrific variety of other places. There may be some sort of autistically savant thing going on with the electorate in Oregon that got urban planning pretty much right and the bottle bill majorly right. My homeless vet buddy told me that he strongly prefers panhandling in Oregon because he encounters a lot more assholes in Washington. Whatever Washingtonians are doing by giving him and his kind the hairy eyeball, they aren’t actually breaking up the hair clog: some of the craziest vagrant freaks I’ve ever seen were in downtown Olympia, and homelessness in Seattle is an amazing clusterfuck.
Another thing Oregon gets right, from a gobias some coffee perspective, is that it doesn’t have sales taxes, except for a handful of municipalities where the tax-and-spend liberals insisted on taxing some shit because reasons, pissing off visiting tourists, the few local #TCOT whiners, and starve-the-beast libertarians. Joe Dirtbag is happy to play whichever of these roles he finds most expedient at the moment, so, no, Psychotarp and Mixups in my Mind aren’t the only sources of crazy in my world.
The way to hack federalism around here, then, is to buy a bunch of shit tax-free in Portland, stash it in a trailer in Washougal, go to Tacoma and schtup a thicky trick, and then return with a big-ass bag full of deposit bottles. Chaka Can Chaka Can. It’s vice, yes, but it isn’t vice worth minding. You’ll be a piker among the crooks as long as you don’t maintain a network of illegal private reservoirs on your property or have a shack tenant shitting in a trash can.
Be glad that I mentioned that creepy firebug only in passing and took the time to encourage Sound and Pound with the mercenary big girls. I could have carried on to no end about Dennis Geyer and David Brame instead. Now, that’s a DENNIS Method you don’t want to witness in action. Shit, I’m letting things get ugly and out of hand after all. Go fuck a fat whore in Tacoma. Seriously. I keep meaning to do that myself, but I haven’t even gone back to check out Charlotte’s Blueberry Park this year. To my pleasant surprise, I’m finding classy working girls advertising from incalls in Spanaway, that nail salon-infested East of Eden shithole. Some of these chicks are so down-to-earth that you might be able to pay for them by hustling cans. It’s cheaper than jumping off Poo Poo Point, and probably more civic, too.
What the hell was the point of any of that? I dunno, but it’s on the internet now.